He grabbed the clothes, put them on. She’d forgotten socks, but maybe he’d root around in Sully’s gear and ask forgiveness later.
A flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, and he ran his hands through his hair to slick it back. Stared at his whiskered mug in the mirror. Such a catch. He shook his head. What was he doing?
How did you ask a megasuccessful pop singer to ditch it all and join your life in the last frontier?
“Somethingthat gets in your blood,you can’t escape it.”
You didn’t.
You followed her to New York City.
He braced his hands on the sink edges, considered himself. He didn’t see himself as a New York cop.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe this was his chance to start over. He could become a detective—
Barking sounded, distant, as if outside. He frowned and opened the door, stepped out of the bathroom.
The front door hung open, the wind casting snow into the room. The barking came from the darkened yard.
“Keely?” He glanced into the bedroom but didn’t see her, then ducked into the office.
Empty.
He walked to the front door. “Caspian! Come!”
The dog stood in the ring of light in the yard, looking out as if...
His gut clenched. No—wait—“Keely?”
He went to the porch. Stared out into the night.
On the front steps, footsteps matted the snow, more than one set—oh no, no—“Keely!”
His feet turned to ice, and he raced back inside, grabbed boots and shoved them on, then a jacket, and hustled back out to the yard.
Snow machine treads churned up the yard. Two sets. He randown one track, into the darkness, and spotted Caspian, who’d run out ahead of him, standing at the river’s edge, barking into the night.
No,no—The world started to spin, his chest webbed, his breathing cutting out. He caught up with the dog, and in the distance—way down the riverbank—he spotted headlights, disappearing, then winking out.
“Keely!” Now his knees did buckle.
Caspian practically threw himself on top of him, licking his face, barking.
“I know—” He put a hand to his mouth and fought the urge to be sick.How—
Except, maybe they’d followed him from the cache cabin. It only made sense—he knew someone had been there, and certainly someone had shot at him.
He should have listened to his gut.
Caspian kept barking, all the way until he climbed to his knees. Then Caspian pushed against him and forced Dawson to put a hand on him.
The action centered him, just for a moment, brought him back to himself. Cleared his head. Okay, then...
“Let’s get help.” He stood and fought the wind and snow back to the lodge, Caspian running out ahead of him.
He barreled up the porch, then into the house, and by the time Dawson had followed, stood at the sofa, where her knit sweater lay, sniffing at it.
He rounded back to the door, barking.
