River caught up to them, a coat wrapped around her. Her breath shallow. “What happened?”
Dawson shook his head and turned to see the lights from the snowmobile blinking, disappearing into the night.
He glanced at the men now carrying Griffin inside, then ducked his head against the wind and headed for the garage, Caspian leading the way. Snow swirled around the overhead light, the big sliding door open. Darkness filled the expanse as he stepped inside, but he spotted the destruction anyway.
Five snow machines, their hoods open, wires and cables in a tangle, spewing chaos from them. What the—?
Nearby, a massive tracker seemed untouched, along with farm equipment—all summer vehicles.
Dawson’s heart pounded, and he stood at the mouth of the shed, hands on his hips, staring out into the night, a terrible sweat running over him.
Whoever they were, they’d just destroyed any escape.
Caspian leaned hard against him, whining. “You did good, Casp.”
The animal couldn’t fetch, but he did seem to have a sixth sense about when someone might be in trouble.
Dawson closed the door, ducked his head, and fought his way back inside to the warmth of the lodge.
They’d cleared a table, set Griffin on it, and River had him on his side, pressing a cloth to his wound.
Donald looked over at him, left his spot at the table. “How’d you know?” He advanced, almost angry.
Dawson held up his hands. “I didn’t—Keely woke me up.”
“It was the dog,” Keely rasped, and only now did he see her, eyes wide, standing in the oversized sweater, a blanket around her shoulders. “He whined outside my door. I let him in, and he went right to the window. That’s when I saw him in the snow—what happened?”
“Someone got into the machine shed is what happened,” Dawson said. “Looks like they destroyed the other snow machines before they stole the last one.”
Donald frowned, but on the table, Griffin roused. He moaned, tried to sit up, but River pushed him back down. “Stay put, tough guy.”
Dawson pushed past Donald, went to the table. River still held a bandage to Griffin’s head, taking it off now and again to examine it. Blood saturated his face, his shirt, his hands.
His knuckles looked torn.
“You were in a fight,” Dawson said.
Griffin coughed, nodded. “The machine shed light ... went ... on, and I went out to check on it—spotted a man. He tried to run, but I chased him.” He winced with one eye as River checked the bandage.
“Can someone get me some snow? We need some cold on this,” River said.
Donald headed for the door.
Griffin reached up to touch the bandage. “He came at me with a knife. I had my shotgun, and hit it away, but he wasn’t giving up easy. We went around a few times—I got a few hits in, got him down, and would have had him, but he got my shotgun and slammed it against my head, and, bam”—he made a small explosion gesture with his hand—“lights out. Stupid.”
“He could have killed you,” River said, her voice tight.
“But he didn’t.”
“He disabled all the sleds,” Dawson said. “Why?”
“Dunno.”
His gut told him it wasn’t anything good. “Maybe so no one could follow him.”
“I saw him.”
Keely. She stepped closer, the blanket tight around her. “After you left, I saw him out the window.”
