Page 8 of Cold as Hell

I show Storm what I want her to track, and she gamely follows the trail. Sure, that’s less helpful when we can see the footprints ourselves, but that isn’t her fault.

She follows the trail into the woods and to the main path. When she loses it there, Dalton’s grunt says it’s where he lost it, too. That’s hardly surprising. Once the attacker reaches that path, their trail will overlap with dozens of others, including iterations of their own. The wider path also means Dalton can’t easily find visual cues. The trail is a solid mass of footprints, and broken twigs and disturbances could be from anyone.

The next step is to find where Kendra’s attacker might have left the path. They don’t, at least not as far as Storm or Dalton can tell. We follow the path all the way back into town and check every place where someone stepped off it. Storm reports none as being her target. Once we reach town, we turn around and follow it in the other direction. Nothing.

Kendra’s attacker is from Haven’s Rock, which means they know we have a tracking dog. They fled onto the path and followed it straight back to town, hiding their trail among dozens of others. Storm is tracking a ground scent, which is the smell a person leaves on their shoes and the detritus—skin, hair, and such—that falls as they walk. In winter it’s easy to be so bundled up that you’re hardly dropping any detritus at all.

Storm can follow a trail we set her on. She can also find a trail based on a scent marker. What shecan’tdo is follow a trail and then lumber to the person who left it and woof like a witness with a police lineup.

The failure, really, is mine. I don’t know how to tell her what I want, and I think to do that, I’d have needed to start much earlier. What we really wanted her for was finding people who get lost in the woods, so that’s what she’s trained to do. In the end, even if she could ID a suspect, I’d still need to make the case against them.

We keep searching for an hour before I give up. Kendra’s attacker went straight to the path and presumably followed it to town. Finding them is up to me… starting tomorrow.

CHAPTER THREE

I don’t bother going back to bed. It’s nearly three. Trekking up the stairs and trying to get comfortable in bed again is an exercise in futility. Some nights, I don’t even make it to our bedroom at all.

Three months ago, Kenny presented us with a rocking recliner, and it might be the greatest shower gift ever. Not only can I elevate my feet to rest, but it’s the one place in the house I can comfortably sleep. It’s well padded and extremely comfortable, and that’s where I go tonight, while Dalton brews chamomile tea.

I’m still settling into the chair when he brings the tea and cookies. Then he pulls up an ottoman, sits on it, and starts to massage my feet.

Tears prickle my eyes. Yep, my hormones are still out of control, though I’ve started to fear this is just the new me. Constantly tired and stressed and on the verge of either frustrated rage or sobbing tears. At least these tears are ones of gratitude, even if they are touched with a hint of guilt.

“I love you,” I say.

“I know.” He shifts to get a better grip on my foot. “I also know that you need to investigate this, and I’m going to try not to get in your way.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “But I need you to meet me in the middle, Butler.”

I nod. “Try not to be frustrated by what I can’t do, and try not to take it out on you when you slow me down.”

“I know you don’t mean it. Just like you know, if I’m slowing you down, it doesn’t mean I don’t think you can handle it. You just can’t expect to operate at full capacity with a five-pound parasite hanging off your abdomen.”

I place my hands on either side of my belly and lean down to whisper, “‘Parasite’ is a term of endearment. Daddy doesn’t blame you.”

“Not until they’re a teen and start pulling the ‘I didn’t ask to be born’ shit, and then I can pull the ‘Do you know what your mother went through?’ shit.”

“That’s supposed to be my line. Yours is ‘Do you know what your mother put me through while she was having you?’”

He laughs softly and reaches over to gently kiss me. Then he stops as my stomach tents. His fingers go to the spot, and when the baby kicks again, the look on his face washes away all my exhaustion. Another kick, and he laughs with delight.

“She’s going to come out fighting,” he says. “Just like her momma.”

I roll my eyes. “Orheis, like his daddy.”

“She,” he says. “Trust me on this. A little girl named Eric.”

Another eyeroll. We don’t know the baby’s sex. I didn’t ask because it doesn’t matter for anything except names, and even then, our short list is gender neutral. We’ve narrowed it down to Quinn or Riley. Or, at least, that was what we’d narrowed it down to yesterday. By tomorrow, we might change our minds. Again.

Dalton pauses there, with his hand pressed to where the baby is kicking, until they shift around and settle again.

“Nighty-night,” he whispers to my stomach. Then he looks at me. “That goes for both of you. If you get enough sleep, I’ll be less likely to pester you to rest tomorrow.”

“You know that threats aren’t like warm milk. They don’t help me sleep.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. I could threaten to make you drink warm milk if you don’t sleep, though.”

I make a face. “Ugh.”

“Then go to sleep.” He pulls the blanket up, kisses my forehead, and returns to massaging my feet as I drift into sleep.

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