Page 7 of Cold as Hell

I assure Dalton that I feel fine, and then I get to work.

I brought Kendra’s undershirt from the clinic for a scent sample. Storm finds her trail easily and tracks it in a perfect line toward Sebastian. We’re far enough off the main thoroughfare now that I can pick up Kendra’s footprints. She seems to be alternating between walking and staggering.

Then I see something that reminds me of a sight Dalton and I saw last week, when he grudgingly agreed to let me hike more than a hundred feet into the woods. An eagle had taken some small critter, and the memory of the attack remained emblazoned on the snow, with the wingbeats and the talon grabs and the violent struggles of whatever had been snatched. That’s what I see here—a tableau of violence cast in snow.

What Idon’tsee is anything I can use. Over here, a boot skidded. Here, a knee crushed the snow. Here, a hand smacked down, melted snow bloating each finger mark.

I follow the drag marks that skid over the crust with only the occasional deeper mark, where Kendra tried to get traction. They end where Sebastian heard her and came running. I can make out boot prints to the side, presumably his, though again, the melting and crusted snow means they’re little more than ragged punched holes. The same, unfortunately, goes for the prints where Kendra’s attacker retreated deeper into the woods.

I still take photographs of everything. Dalton helps with the close-ups. Being unable to put on my own boots means I’m also unable to crouch and take photos. Or measurements. Or to get down and examine the ground for other signs of trace.

This is the first time my belly has hampered an investigation, because this is the first actual investigation I’ve had in months. The last case was a missing heirloom watch that disappearedfrom a nightstand… and turned up under the bed. Someone else’s bed, that is. That was three months ago, and quite possibly the last time I was easily able to drop to the floor. I’ve spent the intervening months on tasks that have not required deep bending.

I stave off my frustration by walking over to Sebastian, who is very patiently petting Raoul, the half-wolf dog he shares with Mathias.

“Hey,” I say.

He looks up. “How’s Kendra?”

“She’ll be okay. You got there just in—”

“Butler?” Dalton calls.

I turn toward him as he rises from checking a print.

“It’s late,” Dalton says. “Let Sebastian go to bed. Interview him tomorrow.”

My eyes narrow. I’m the one he wants to get back in bed… and not for the usual reasons.

Unfortunately, my husband has a point. He’s already spoken to Sebastian, and the young man’s story isn’t going to change overnight, especially when—as Kendra says—he might be the only person in town who definitely didn’t attack her. Well, I probably fit that category, too, if only because my current condition means I’m not dragging chairs across the dining room much less hauling people into the woods.

“In fact…” Dalton continues, and I turn slowly, my eyes narrowing to slits. “Sebastian, why don’t you come by the house tomorrow at nine. Casey can interview you there.”

“At nine?” I shake my head. “By then I’ll be in town… investigating an attack on one of our residents.”

“Fine. Sebastian? Come to our place at eight forty-five.”

“I’ll come over at eight thirty,” Sebastian says. “And bringegg sandwiches from the café. That way you can interview me, eat breakfast, and still be in town by nine.”

I thank him and give Raoul a pat before they leave. I take my time turning back to Dalton. I’m torn between being grumbly and being genuinely annoyed, which is par for the course these days.

For most of this pregnancy, Dalton and I have been fine, giddy even, as we prepare for the new addition to our lives. But the rest has been… less happily-ever-after, for both of us.

We knew this would happen. Throughout our relationship, Dalton has worked on keeping his protective streak in check and I have worked on reining in my fierce—okay, rabid—independence. Then came the pregnancy, which we both knew would set us back. His protective streak would soar, countered by my determination not to let this slow me down.

We’re both in the wrong, and we know it. That doesn’t mean he can help feeling frustrated by my insistence on working… and I can’t help feeling frustrated by his coddling. The scare last month only made things worse.

So I don’t turn around until I’ve stifled my annoyance and can look over without scowling.

“You good?” Dalton says from his crouch near a footprint.

“Yep. Before we go, though, we need to follow the trail. Can you help Storm and me with that? Then I’ll go home while you two finish up.”

His grunt is conciliatory, and when he comes over, he leans down to brush his warm lips over my forehead. Then he says, “I’ve already taken a stab at it. But yeah, she works better with you.”

Newfoundlands are not tracking dogs, but that’s what I’ve trained Storm for, and she does at least as well as any othernon-hound. While I was at the clinic, Dalton would have tried having Storm follow the trail of Kendra’s attacker. More importantly, he’d have tried to follow it himself, using visual markers. But as he said, Storm works better with me, and he held off on a proper search until I arrived.

Now we do that. Dalton had started by photographing and measuring the prints that clearly belonged to the attacker. That means we can walk over to the trail without worrying about destroying evidence.

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