Chapter Ten
The morning sky above Silver Creek Ranch was the color of a fresh bruise. It was a swollen, angry purple that pressed down on the jagged spine of the Cascades.
Cassidy stood on the porch of the main house, zipping her Carhartt jacket up to her chin. The air tasted metallic, like ozone and ice.
“It’s dropping,” she said, looking at the thermometer mounted on the window frame. “Ten degrees in the last hour.”
Sterling Thorne ignored her. He was standing by the hitching post, adjusting the girth on a massive black gelding named Shadow.
He looked out of place and yet terrifyingly competent.
He wore a heavy shearling coat over a cashmere sweater.
His leather gloves were new, but the way he handled the horse was practiced.
He checked a digital tablet he had balanced on the saddle horn.
“The forecast calls for light snow starting at 1400 hours,” Sterling said without looking up. “We have a four-hour window. That is sufficient time to inspect the north ridge boundaries and the copper mines.”
“The forecast is wrong,” Cassidy said, walking down the steps, her boots crunching on the frozen ground. “Can’t you feel it? The wind has shifted, and it’s coming from the northeast. That means a system is crashing over the peaks right now.”
Sterling finally looked at her. His cold eyes mirrored the frost coating the fence rails.
“I operate on data, Cassidy, not superstition,” he said.
“I need to inspect the geological instability myself, and I need a valuation on the timber stands in the upper quadrant. If we can prove the density of the old-growth cedar, we can increase the asking price by fifteen percent. That gives us leverage.”
“Leverage won’t matter if we’re frozen to death in a ravine,” Cassidy snapped.
“You are stalling,” Sterling accused her and swung into the saddle.
His mount was fluid. He didn’t scramble or grunt. He simply flowed upward, settling into the seat with the grace of a man who had spent years in the saddle. He rode with the disciplined, upright posture of an English rider, not the loose seat of a rancher.
Cassidy felt a spike of annoyance. Of course he rode. He probably learned at some boarding school in Switzerland while she was learning to break colts in the mud.
“I am not stalling,” Cassidy said. She grabbed the reins of her mare, a sturdy bay named Whiskey. “I am trying to keep you alive. The north ridge is exposed. There’s no cover past the timberline. If a whiteout hits, we’ll be blind.”
“Then we will move efficiently,” Sterling said. He turned his horse toward the gate. “Are you coming? Or do I need to find the property markers myself?”
Cassidy gritted her teeth and swung onto Whiskey’s back. She checked her saddlebags. She had packed extra water, a first aid kit, and emergency flares. Sterling probably had nothing but his ego and that damn tablet.
“Lead the way,” she muttered. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
They rode out in silence.
The wind picked up as they climbed. It wasn’t a steady breeze anymore. It was a gusting, erratic force that slapped against their faces and tugged at their clothes.
The trail to the north ridge was steep and wound through dense stands of Douglas fir and cedar before breaking out onto the rocky spine of the mountain. The ground was treacherous, a mix of frozen mud and patches of old ice hidden under a dusting of fresh powder.
Sterling rode in front and handled Shadow with arrogant precision. He kept the horse on a tight rein, collecting him whenever he stumbled. He didn’t trust the animal to find its footing, he commanded it.
Cassidy rode behind. She gave Whiskey her head and let the mare pick her own path.
“The timber density is higher than the satellite imaging suggested,” Sterling called back over the wind. He had the tablet out again, marking coordinates. “This is excellent. We can pitch this as a private reserve.”
“Put the screen away!” Cassidy shouted. “Look at the horizon.”
Sterling glanced up. The view to the west, usually a spectacular panorama of the Cascades, was gone.
It wasn’t just cloudy; it was a wall of white. A massive, churning curtain of snow was devouring the world, peak by peak, moving with terrifying speed.
“It’s moving fast,” Sterling admitted, sounding annoyed rather than afraid. “We’ll finish the survey at the summit marker and then descend via the logging road to the mines.”
“No,” Cassidy said. She kicked Whiskey forward, pulling up beside him. “We turn around now. The logging road is a wind tunnel. If that hits us while we’re exposed, we’re done.”
“We are ten minutes from the marker,” Sterling argued. “We are not turning back when the objective is in sight.”
“The objective is survival!” Cassidy yelled, and the wind tore the words from her mouth.
Before Sterling could respond, the world ended. The storm didn’t arrive; it exploded.
One second, they were riding in gray daylight. The next, they were swallowed by a screaming void. The wind roared like a jet engine, instantly drowning out all other sound. The temperature plummeted so fast Cassidy felt the air freeze in her lungs.
Ice shards sharp as glass, not soft snow, drove horizontally at sixty miles an hour.
“Sterling!” Cassidy screamed. She couldn’t see him. He was five feet away, but he had vanished into the whiteout. She felt Whiskey spin beneath her. The mare was panicking. She reared, her hooves scrabbling on the slick rock.
“Easy!” Cassidy fought the reins and clamped her legs around the mare’s barrel. “Easy, girl!”
A dark shape loomed out of the whiteness. It was Sterling fighting Shadow. The big gelding was bucking, terrified by the stinging wind and the sudden blindness.
“Get off!” Cassidy screamed at him. “Get off the horse! He’s going to blow!”
Sterling couldn’t hear her. He was trying to force the animal forward using his heels and the crop. He was trying to dominate nature with the same arrogance he used in the boardroom.
It was the wrong move. Shadow reared, and his hooves struck out at the invisible enemy. He twisted in the air, his hind legs slipping on a patch of hidden ice beneath the powder.
The horse went down.
It happened in slow motion. The massive animal buckled. Sterling was thrown clear. He flew through the white air and landed hard in an icy drift. Shadow scrambled up, terrified and riderless, and vanished into the storm.
“Sterling!” Cassidy threw herself off Whiskey without bothering to tie the mare. Whiskey was a ranch horse and knew the terrain. She would find her way to the tree line or a safe, familiar place out of the wind. Cassidy grabbed the coil of rope from her saddlebag: a braided lariat, stiff with cold.
Whiskey turned and ran in the same direction as Shadow, west toward the ridge.
Cassidy stumbled toward the spot where Sterling had fallen.
She couldn’t see him since the visibility was zero.
It was like being inside a ping-pong ball.
There was no horizon, and the vertigo hit her hard, making her stumble.
“Sterling!” She tripped over a dark shape.
He was on his hands and knees trying to stand, but the wind kept knocking him back. He was covered in snow, and his expensive shearling coat was already soaked through. His Armani trousers were useless against the biting cold.
Cassidy grabbed his arm and hauled him up.
He looked at her with a wide, unfocused stare. The devastating blue of his eyes was now dull, the sharp intelligence clouded by shock.
“The horse!” Sterling shouted, sounding confused. “The asset is loose. He just ran past me.”
“Forget the horse!” Cassidy yelled right into his face. “We have to move.”
She fumbled with the rope. Her gloves were thick, making her fingers clumsy, but she managed to tie one end around her own waist, cinching it tight over her Carhartt jacket.
“What are you doing?” Sterling demanded, trying to pull away. “I need to retrieve the mount.”
“Shut up,” Cassidy ordered. She grabbed his belt and looped the other end of the rope through it. She tied a double knot then yanked on it to make sure it would hold.
“We are tethered!” she shouted. “You follow me. You step where I step. If you stop, I will drag you. Do you understand?”
Sterling looked at the rope then back at her. For a second, the CEO tried to reassert himself. He straightened his spine and tried to wipe the snow from his face with a dignified gesture.
“I know the direction,” he said. He pointed into the blank whiteness. “The GPS indicated north.”
“The GPS is dead,” Cassidy said. “And north is a cliff. We’re going west toward the ridge.”
She didn’t wait for his agreement. She turned into the wind, lowered her head and started to walk in the direction Shadow ran, using his hoof prints as a path.
The rope went taut, jerking Sterling forward. He stumbled, then found his footing and followed.
The march, a descent into hell, began. Every step was a victory. The snow was knee-deep in places, hiding treacherous rocks and holes. Cassidy navigated by instinct, feeling the slope of the land under her boots and listening to the way the wind screamed over the rocks.
Behind her, Sterling was a dead weight.
He was built for climate-controlled offices and private jets, not for hiking through snowstorms. His muscles were powerful, but they were also burning through his energy reserves trying to keep him warm.
Cassidy checked over her shoulder. He was lagging with his head down and stumbling more often.
“Keep moving!” she screamed, and Sterling looked up. She saw his face was a mask of ice. His eyebrows were frosted white, and his lips were blue.
“The projection,” he mumbled. “The numbers don’t add up.”
Hypothermia.
It was setting in faster than she had feared. He was losing his mind. The cold was shunting blood away from his brain to keep his core alive.
“Sterling!” Cassidy stopped. She reeled him in like a fish. She grabbed the lapels of his coat and shook him hard. “Look at me!”
He blinked, focusing on her face.
“Cassidy,” he said. “You’re late.”
“Listen to me,” she said harshly. “You are freezing, and your brain is lying to you. We have to get to the Line Shack. It’s close. Do you hear me? It’s close.”
“Cold,” Sterling whispered. “So cold.”
He started to sink as his knees gave way. He slumped toward the snow.
“No!” Cassidy slapped him. It wasn’t a love tap. It was a full-force blow to his frozen cheek. The sound was a sharp crack that cut through the wind. Sterling’s head snapped back. The shock sparked a flicker of anger in his eyes.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” Cassidy hissed. “You don’t get to come here, ruin my life, and then die on my land. I won’t let you!”
She grabbed his arm and pulled it over her shoulder.
“Walk,” she commanded. Sterling groaned, but he moved his feet. He took a step, then another. Cassidy took the brunt of the wind and broke the trail. She was the icebreaker, and he was the cargo.
She hated him. She hated his arrogance, his money, the way he had touched her in the restaurant and made her like it. The hate burned hot in her chest, and she used it as fuel.
“Left foot,” she chanted. “Right foot. Move.” They walked for what seemed an eternity.
Time lost all meaning. There was only the whiteout and the pain.
Cassidy’s legs were burning, and her lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass, but she didn’t stop.
She couldn’t stop. If she stopped, the mountain won.
Sterling stumbled again. This time he went down hard. He dragged Cassidy with him and she landed in the snow. The cold bit into her wrists where her gloves had separated from her jacket.
She scrambled up and pulled on the rope.
“Get up!”
Sterling didn’t move. He was curled in a fetal position and not shivering anymore. That was the danger zone. When the shivering stopped, the body was giving up.
“Sterling Thorne!” Cassidy screamed. She crawled back to him, grabbed his face between her hands. His skin was like marble. “Get up right now! That is an order!”
His eyes fluttered open. They were glassy.
“Tired,” he whispered. “Just…rest.”
“No rest,” Cassidy said. “If you sleep, you die. Is that what you want? You want the investors to win? You want Tanaka to take it all?” She knew exactly which buttons to push.
“Tanaka,” Sterling slurred. “No.”
“Then get up,” Cassidy said. “Get up and fight.”
She hauled on the rope and put her back into it, pulling with everything she had.
Sterling groaned again. He rolled over and pushed himself up on shaking arms. He looked like a broken king. He stood up, swaying like a drunkard, but he stood.
“Good,” Cassidy said. She turned back to the wind.
She took one step then stopped and squinted. Through the swirling wall of white, there was a dark, rectangular shape. It was a roofline.
“We’re here,” Cassidy sobbed in relief as her knees almost buckled. “Sterling! We’re here!”
She didn’t wait. She grabbed his hand and dragged him the last fifty yards.
The Line Shack was a relic. Built by miners in the 1920s, it was a small cabin made of rough-hewn logs that had turned silver with age. It was half-buried in a drift, but it was solid.
Next to the old structure on the side protected from the wind were the horses. They had found their way with instinct and their familiarity with the land.
Cassidy reached the door and saw it was frozen shut, the frame sealed with ice. She dropped the rope and kicked the door. It didn’t budge.