“Did you report the theft?”
He shook his head. “No. They were illegal and never really mine to begin with. I didn’t turn them in because… well. They’re gone now.”
“Is that all that was stolen?” I asked, tiptoeing across the decades-old eggshells of this conversation.
“Yeah. Nothing else was disturbed. It’s like that was all they were looking for, and knew where to find them.” He gave a nervous shake of his head. “It’s got me a bit shaken up, is all. I don’t like thinking about someone snooping through my things when I’m not there. Plus, everyone in town’s all worked up over those missing hikers, and?—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “Missing hikers?”
He nodded. “Three solo hikers have disappeared this month. The last one was reported just a few days ago. That was probably a search party meet-up you saw on your way into town.”
My pulse picked up, brow furrowed. “People go missing all the time in the national parks, though,” I replied cautiously, leaving the rest unsaid.
So why do people think these three are different?
I didn’t ask, because I was afraid I already knew.
While most outdoor enthusiasts were responsible and entered the wilderness well-prepared to fend for themselves for several days or weeks at a time, it was difficult to comprehend the sheer scale and remoteness of the area, even for those born and raised there.
If something happened—an unexpected storm, a fall, a slight miscalculation in mapping a route—it could very easily turn into a life-or-death situation in which a helicopter was the only way out alive.
Dad knew that all too well.
So it was fairly common for worried family members to report hikers missing, only for them to turn up tired butotherwise unharmed a few days later. Most of the time, there was nothing to worry about.
Except in Ponderosa.
The whole town collectively held its breath every time someone went missing, waiting to see if there’d be another—and another. Especially when they were solo hikers.
He’d preferred those.
“I think it’s way too soon to be worried about anything,” Dad said. “It’s not even June yet. We’re still early in the season; people get ahead of themselves and aren’t prepared for the weather to turn or how rugged the terrain is. The rest is just fear and gossip.”
“So, it’s not like…the others?” I asked.
Dad slowed as we came into town. Off to the right, we passed a wooden sign carved in vintage lettering, lit up so it could be read even in the dark.
Welcome to Ponderosa—Gateway to Nowhere!
“No,” he said resolutely. “It’s not like the others.”
CHAPTER THREE
Abell chimed over the door announcing our entrance to the bar and grill.
It was busy, with most of the tables and booths already occupied by a sea of bright pink shirts. It seemed the search party had called it a night and retired for dinner.
“Reece!”
Heads turned toward me at the call out, the steady murmur of conversation momentarily hushed. I felt their eyes take me in, cautiously assessing before flicking away.
It always took a few days to readjust to that small-town gaze, now compounded by the simmering unease of those pink shirts.
The joys of coming home.
Despite feeling exposed, the heaviness that hung in the air evaporated at the sight of Bobby, my best and oldest friend, waving us over from across the room.
“Hey man,” I said after we weaved our way between tables. “Good to see you.”
