Chapter 7 #3
“Nice bird.” Harley whistled low as Jericho got out. Orlando jumped out after him. He refrained from helping Harley out, although ignoring the urge forced him to turn and grab his bag from the back.
Dodge Kingston stood beside the cockpit, doing his preflight check. The years had filled out his lanky frame, turned the wild teenager into something solid. Dependable. The kind of guy who built nurseries and flew rescue missions. Proving that clearly anyone could change.
“Jericho Bowie,” Dodge said in greeting as he pulled off his glove. “Heard you were back in town.”
“Yeah. I guess all the good ones come home.” He patted Dodge on the arm. “Though I seem to remember you saying you’d rather die than stay in Copper Mountain.”
“I said a lot of things back then. Made a lot of promises. Broke most of them. Not a bad thing, coming home, as it turns out.” He grinned and opened the door.
“Deke sent me the GPS, and it’s all logged in, along with our flight plan.
But the ceiling is dropping, and our window is tight, so we need to get moving. ”
The helicopter’s interior smelled of leather and coffee and the wide open sky. The same scent that had filled his father’s old bush plane, the one they’d used to track caribou herds and scout fishing spots.
The memory didn’t hurt quite as much as it might have yesterday.
Sabotaged. Still, those last words between him and his father dug in, an old ache.
They lifted off in a swirl of snow, the ground falling away.
Up here, perspective shifted. The familiar landmarks of his childhood rearranged themselves into something both strange and beautiful.
The glacier’s ancient face caught the weakening sunlight while shadows pooled in valleys, the snow untouched.
His father had loved this view. Had taught Jericho to read the landscape like a story, to see how each piece fit into the larger whole. The way wind sculptured snowdrifts. How avalanche paths carved scars through the timber. The delicate balance of wilderness and civilization.
They flew north, following the highway, then east, toward the mountain range and the lakes now blanketed with snow.
“There.” Harley pointed, her voice crackling through the headset. “Winter’s plane.”
The Cessna 172 sat on the lake ice, its blue-and-white paint bright against the snow. No visible damage, no signs of impact. Just a perfect landing on an imperfect surface.
Dodge brought them down near the shore, fighting the crosswind. “The ceiling is falling. I need to bug out.”
“We can bunk in the hunting cabin,” Jericho said, grabbing the walkie.
Harley and Jericho piled out into knee-deep snow, Orlando bounding to shore ahead of them.
The helicopter’s downdraft pelleted ice crystals into Jericho’s face as Dodge lifted off again, the sound echoing off the surrounding cliffs like thunder.
When the noise faded, the silence fell, thick. The kind of quiet that swallowed men whole.
Orlando’s harness jingled as Jericho knelt beside him on shore. The dog’s dark eyes were alert, focused.
“Ready, buddy?” He looked up and his gaze fell on Harley. The way she scanned the tree line, her breath frosting in the air. The familiar determination in her stance.
Some things would never change.
He straightened, adjusting his pack. “Let’s find them.”
Above them, the clouds gathered, not quite boiling over, but soon. They needed to find Winter and the others and get out of here. Soon. Because the wilderness didn’t forgive mistakes.
The wind knifed across the lake, sharp enough to steal breath. Snowflakes swirled in the air, catching what little light filtered through the heavy clouds. Jericho crouched next to Orlando, the Bernedoodle’s black-and-brown coat already collecting snow. “Find.”
The dog bounded off, circling, searching.
“I need the ball.”
Harley dug the red rubber toy from her pocket.
“When he finds them,” he went on, “he’ll come back for this. Lead us to them.”
She handed over the ball without comment. The rubber was warm from her pocket, a small spot of heat in the gathering cold.
They started up the shoreline, following Orlando’s jingling bear bell through drifts that came to their knees.
The snow crust almost held their weight, then betrayed them with each step, the kind of conditions that could drain even experienced hikers.
Their boots punched through with sounds like breaking glass.
“There.” Harley pointed at a set of tracks, already half-filled with fresh powder. “Multiple people. Recent.”
“The cabin.” Jericho pulled his scarf higher against the wind that seemed determined to freeze his lungs. “How far?”
“Should be just over that rise.” Harley’s breath created a small cloud in the frigid air. “About a hundred yards from shore. Dad picked the spot because—”
A branch cracked somewhere in the dense spruce forest. The sound echoed off the cliffs like a gunshot, startling a bird into flight, its harsh call cutting through the stillness.
Then from the forest, a yelp lifted, high and frightened. Orlando came crashing back through the underbrush, all forty-five pounds of him barreling toward them, his tail tucked.
“Hey, hey.” Jericho caught him, ran his hands over the trembling dog. No injuries, just spooked. Snow fell from Orlando’s curly coat as he shivered. “It’s okay, boy. You’re okay.”
He pulled out the ball to let him play, tossed it, but Orlando sat, trembling.
“We need to keep moving,” Harley said.
“I know!” Oh, he hadn’t meant to bark. “Listen, just give us a second here.”
A whine escaped the dog.
“He’s scared.” Obvious statement, but his mind had frozen. If Orlando wouldn’t track . . .
Movement caught his eye. Harley, kneeling in the snow, Orlando’s ball in her hand. “Come here, handsome.”
The Bernedoodle’s ears pricked, black-tipped points swiveling toward her voice. She rolled the ball between her hands, bounced it between her grip. His tail lifted slightly, a tentative wag.
“That’s it.” She baited him, then tossed it. He caught it, and she grabbed the rope and let him tug. He bent into it, shook his head, growling.
Huh.
“Good boy,” she said. And then snagged the ball from his mouth and threw it.
Orlando bounded after it, flying through the snow.
What?
The dog found it and returned it to her, his entire body wagging, his natural confidence returning.
“Okay, buddy, fun’s over.” When she tucked the ball away in her pocket, Orlando stayed close, those intelligent eyes fixed on her face, waiting.
She caught his muzzle gently between her hands. “I’m going to need you to find my friend Winter.”
Something in her voice, a calmness in it, simply slid into Jericho’s bones, centered him. Calm. Certain. Like the whole world had narrowed to this moment, this connection.
Orlando’s ears flickered forward. His tail wagged, and he started to jump around, anxious.
And when she stood, he lifted his nose to the air.
“Find,” Jericho said.
Orlando circled again and picked up the scent.
Jericho turned to Harley. “Who are you, the dog whisperer?”
She glanced at him, smiled. “Sometimes all we need is someone to remind us who we are.” Then she winked and moved away.
The wilderness stretched around them, beautiful and merciless. But for the first time since they’d landed, the knot in Jericho’s chest loosened.
Felt almost like hope slid in.
Orlando’s bell jangled ahead, a beacon in the gathering storm. Harley moved with surprising grace through the deep snow, her steps sure despite yesterday’s injuries. Or maybe because of them—she’d always been strongest when hurting.
Huh. He hadn’t really thought about that until now.
Jericho kept pace, dividing his attention between the disappearing dog and the woman who shouldn’t be out here. Who shouldn’t be anywhere but resting, recovering.
“Did you hear that?” She stopped so suddenly, he nearly ran into her.
The wind played tricks up here, turning tree groans into voices, branch cracks into gunshots. But there—
“Help! Anyone!”
Orlando burst back through the trees, snow flying from his coat. He made a beeline for Harley, dancing in front of her until she pulled out the ball. The moment she did, he grabbed it and took off again, bearing right toward a stand of old-growth spruce.
He took off running, Harley behind him. They crashed through snow-covered undergrowth, whipping past branches. The storm was picking up, heavy flakes now falling sideways in the wind.
An opening appeared ahead, a break in the trees. Two figures huddled at the edge—Winter in her heavy flight jacket and Topher wearing what looked like three layers of flannel under a Gore-Tex shell.
“Thank God.” Winter’s relief was visible even through the thickening snow as they ran up. “Harley?”
“Hey, Win. Are you okay?”
“We need help,” Topher said. “Sunni’s hurt. She fell, and I think her ankle’s broken.”
Jericho had already reached the ravine edge, backing up as he noted the crumbling lip. Thirty feet below, Sunni Bowman lay propped against the rock face, looking up at them, her face drawn and pale. Blood had frozen in her blond hair, and her left leg stretched out, as if she’d hurt it.
Orlando whined, pressing against Harley’s leg. Above them, the storm clouds had turned the early afternoon darker, the sun fading.
“We don’t have much time,” Harley said. The words frosted in the air between them.
They carried what went unsaid.
The blizzard wouldn’t wait.