Chapter 18
Sheriff Burke Scott — City Limits Café
The snow had thickened to a white curtain by the time Burke’s cruiser rolled down Main Street. Headlights cut tunnels through the storm. At the far end, City Limits Café blazed like a hearth—yellow light, neon coffee cup flickering, a line of trucks with snow covering the windshields.
Inside, heat and noise rolled over him, the air thick with coffee and chili. Nearly every table was full—firefighters, deputies, volunteers—cold, hands wrapped around mugs. Behind the counter, Willow poured coffee without pause.
Burke stepped up to the counter and tipped his hat back, catching Ned’s eye. The old man sat near the end with his weather radio humming static beside a half-eaten piece of pie.
“Still comin’ down up there?” Burke asked.
Ned turned the volume down.
“Ain’t lettin’ up till tomorrow night. Maybe longer if that front stalls like they say.”
Burke nodded. He’d already known it, but hearing it out loud sealed it. The ridge was lost to whiteout, wind screaming through the hollers. Scout’s last transmission—Copy. Taking cover in the Grady cabin—still echoed in his head.
He’d ordered it. Slick as glass.
He climbed onto the low riser near the front window, where the chalkboard listed: SOUP OF THE DAY: Vegetable Beef.
Conversations dimmed, the crowd turning toward him.
“Alright, listen up.” His voice carried over the hum of the heater.
“We’ve been at this search for three days, and I know you’re all bone-tired.
Since the night Sara vanished, we’ve covered every trail, every pull-off, every hollow we can reach.
I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done out there.
But the weather’s changed things. The ridge is iced over, wind’s gusting past forty.
It’s not safe to keep teams in those woods. ”
A few heads dropped. Others turned toward the window where the snow pressed white against the glass. Burke let the pause hang long enough.
“This afternoon, Tom Grady found something at his tree stand. A small field notebook. Sara Parker’s handwriting.”
Gasps rippled—soft, hopeful. Someone whispered, “Thank God.” A chair scraped as a firefighter leaned forward, like he’d been punched upright by the news.
“She wrote it after she was taken. It’s her handwriting. And she’s alive.”
He let that settle. “She wants us to keep looking.”
Relief moved through the room—quiet, cautious.
“But listen,” Burke added, voice tightening. “The storm changed things. Scout and Agent Quinn were on the ridge when it turned. Visibility’s gone. I ordered them to take cover in the Grady cabin.”
The relief thinned.
Tom Grady raised a hand from the back.
“Sheriff—there’s plenty in the cabin. Food, water, firewood for a week. We left it stocked this morning.”
Burke nodded once.
“Good. That’s what’s keeping them safe tonight.”
Across the counter, Willow poured one more cup and slid it toward him.
“You did right, Sheriff. Storm like this, mountain’ll still be there tomorrow.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
“They’re where I told them to be.”
Willow snorted softly. “Those two? They’ll outlast the ridge itself.”
“And if they don’t,” Ned said, voice rough, “we’ll go get ’em.”
The comment eased something tight in his chest. He took a sip and nodded once more to the room.
“Go home. Keep your radios close. When the sky clears, we’ll pick it back up.”
The crowd dispersed slowly—voices hushed, boots heavy with snow. Ned tucked his radio under his arm and clapped Burke’s shoulder on his way out.
“You’re doin’ all you can, son.”
When the last of them had gone, only the hum of the refrigerators and the tick of the wall clock remained. Willow wiped the counter with slow, steady strokes.
“Caitlin texted earlier,” she said. “Said to tell you she’s got a pot of stew on if you’re comin’ that way.”
Burke’s tired grin flickered.
“Guess word travels faster than the storm.”
“It’s Sylva,” she said. “It always does.”
Sheriff Burke Scott—Caitlin's Cottage
By the time he left the café, Main Street was ghost-quiet, only a pair of tire tracks cutting the snow. The wipers squeaked across the windshield as Burke eased toward the edge of town. The little blue cottage waited under an oak heavy with ice, warm yellow light spilling from its windows.
Rosie barked as he stepped onto the porch. He knocked once, and the door opened before his hand even fell. Caitlin stood there in a soft sweater, hair pulled back, relief warm and clear across her face.
“Come inside—it’s brutal out there.”
Burke stepped inside, and Rosie pressed close, nose bumping at his coat pocket in search of her usual treat. He gave her a tired half-smile and rubbed her head.
“Sorry, girl. Not today.”
She huffed once and settled near the fire, tail thumping faintly against the floor.
He closed the door on the storm. The warmth and the smell of stew hit him at once, a comfort and a reminder of how long he’d been cold.
He peeled off gloves and hat, setting them down as Caitlin took his coat and hung it by the door.
Her fingers were warm from the stove. She rested a hand briefly against his chest—steadying both of them.
For a second, he didn’t move. Then he slipped an arm around her, pulling her in just enough that her cheek brushed his shoulder. The contact was brief—one slow breath, then another—but it was the first time in days he’d let himself lean on anyone.
“They didn’t make it off the mountain,” Burke said. “But Scout and Tessa made it to Grady’s cabin. The place is stocked. Scout’s been through worse. They’ll hold.”
Caitlin’s eyes softened.
“You’ve done everything you could, Burke. That counts.”
He huffed out a low breath.
“Doesn’t feel like enough,” he admitted. “Not when it’s one of mine out there.”
For the first time in days, some of the weight left his shoulders.
But even then, his mind edged back to Sara.
He pictured her somewhere—maybe hungry but alive—holding on the same way Scout and Tessa were. She wasn’t out in this. But anger tightened hot in his gut.
Someone out there had her. Someone would pay for it. No matter how long it took. No matter what the storm left behind.
He owed Sara that much. When the sky cleared, he’d find her—and make sure whoever did this answered for it.