Epilogue
Declan
Late February brought six more feet of dry, cold snow to the Sawtooth Range,
burying the valley floor in massive white drifts that reached the lower eaves of
the SPSR hangar. The morning temperature was ten degrees below zero, but inside
the vehicle bay, the industrial heaters kept the air warm, smelling of diesel
exhaust, hot wax, and fresh Columbian roast from the mess hall.
Declan stood at the high timber map table, running his grease pencil along the
avalanche forecast lines for the Galena pass. Sawyer stood beside him, dressed
in his black SPSR scout jacket with his brass badge pinned to his chest,
reviewing digital snow telemetry on a tablet. Sawyer’s left shoulder had
regained complete range of motion; he moved with fluid, athletic grace, exuding
total confidence in his role as the team’s lead alpine scout.
Over the past two months, their lives had merged into an immovable routine.
Every morning started with Sawyer tangled in the heavy wool blankets of Declan’s
ridge cabin, kissing the sleep from Declan’s eyes before the fire was lit, and
every field mission was executed with flawless, telepathic teamwork. The
solitary bitterness that had ruled Declan’s life for six years had vanished
completely, replaced by the fierce pride of knowing Sawyer belonged at his side.
Sawyer tapped the tablet screen, pointing to a stable snowpack reading on the
north bowl. He leaned his hip against Declan’s thigh, looking up with a bright,
confident smile that warmed Declan down to his boots.
Sawyer
"North bowl depth hoar layer has fully consolidated," Sawyer said, taking a sip
from his steel coffee mug. "The temperature gradient stabilized overnight. We
can clear the commercial ski tour groups through the lower basin without setting
explosive charges."
"Good," Declan replied, his large, warm hand coming around Sawyer’s waist in an
open, possessive grip that drew an approving nod from Caleb Vance across the
table. "That gives us time to run equipment maintenance this afternoon."
Dr. Jude Miller walked over from the clinic, handing Sawyer a signed medical
clearance form. "Your rotator cuff strength is testing at one hundred percent,
Sawyer. You are officially discharged from all physical therapy protocols."
"Thanks, Jude," Sawyer said, grinning as he tucked the form into his pocket.
The heavy steel exterior door of the hangar was thrown open with a violent crash
that echoed across the high ceiling.
Noah Keller, the unit’s lead canine handler, strode into the bay. Noah stood
six-foot-two with broad, smokejumper shoulders, but his face was deathly pale,
his jaw set so tight the muscles in his temples jumped. Beside him on a short
tactical lead walked Diesel, his eighty-five-pound Belgian Malinois, the dog’s
ears pinned forward, whining with high-strung working tension.
Bennett Hayes stepped out of the dispatch annex with an urgent radio log in his
hand. "Priority red alert from county dispatch. Backcountry Park Ranger Eli
Mercer failed to check in from his routine patrol circuit fourteen hours ago."
Noah stopped dead at the edge of the map table, his knuckles white around
Diesel’s lead, his voice low and vibrating with raw, desperate fury. "Where was
his last known GPS ping, Bennett?"
"The forest service discovered his four-wheel-drive patrol truck buried in a
drift at the Redfish Lake boundary three miles past the winter closure gate,"
Bennett said, his expression grim. "The driver's door was standing wide open,
and there is blood frozen on the driver's side running board. The temperature at
the lake dropped to twenty-two below zero last night."
Noah looked at Caleb, his dark eyes blazing with an agonizing mix of terror and
lethal determination. Everyone on the team knew Noah had carried a fiercely
guarded, protective fixation for Eli Mercer for five long years.
"I am taking Diesel into the timber right now," Noah said, his voice shaking
with intense urgency. "I am going to find Eli and bring him back alive."
Caleb Vance stepped forward, his authoritative voice cutting through the tension
of the room. "SPSR, assemble tracking teams! Gabriel, spool the helicopter!
Noah, you take point on the ground line!"
Declan locked eyes with Sawyer, their hands tightening together for a brief,
powerful second before they turned toward the gear lockers.
"Let's move, Sawyer," Declan ordered, grabbing his avalanche pack. "Let's help
Noah get his ranger home."