Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dalton motions for me to stay still and then he circles wide around me, shading his eyes. When he comes back, his gray eyes are clouded with worry.
“We left the path,” he says in my ear. “Where it comes close to the lake.”
That would be the one spot where Storm—or Dalton—could wander off the trail. It opens up enough that the snow would be less deep. That might seem counterintuitive—wouldn’t “open” mean less shelter and more snow?—but open ground near water allows wind, which sweeps the snow out over the lake.
The snow on the path meant Storm couldn’t always follow her nose. When the trail curved to skim the lake edge, she kept going straight.
Dalton bends to examine the outcropping again. As he does, I recognize it. Not rock along the shore, but an outcropping in the lake.
We’re out on the frozen lake. Where the ice had begun to weaken in the unexpected warm spell.
“We need to spread out,” I say. “We’re concentrating too much weight.”
Dalton shakes his head. “We’re in greater danger of getting separated. The ice will hold until we get back to shore.”
Which is where?
I turn to look around, and the wind slams the air from my lungs.
“I’ve got this,” Dalton shouts near my ear. “Let me figure it out.”
I turn my face from the wind and bend to hug Storm, both of us sharing our warmth and shelter. If I hadn’t known we were on ice, I’d think it was solid ground. All I see underfoot is snow.
My heart hammers as a little voice whispers we need to move, we’re putting a strain on this piece of ice. Yet I know Dalton’s right. Last time we checked, it was nearly three feet thick. We walk on it. We ice fish on it. We even have bonfires on it, with no worries that the heat would melt that much ice. What’s happening now is small fissures. We wouldn’t intentionally walk across it, but the ice is still thick.
We’re fine.
We just need to get the hell back to Haven’s Rock.
Dalton’s hand grips my shoulder, and he points. I don’t know what he’s seen to tell him the town is this way, but I trust him enough not to waste energy asking.
I push to my feet as he helps me up. Then he puts his arm through mine. Since we’re on the lake, we don’t need to worry about walking single file down a narrow trail.
How long have we been off the path? The fact that we had no idea we’d left it tells me exactly how much danger Lynn was in out here.
How much danger she was in?
Past tense?
What if she’s still out there, having found shelter, knowing to stay where she is and wait for rescue.
Isn’t that what we teach? What every wilderness safety program teaches?
Stay put. Wait to be found.
Wait to be found… while your would-be rescuers are sleeping soundly in town, having no idea you’re missing because your husband didn’t bother mentioning it. Wait to be found… while your would-be rescuers question people on your whereabouts instead of getting off their asses and looking for you.
I can’t think of that. Right now, Lynn could be literally inches from us, and we’d never know that. It’s a miracle we found that clothing.
No, not a miracle. Storm scented Lynn on the glove because that’s what she does. Dalton spotted the sweater because that’s what he does. It was luck that we got close enough for them to do that, but we can’t keep looking until this blizzard dies down.
Find town. Get indoors. Rest and be ready to go out again with Anders and others to help search.
I walk with my head lowered and one arm raised against the snow, as if that will help me see. When Storm stops suddenly, I smack into her and would fall if it wasn’t for Dalton’s arm through mine. I lower my hand to Storm’s back and feel it vibrating.
She’s growling; I just can’t hear it over the wind.
I move up beside Storm. She has her head up, as if sniffing. Then she starts forward. Stops. Growls. Looks at me.
“Something’s wrong!” I shout to Dalton.
He moves up to Storm’s other side, where he bends. The wind changes direction, and I catch a deep musky smell. My hand tightens on Storm’s fur, and I move toward Dalton. He’s already rising. He smelled it, too.
The smell is gone, but my brain holds on to it and whispers, “Bear.”
I want to laugh. It’s March. Bears are hibernating for another month. The problem with that, as I’ve learned, is that bears don’t know the schedule. Mother Nature tells them when they should go to sleep and when they should wake, but a dozen factors can influence that, and we’ve seen bears in March, woken by unseasonably warm weather or a grumbling stomach, if they didn’t get enough to eat before they went to bed.
Whatever woke it, a bear out of hibernation in March would be hungry and angry, confused by the storm.
Something is out there.
It might be a bear.
And we can’t see anything.
I grit my teeth. Yes, we can’t see a foot in front of our noses, but we’re with a companion who has a very good nose, one that scented danger before we did.
I lower myself to one knee beside Storm. She’s staring slightly to the right. Whatever is out there, it’s in that direction.
I wrap my hand in her high-visibility kerchief to lead her to the left. That’ll keep us roughly on track with where Dalton was leading us. I’d like to also stay downwind from whatever’s out there, but that’s impossible with how the wind is blowing, like a snake striking from every direction.
Dalton’s hand tightens on my arm as he rises. I tug Storm’s collar. She stands her ground. I frown down and give another tug.
Dalton peers the way we were going to head. Is there something in that direction, too?
A whine reaches my ears, and I squint down to see Storm looking at me. Her lips move as she whines again, my head close enough to hers for me to hear it.
She doesn’t like this.
She really doesn’t like it.
Neither do I, girl. But I don’t know what else to do.
When I glance over, I see Dalton’s free hand raised. He’s holding his gun, because of course he is. We’re always armed out here. I’ve just been too focused on the blizzard—a threat where weapons are useless.
I take out my gun.
Storm tugs to the left… where she’s been staring.
I look at Dalton. He reaches to grip her collar and then motions for me to stay behind the dog. I do, and they take a careful step forward.
I aim my gun, very aware that I’m pointing it into a wall of swirling white, and my brain screams that I can’t take this chance. As a police officer, I had trigger control drilled into my head, but all the teaching in the world doesn’t compare to the real-life experience of fucking up. I once killed someone because I took a gun to an argument. I do not even like to draw my gun in these whiteout conditions. What if Lynn came staggering from the snowstorm and my brain screamed “Grizzly!”?
I tamp down the fear. I will never again fire blindly. I don’t know what’s out there, but I will be absolutely sure of what I see—and that we are in danger—before I pull the trigger.
Another step. Then another.
Dalton is letting Storm lead the way, one hand on her collar, the other on his raised gun.
I can’t see a damned thing. I know I keep saying that, but my mind won’t stop snarling that I need to do better. It’s not dark. It’s just snow.
I can’t do better, and I’ve endured enough storms to know what a whiteout is. I’m just frustrated because something is there, right there and—
The wind swerves and snow blasts my face. A scent smacks into me, that musky smell, clearer now.
That isn’t bear, it’s—
I lunge for Dalton just as a shape flies from the snow. It’s low to the ground, only coming as high as Storm’s chest, and that might seem safe. What creature that size could pose a serious threat to two people and a dog?
One creature.
“Wolverine!” I shout, even as the wind whips my words aside.
Dalton kicks. I catch a glimpse of a dark brown face with tiny eyes and teeth. Mostly what I see is the teeth.
Dalton’s blow catches the beast under the jaw and sends it flying backward. Only then do I see the true size of it. Wolverines are weasels, and I’ve learned just how misleading that is. The creature’s short legs keep it low to the ground, but this one has to be at least thirty pounds. Even that might seem small… if it weren’t a freaking wolverine.
The beast disappears into the snow, only to come charging out as if thrown back by some unseen hand. That’s when I see Storm hunkering down to lunge, and I let out a yelp as I launch myself at her.
Dalton fires. The bullet hits the wolverine in the shoulder, but it keeps coming at him. He steps back, and his foot must slide on the ice because his gun swings up. Storm wrenches against me, wanting to leap to his rescue, but I yank her with as much force as I can muster, startling her enough that she yelps. Then I fire.
My bullet hits the wolverine in the flank, knocking its rear quarters sideways, but it’s still charging at Dalton, even as its whole back end whiplashes.
I fire again, and so does he. His bullet hits the wolverine right in its open mouth, but he still jumps aside, as if that might not be enough.
It is enough. His shot penetrates the central nervous system, and the beast finally goes down. We both stay where we are, shuddering in relief.
When Storm glances at me, I nod, and she approaches the dead wolverine. She moves slowly, as if it might spring back up, and I give a choked laugh at that.
“Good call,” I murmur, even as the storm swallows my words.
Storm has never encountered a wolverine, but she’s scented them, so she’s curious. Having seen how we reacted made her anxious. After all, it was just an oversized weasel, right?
No, wolverines are something else altogether. They are killing machines, predators who seem to lack the ability to tell when they’re outnumbered and should give up. Or, maybe, what they lack is the ability to give a shit.
I’ve heard stories of them fighting entire packs of wolves, and even when it’s clear they can’t win, they don’t stop. Fortunately for us, they might be the most elusive predator out here. I’ve heard there are as many wolverines as grizzlies, but I’ve spotted dozens of grizzlies and only two wolverines, both of whom thankfully took off.
So why didn’t this one?
The answer can be seen on the beast’s muzzle, coated with blood.
Dalton bends to pick up the wolverine. I’d say that with four shots in it, even that prized pelt won’t be much good, but he’ll try to do something with it, out of respect.
Storm has moved back ahead of us. She glances over her shoulder, and while I can’t hear it, I know she whines. I gesture for her to continue moving, slowly, and she does.
We follow right behind her, and we only get three steps before we see dark brown hair splayed on the ice, and a woman’s face staring sightless into the sky.