We head off in the direction where the young man suggested we camp. We won’t be stopping there. Dalton veers off on another path and cuts back to our initial route. We continue along for another couple of kilometers before we make camp, well off the trail, in a spot sheltered by rock on two sides.

We brought a small tent—a simple pop-up, and we tie the horses right outside it. The clearing is large enough that nothing will get the jump on them, and they are capable of looking after themselves. Storm will sleep inside, on our legs, which makes the tent a bit crowded, but I can’t rest if she’s outside alone.

Once the tent is ready, Dalton rigs up a simple intruder alert system. Rockton has never had problems with the First Settlement. Its elders are from the town, and while they may have chosen to leave, they respect what Rockton stands for. The problem, as I know Dalton fears, is that those who settled the community are getting old. The girl—Harper—is likely third generation. The farther removed the settlers get from the originals, the easier it will be to look on our town and covet its relative riches.

It’s not just Rockton’s horses and women they’ll want—the differences in our standard of living are clear right down to our store-bought boots and fresh-scrubbed faces. Once the hold of the first generation relaxes, Rockton can expect raids. We both fear that day, and we know it’s coming fast.

I start a fire while Dalton sets up the alert system. I’m still a fire-building novice—it really is a skill—but I manage to have one going by the time he finishes. Then we settle in, sitting on a blanket, his arm around my back. From his pocket, he pulls a flask.

“Tequila?” I ask.

“Of course.”

He passes it to me for the first slug. There’s not much in the flask. I max out at two shots—always. He’ll go to two, if we’re alone, but tonight he won’t, not with settlers in the woods. So he just takes a long sip and hands it back.

“I’ve got vacation time coming up,” he says.

“Do you?”

“Yeah, apropos of nothing except the fact that it’s been a shitty day, and I’m trying to think of something good.”

“Vacation time is always good.”

I feel him shrug, and he says, “Guess so.”

“You go to visit your parents, right?”

“Normally.” Five seconds of silence. “Think it’s okay if I skip that?”

“I think a guy who works his ass off is entitled to do what he wants with his vacation time. They’ll want to see you at some point, but not all your breaks need to be family visits.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “You like Vancouver?”

“Sure, and if you want me to suggest some places you can visit, I know it well enough.”

He glances over. “I’m not going on vacation without you.”

“Uh, I don’t qualify—”

“Already worked it out. Before all this shit started. I get a week. I agreed to cut it to five days if you can come. I sure as hell wouldn’t go to the city by myself.” He shudders.

“Too many people?”

“People. Concrete. Noise. When I go to interview newcomers, if it’s in a city, sure, I’ll go sightseeing. Museums. Galleries. Libraries. Theater. But . . .” He makes a face. “I feel like people look at me and wonder if I took a wrong turn. Like everyone can tell I’m a country mouse in the city. I know that’s bullshit. They’re too busy to even notice me.”

He pauses. “Which isn’t how this conversation is supposed to go at all. I think I’d like the city a lot more if you were there, and I’m sure you’d like a civilization break. The way city people take a camping break.”

“Am I allowed to suggest alternate vacation plans?”

“Sure.”

“Down south, we have what’s called staycations, which means you don’t travel far from home. That’s what I’d like. A five-day hike or horseback trip up here. Would that be okay?”

He looks over. “Is that what you want? Or what you think I do? Because it sounds like backpedaling to me.”

He means “backpedaling” to the old Casey. The one who frustrated him because she never wanted anything. No likes. No dislikes. Every choice weighed according to practicality and the needs of others.

I scoop up the marshmallow bag and put one on a stick I’ve set beside us. When it’s in the fire, I say, “If it’s just five days of camping, then I might prefer a trip to Vancouver. But if it’s five days of scouting for a potential site for a new Rockton, then that’s what I want. Not a place to start building right away, but a place we know we can build at. A spot maybe a day’s ride away that we can visit over the seasons and see how it seems, for water, game, other inhabitants, and so on.”

“That would work.”

“Then it’s a date?”

“It is.”

I pop the roasted marshmallow in my mouth. As I’m moving back, he pulls me into a kiss. Then he licks his lips and says, “Tastes like marshmallow.”

“Shall I roast you one?”

“Hmmm.” One brow lifts, his eyes glinting. “Tell you what. You roast one. Wherever you put it, I’ll take it off.”

“Oh?” I take another marshmallow from the fire, blow it out, and tear off one crisp corner. Then I put my finger in and pull out a dollop of gooey marshmallow. “So if I put this someplace. . .”

“On you.”

I laugh. “Okay. Well, let’s see.”

I lick the marshmallow off my finger. Then I have him hold my stick while I slip out of my shirt. My jeans follow in a striptease. Bra. Then panties. Then I’m kneeling beside him, naked, his breath coming fast. I reach out for the marshmallow, take another fingerful, and lower it down. Then I slowly draw it up, over my belly, past my breasts, careful not to let it drip.

“Anywhere?” I say.

“Uh-huh.”

“Hmmm, how about . . .” I streak it across my chin. “There?”

He laughs and his arms go around me as he does indeed lick it off, while toppling us onto the blanket behind.