Page 7 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“You do not think I am serious? He needs an outlet for his anger. I am struggling to convince his mother of that. She wants him to do nothing violent … and he only wants to do things that are violent. Knife-throwing is more cathartic than marksmanship or archery.”
“So I should speak to Dana,” Anders says. “About the bear thing, not the knives. Explain the danger and discuss ways to keep the boys inside the town limits without Carson rebelling. What if I suggested Carson join me on patrols?”
“Non,” Mathias says. “He will see through that and know you are humoring him. I will deal with Carson. Isabel will deal with Max. You will deal with the town patrols. Casey and Eric will deal with the bear.”
CHAPTER TWO
It’s too late to start a serious hunt for the bear—already five o’clock, with the sun setting in a few hours. Dalton and I will head out for a while after the town meeting, mostly just to scout for signs of the bear getting near town. Tomorrow the hunt will begin in earnest. Both times, we’ll leave Kendra behind. She’s our best shot—and has experience with bears—so we want her here, along with Kenny and Anders, the three of them on rotating two-person patrols.
We’ve returned home to prepare for the town meeting. Our house is a tiny two-story chalet—all dwellings must be small out here, partly for heat efficiency and partly for camouflage.
We need to minimize our town’s footprint. It’s already about half the size of Rockton. The world has changed, and keeping a place like this hidden, even in the Yukon, is becoming near impossible. I used to marvel at how Rockton managed to avoid exposure threats. Now I know there were exposure threats. They were just handled. And Émilie was the person handling them—yet another reason we need her on our team.
As soon as I get home, I head for the bathroom. As we’d been walking home, I thought I felt something I’ve been waiting for, but I discover I’m mistaken.
My period hasn’t come.
It’s a week late.
And I’m trying not to panic.
When I’d been beaten into a coma at nineteen, I’d lost a few things. My ability to trust a man in my life. My ability to run properly, after permanent muscle damage in my leg. And my ability to have children.
At the time, the last had been least important. I was nineteen, in police college, not sure I even wanted kids and pretty damn sure I was never going to find anyone to have them with.
When the doctors said I would likely never be able to bear children, I’d barely listened. I was focused on the endless rehab in my future. They’d suggested the damage meant I could conceive but probably not carry a baby to term, and yet I hadn’t asked enough questions even to be sure of that. There’d been too many other concerns, all more critical at the time.
A few years ago, with Dalton in my life, it became a question we had to consider, and so we had, at deep and endless and anxious length. Did we want kids? Soon? Someday? Never?
In the end, we agreed on this, as we did on most things. We weren’t ready for kids yet, but we probably would be in the future. When the time came, we would investigate our options. I would find out exactly what the medical concerns were. If the problem would be carrying a baby to term, Dalton wanted more concrete details, and if I was in any danger, we’d move straight to adoption or surrogacy. But we’d figure that out if and when the time came.
The time is not now. Now is the worst possible moment.
I tell myself I’m not pregnant. How can I be? I’m on birth control.
Except …
I screwed up. I’d been using an implant, which seemed the best choice for up here. A few months ago, it gave me some trouble, so I went on the pill instead. Only I haven’t taken daily medication in years. When residents started arriving and the town wasn’t completely ready, I reached a point where I barely remembered my own name. And I did not remember to take the pill.
It was only a few days. April—my sister and the town doctor—said not to worry. Well, she actually said “It’s too late to worry about that now, isn’t it?” in her very typical April way. I should just get back on the pill and not mess up again until I can go south and see a gynecologist and find out for certain what the issue is—conceiving or carrying—because I should have done that years ago and what the hell am I doing taking chances with my health. She even said “hell,” which told me just how angry she was.
I hadn’t mentioned the missed pills to Dalton. He didn’t need one more thing to worry about, and as April said, it was too late to do anything anyway.
My time had rolled around, and I’d had cramping, so all was well, right?
That’s all I’d had. A bit of cramping.
It’s stress, that’s all. When I get a chance, I’ll talk to April and take a test to be sure, but I don’t want to tell Dalton that I’m late. I’m certain it’s nothing, and telling him could lead to …
Hope?
Is that what I’m afraid of? That he’ll hear I could be pregnant and at first freak out because it really is the worst possible time, but then the idea will settle and he might start to hope I am pregnant? To realize he’s ready for kids, and the timing could not be worse, but it wasn’t as if we’d chosen this. A happy accident.
Is that how I’d feel?
I honestly don’t know.
We cannot afford time out for a baby now. I wouldn’t even raise the subject for at least a year, probably two. We’re run ragged with the new town, and that won’t end anytime soon.
