Chapter 2
He was made to hunt for trouble. And after seven years, Jericho Bowie could nearly smell it on the wind.
Today’s breeze, fresh off the snow-covered pines of the Copper Mountain Ski Resort, hinted of disaster—a heavy, wet snowpack from last night’s storm, the kind that clung to the backcountry bowls, waiting for a trigger. Avalanche weather, no question.
But no one was getting hurt today—not on his watch. And if he did his job right, not in the foreseeable future either.
Jericho stood on the edge of the Aurora Basin, his green parka zipped tight against the bite of the morning air.
The sky stretched clear, a deceptive blue, but the Alaska Range loomed with a quiet menace, its peaks dusted fresh and heavy.
Below him, the ski patrol team fanned out, their neon vests stark against the white, while two first-year avalanche dogs—an enthusiastic border collie named Juniper and a stocky Lab named Bear—bounded through the snow, noses twitching.
Nearby the quiet hum and rattle of a ski lift offloading skiers and snowboarders sounded. How he loved crisp, clear days.
What he didn’t love were skiers trapped beneath a ton of snow, suffocating. Not a fan, zero stars, would not recommend.
From his position near the summit of Copper Mountain, Jericho could see clear into the next valley, where shadows still held the night.
The Eagle’s Nest, the Bowie Resort’s ski lodge, nestled halfway down, sat quiet, perched at the apex of a plowed road.
Beyond that, another road led past the lodge, down the mountain, into a small high-end community, more lodging.
A few Summit Construction trucks sat in the parking lot of the Nest. His brother Hudson had probably already arrived to oversee the remodel. Jericho should stop in, but . . .
Well, he didn’t really have a right, did he?
He turned to the lead trainer, a lean woman in her late twenties named Marla. Her clipboard was clutched tight. “What’s the time?” he asked her.
“Sixteen minutes, thirty seconds.” Marla wore her dark hair in a braid under her wool Copper Mountain Ski Resort Ski Patrol hat. A red jacket bore a patch that read the same. And she also wore the PEAK K9 School patch on her arm, a graduate of his former K9 SAR school back in Montana.
So, Marla knew what she was doing.
But sure, since he was in town, he didn’t mind showing up to cheer her on, maybe give some pointers, evaluate the dogs.
He missed it, really, the training. At least, sometimes.
Not enough to open up shop here in Alaska, thank you very much. Those days were over. Despite Moose Mulligan’s endless nudges for him to join the Air One SAR crew.
Jericho’s own dog, Orlando, pressed against his leg, his leash taut, the black-and-brown Bernedoodle’s muscles tense. Too tense. Jericho scratched behind Orlando’s ears, felt the tremor in his frame. “Not today, boy,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. “You’re sitting this one out.”
“They have the scent cone,” Marla said, indicating the dogs below. “I can see them circling.”
“For sure, Juniper has the nose,” Jericho said. “Bear is a little distracted.”
“He’s a Labrador.” She shook her head. “He still loves to play too much, but he’ll get it.” She looked at Orlando. “We can’t all be superstars like America’s Top Dog here.”
Sweet. And he didn’t argue with her—dogs had feelings too.
“You should let him go. Show these pups what a pro looks like.”
He glanced at her, back to the bowl. “He’s not ready.”
She frowned. “He’s a legend, Jericho. He’ll be fine.”
He shot her a look, then gazed back out on the field, the whiteness almost blinding. “Yeah. He will be. Just needs time.”
He pointed to the dogs in training. “They’ve got to find Tanner before the clock runs out.”
Jericho had buried the rookie patroller himself—dug a shallow trench, packed the snow light, left an air pocket for safety. But twenty minutes in a snow cave, even a shallow one, pushed the limits. Cold seeped in fast.
Below them, Juniper kept zigzagging toward the shallow hiding place of the trainer. Bear had started to circle some thirty feet away.
One of the other patrollers walked up. Young guy, barely twenty, wiry. First year on the team. Jericho couldn’t remember his name. Kyle, maybe. “How do they even know where to start? Smells like snow and pine out here.”
“To us it does, but a dog has sixty times more smell receptors than humans.” Jericho crouched, pointing to a depression in the snow where the wind swirled.
“Scent pools in low spots—dips, tree wells, lee sides of ridges. They’ll catch it on the breeze.
Trust their noses.” He stood. “Tanner’s in a snow cave, maybe a foot down, with a toy—probably that squeaky bone Bear can’t resist. They sniff him out, they dig, they bark.
You reward them with play, tug, whatever gets their tails wagging. ”
“Are you sure it’s working?” Kyle asked.
Jericho folded his arms. “It’s a game of hide-and-seek for them, but they have to stay focused.
” He glanced at Marla. “I think you should pull Bear back, give him more scent training in a controlled environment, remind him of the toy reward. Maybe even something squeaky to keep him focused. You might even put Tanner in the cave with the squeaky toy, although you’ll wean Bear off the squeak. ”
Orlando whined, nudging Jericho’s hand. Jericho knelt, stroking the dog’s flank. “I know, boy. You want to work. Soon.” But not today. Not with the snowpack in them there mountains whispering danger.
A shout broke his focus—two kids, teenagers in bright parkas, snowboarders ducking under the boundary markers, their laughter caught in the wind.
Trouble. “Hey! You two! Get back here!”
The kids skidded to a stop, snow spraying, their grins fading. They wore helmets, goggles, the right protection. Still.
The taller one shrugged, a mop of red hair peeking out under his helmet. “What’s the big deal? We’re just—”
“Breaking the rules,” Jericho snapped, jabbing a finger at the unmarked slope beyond the ropes. “This area’s roped off. Stick to the groomed runs or I take away your passes.”
“We ski this bowl all the time.”
“Not today you don’t.”
The kids unstrapped their boards and hoofed it back to the top of the hill.
Jericho turned to Marla, about to make a comment when the low rumble sounded.
He felt it more than heard it, like thunder but sharper.
“That’s on Raven’s Peak,” Marla said. She pointed to a distant ridge on the resort’s far side. “I sent a crew out there. They’re blasting to release the snowpack. If it gets too big, it can take out the resort town.”
The rumble grew, a growl that shook the ground. A white plume erupted on Raven’s Peak, the avalanche roaring down the slope, a tsunami of lethal power.
And, of course, his heart slammed against his ribs, his palms slick inside his gloves. He gripped Orlando’s leash.
Calm. Down.
Orlando panted, leaning hard against his leg.
“Jericho, you okay?”
He blew out a breath. “Yep.” He turned back to the hill. Just fine. Just . . . fine! “How’re we doing?”
In answer, Juniper barked, sharp and frantic, her paws tearing at the snow fifty yards down the bowl. Bear caught on, bounding over to see what the fun might be.
“Good dog!” This from Marla, and he got it—seeing a dog succeed erased the hours and hours of failure.
Below, the dogs clawed at the snow, powder flying, and Juniper let out a triumphant bark, her nose buried in the hole.
Tanner’s gloved hand broke through, waving, and the team cheered, shovels flashing as they cleared the snow.
Tanner climbed out, grinning, his face red from the cold, and tossed the squeaky bone to Juniper, who snatched it midair, tail whipping. Bear got one too.
“Good job, Marla,” Jericho said. “You’ve got some dogs with good instincts there.”
She beamed even as she took off down the hill.
The thunder of the slide had died, leaving only the pulse in his head.
They were just fine.
The dogs played, and his heartbeat slowed, even as Orlando stood up and barked. “Next time, buddy.”
Maybe.
But yes, probably, because the past couldn’t hold them trapped forever, right?
Tanner high-fived the patrollers, then looked up at him and gave him a thumbs-up. Jericho waved.
So maybe today, the trek out to the mountain had been a good idea. It wasn’t like they had any leads on Mars Sorros. And, according to Sheriff Deke, they were still waiting on the specialist to show up, the one contracted by the sheriff’s department to track down the fugitive.
Felt right, in a way, for Jericho to circle back and finish something he—well, not exactly him, but in a way, yes—started.
Finish it right. No one dying, but justice winning.
Marla hiked back up the hill. “You sticking around for the debrief?”
“I think you got this. Good work. Keep drilling them—same setup, deeper burials next time. I’ll come around next week to check on your progress.
” He turned and grabbed his skis, stepped into the bindings.
“Ready, buddy?” He leaned down then, and picked up the Bernie, all forty-five pounds, and set him on his shoulders like a shawl.
The dog didn’t squirm, used to riding, but Jericho steadied his legs.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” he told Marla.
Then he pushed off.
The wind whistled in his ears, and he took it slow so as not to jostle Orlando. But the dog knew his moves, knew how to stay calm, and Jericho finally sped up. He moved through the snow with precision, the weight on his shoulders easy.
By the time he reached the bottom, his thighs burned, his breaths were coming in fast. He set Orlando down, and the dog ran beside him, on his lead, as Jericho skated back to the chalet.
The sun cast upon the snow, glistening, bright. The scent of grilling burgers rose from the chalet, while skiers basked in the sun, holding coffee or hot cocoa.
His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten anything since pushing off from Anchorage at O-dark-thirty this morning.