Page 105 of Cold as Hell

After the examination, we get “She’s a bit small,” and “We need to keep an eye on that umbilical cord” and “Did you cut that with a sterilized knife?” and “Her hair will probably fall out.”

Yep, April is April, but she ultimately declares we have produced a perfectly adequate offspring. Okay, she says “she seems in excellent health” but of course qualifies that with pointing out that she’s not a pediatrician.

All that poking and prodding rouses the baby, and I feed her. Well, I try to feed her. It looks so much easier in movies, where babies latch right on as if they’ve been eating that way for months instead of through an umbilical cord. I won’t say it goes well. I won’t even say she gets more than a few drops. But it’s a work in progress. We’ll get it.

After that, Dalton takes me where I want to be, more than anyplace else in the world. Home.

It’s evening now, and I can barely believe this is the same day we woke in Dawson City. I’ve napped. The baby has napped. I’ve tried to feed her again. I got most of the milk on myself, but again, I’m not going to stress about this. Oh, who am I kidding—I’m totally going to stress about it once the endorphins of giving birth wear out and I start to panic that my child is starving.

She won’t starve. However it goes, we’ll get her fed. She seemed satisfied enough with the dribbles she got, and she’s back to sleep. I’m not the only one who had an eventful and exhausting day.

I’m curled up in my chair as Dalton rests stretched out on the couch, with the baby nestled against his bare chest. Storm has been rescued from her brief stay with Nicole and Stephen, and she’s dozing in the corner, one eye cracked open to watch this strange little creature and make sure it doesn’t cause any trouble.

“You two look adorable,” I say to Dalton. “She has your snore.”

He lifts a middle finger. “She sounded a whole lot more like her mother when she first came out. Roaring at the world.”

“You’d roar too if you came out butt naked in subzero temperatures.”

“She has your hair.”

“Which, as April pointed out, is probably temporary.”

“She has my eyes.”

“Closed?”

He shakes his head. “Also, you’re supposed to point out that the gray-blue is probably temporary, too.”

“I’m not my sister.”

“Speaking of which, what do you think she’ll say when she finds out we’re using April as a middle name?”

I pull the blanket over me. “She’ll be delighted, of course, and will definitely not point out how it doesn’t go with the baby’s first name at all.”

“We haven’t chosen a first name.”

“Doesn’t matter. It absolutely does not suit, and what were we thinking?”

He smiles and strokes the baby’s head. “Thoughts on a name?”

“Leaning toward Riley, but I’m not sure.”

“Could go with Rory.”

I arch my brows. “Please tell me that isn’t a bad pun because she came into the world roaring.”

“Of course it is. Rory April Butler Dalton. Or Dalton Butler.” His lips purse. “Or should that be Dalton Duncan? We haven’t discussed that part.”

I shake my head. “Dalton Duncan really is a tongue twister, and April and I don’t use Duncan up here. Butler would be better but…” I shrug. “It’d get complicated for legal purposes.” Butler is my “Rockton” surname, which I continue to use. “I think just Dalton is fine. Rory April Dalton. Initials ‘RAD’ because you are totally rad, right, baby?”

“I… don’t even know what that means.”

“Slang from my distant youth. It means cool, so it’s good.”

“You like Rory then?”

I slide from the chair and walk over to sit beside them, my head leaning on Dalton’s arm around the baby—around Rory.

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