Chapter 12
DAWSON COULD NO LONGER feel his knee. And maybe that wasn’t a terrible thing, but the longer he skied, the more his entire body could be blown over by the wind.
He’d followed the red markers, one to the next, to the next, and two miles had become a half century, turning him into an old sourdough miner fighting the elements back to his rinky-dink cabin to weather out the storm.
He’d even started humming. He might have preferred to call to mind Keely’s song, but instead, one of the hymns the women had been singing in the kitchen roused to him.
“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! . . . Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!”
The song turned into a hum from his grandfather working on a tractor or a truck. “Hand me the torque wrench. It’s the one with the black rubber grip and the long silver handle.”
Yeah, he missed his grandfather. And his faith. Something about Grandpa’s big hands on Dawson’s shoulders in church as Dawson held a hymnal, trying to sing along, still centered him.
He heard the words now, let them fall over him. He’d never really turned them inside out, taken a good look at them.
But maybe Griffin had, because his words pulsed inside, like a flame.
“But peace doesn’t come from inside. It comes from knowing that you’re forgiven. Accepted. Safe. It’s about standing in that place of love and letting it set you free.”
Maybe that’s what the foretaste was about . . . love. Peace. Joy. Freedom from the terrible howl inside that said he was doomed.
Maybe God did use circumstances to get at the things inside.
A moaning and a whistling, and Dawson looked up, searching for the red marker. He should have seen it by now.
Please let it not have blown off in the storm. He remembered from the flyover Moose’s words about the cache cabin being on the river, so he’d stuck to the bank since leaving Sully’s place.
He turned and stared at the half-frozen river. Parts of it still ran, the current too fast to close it completely, but ice and snow patchworked the surface, the water in the middle dark and mysterious.
A vapor misted off it, caught in the swirl of the blizzard, as if it held secrets, a lethal breath. Aven hadn’t died in this river, not really, but the old ghosts could still turn his bones brittle.
A shot cracked the air, and he ducked, turned.
Silence.
Probably a tree cracking under the weight of the snow. But in the distance, he spotted it—a small cabin, nearly snowed under, a stovepipe angled out of the top.
The cache cabin.
Thank you, God.
Dawson turned his skis and headed for it, the light bleeding from the day. He’d need to get in, call the Copper Mountain FBO’s ham radio, and see if they could track down Moose, then get back to Keely before nightfall.
He refused to let her spend the night in Sully’s cabin alone. Who knew what had gone down there, with the bloody mess. He should also call Deke at the sheriff’s station, but he’d get to that.
Footprints, the track of snowmobiles, and wide ATV tires dented the snow as he skied nearer. And the deck seemed half cleared.
Maybe Sully came here, especially after the destruction of his radio.
Dawson unclipped the skies and pulled the rifle off his back, holding it as he climbed the steps. Yep, his knee had tightened up.
“Sully?” He eased the door open.
Empty, but recently used, a fire snuffed in the stove, and empty coffee cups on the table, the smell of bodies, and a couple sleeping bags mussed on the bunks.
No blood, but whoever had used the place might be coming back.
Could be rangers—Peyton Samson studied a wolf pack out this way as part of her ranger service.
Or it could be locals—trappers, maybe, caught in the storm, although they were on the edge of private land and federal property, so maybe not.
He shut the door and locked it behind him. Opened the stove. Embers, almost dead. He stirred them with a nearby poker, then added some tinder and kindling, got that lit and then added a small log.
Heat filled the small room, and he went hunting for the ham radio. A couple summers ago, his former partner Flynn had saved Axel’s life with the ham, and he’d heard the story so many times, he knew the radio had to be here.
He found the machine in a cupboard. Dawson brought it to the small table, pulled out a chair, and turned it on.
Hallelujah, it still had battery juice. He lifted the antenna. Please work, please work.
The radio buzzed and crackled. Once upon a time, his grandfather had one of these, but of course he couldn’t drag up that useful memory.
He didn’t touch the frequency—certainly they had it set for Copper Mountain.
“Um, hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me? I have an emergency. Come in.”
A crackle, and in a moment. “This is AL7SKY, I read you loud and clear. Who is this?”
“It’s Dawson Mulligan.”
“Dawson. It’s Echo Kingston. Read me the call sign on the front of your radio.”
He leaned down to read the faded tag. “It’s AL7RAC, Alpha Lima 7 Romeo Alpha Charlie.”
“Gotcha. Please go ahead with the details of your emergency. Over.”
“I need Moose. There’s a little girl at Woodcrest who fell and might have internal bleeding. As soon as he can get a chopper or a plane up, she needs evac.”
“Understood, AL7RAC. Moose is at the police station, working calls. Want me to call him?”
“Yes.”
“Stay on the line.”
He blew out a breath, then pulled his chair up to the fire and held his hand to it. C’mon, Moose—
“Dawson.” His cousin’s voice emerged through the speaker, a little grainy, and Dawson guessed Echo held the phone to her mic. “You okay? Sully said he left you at Woodcrest.”
“Yeah. We’re good. I found the passenger that Caspian ran after. A woman. She’s safe.” It occurred to him then that maybe Keely might want someone to know that. Like . . . Vic?
Or maybe not his news to tell.
“What’s going on with this little girl?”
“She hit a tree sledding, and the nurse on-site thinks she might have internal bleeding.”
“Where are you?”
“Sully’s place—no, actually, I’m at the cache cabin about two clicks west. But I’m headed back to the Bowie Outpost. But . . . have you heard from Sully? There was blood—”
“Yeah. Sully and Kennedy are in town.” A sigh on his end, then, “Kennedy lost her baby.”
Dawson closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. He nearly lost her too. Can you sit tight for a day? I’ll get out there as soon as I can. Storm’s dying, but I’m losing my ceiling. I’ll barely make it to Woodcrest and back.”
“Yeah. I’m good.” Maybe better than that.
“Good to hear your voice, coz. Not going to say I was worried. Sully briefed us on your whereabouts. But . . .”
“Moose, have you heard anything about the Sorros brothers being around?”
A pause. “No.”
“Keely—the woman from the plane—says that a guy named Thornwood took that plane down at gunpoint. Wilder Frost was on the plane.”
A beat. “You think this Thornwood fellow is really a Sorros?”
“Could be. He attacked a couple of the men at the community and tried to burn their barn down.”
“Seriously. You guys safe?”
He didn’t know what to say. “The sooner you can get here, the better.”
“I’ll let Deke know. He’ll look into it.”
“Anyone seen Wilder?”
“I dunno. Keep your head on a swivel.”
“Yeah. Did my mom make it to town?”
“She and your dad are out at his place.”
Interesting.
“Stay safe. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
Static, then Echo’s voice came back. “I’ll talk to Dodge. We’re still grounded at Sky King Ranch, but if Moose can make it to Woodcrest, maybe Dodge can pick you guys up at the outpost.”
“Thanks, Echo.”
“AL7SKY out.”
He turned off the radio, his heart thumping. His knee had started to thaw, to ache, but with the fading light, he needed to get moving.
His hands and face had at least warmed up. Retrieving snow from the porch, he doused the fire, then replaced the ham and closed up the place behind him.
The wind had died, the cold biting but not as savage as he clipped on his skis, grabbed the poles, and headed out on his trail.
Easier going back with the trail already cut, and he found a rhythm for himself, moving above the riverbank, just outside the edge of the forest. His knee had gone silent again, his body working up a sweat as he raced the setting sun.
It bled out fire along the river, long shadows stretching before him.
“Or what if we walked together, beyond the frozen frontiers? Could the warmth we found in the cold be ours to keep?”
His own voice came back at him. “The sooner you can get here, the better.” Shoot.
Probably for the best, but at least now he knew Sully’s place wasn’t a crime scene.
Moose’s words about Sully made him ache, but at least they hadn’t been murdered, or something just as terrible, and the fact that was where his brain led him made him wonder if perhaps . . .
What if he made his leave of absence permanent?
And now the cold and the wind and Keely’s sweet goodbye kiss had infected his brain. All he’d ever wanted to do, to be, was a cop.
He glanced at the river, listening to the soft swish of his skis. No . . .
All he ever wanted to do was protect the people he loved.
He could protect Keely. Maybe . . . what if she said yes to becoming the guardian for her child? He could . . .
What? Be a dad? He could barely care for his stray dog. In fact, it seemed Caspian took care of him.
Still, the thought became an ember inside Dawson as he skied. He didn’t have to stay in Copper Mountain. And if his mother and father were somehow getting along . . .
Bliss wasn’t Keely—he knew that. He’d met the real Keely. Maybe they could find something real and true and forever off the stage, out of the limelight.
And if she decided to step back in, could he stand on the sidelines, watching?
But what about the tragedy and darkness and danger that seemed to chase him?
Or perhaps he chased it.
Could be it didn’t matter. Could be that the point wasn’t the danger and tragedy but what he did with it, just like Griffin had said.