Page 63 of North

Frank had pulled out a folded Washington State map and spread it over the table. His weathered finger landed on the town of Shelly. “Here’s where you’re going. You could go south. Or…” He’d grabbed a highlighter from the desk. “You take the fire service roads. They’re all open by now, although you might see snow on the higher passes, but you follow these”—he ran his highlighter over thinly marked trails—“and you can work yourself over to Shelly.”

He’d looked up. “What’s the address?”

North had widened his screen and read it off. Frank had circled it on a map. “If you go this way, you shave off at least an hour, maybe more.” He’d folded up the map. “Take my truck, son.”

North had met his eyes. “You sure?”

“I got Butch’s. But try not to bang her up, okay?”

North had taken the map, then stuck out his hand. “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“Just do the right thing, get your girl, and trust that God has a plan.”

That seemed like a tall order, but North had nodded as Frank shook his hand and clamped him on the shoulder.

Miriam had appeared then and handed him a coffee. “Be safe.”

He’d headed to the truck, then opened the map on the bench seat and motored out of the driveway.

Forty-five minutes later, the coffee gone, the rising sun painted the mountains gold. The land was rustic up here, swaths of timber broken with granite tumbles of rock amidst lush forest.

And not a house in sight. He could be driving into Canada for all he knew. But he’d followed Frank’s directions…

North’s mind raced through scenarios, contingencies, ways this could go wrong.

And of course, Frank’s words rumbled through his head. Find her. Save her. But don’t lose yourself doing it. That’s what separates us from them—the ability to do dangerous things while keeping our souls intact.

He wasn’t sure he could do that last part if Alan had hurt the woman he loved. North gripped the steering wheel and shot a look toward heaven.

Make me your man, Lord. Don’t let me walk away from you in my anger.

He slowed, then stopped and consulted the map as the mountain road cut south. So far, it seemed right.

And as he drove, he spotted a house. Then another, and more and more, on hillsides and in valleys, and finally, below, a lake.

He pulled over and studied the map again. Felt like he was downrange again, following a terrain map, on mission.

He pulled out found pavement, then a turn-off onto a dirt road, and finally, a timber-framed house appeared through a break in the trees. North slowed, assessing.

The house blended into the woods, with a wraparound porch and a view of a lake, and an old Winnebago and black SUV parked outside.

North eased Frank’s truck behind the RV, out of sight from the house.

Oh, he should have brought a weapon. But frankly, his bare hands might be enough. Maybe.

He scooted alongside the SUV and looked inside. Keys dangled in the ignition.

The morning air bit through his borrowed flannel shirt as he moved toward the house. The storm door window was shattered, the frame broken, a heavy wooden door hanging open.

His gut tightened. Okay, so he’d found the right place.

He stilled, but no sounds lifted except the call of birds and the creak of branches in the wind.

They had to be here. He eased inside.

Wait. Gas. The scent hit his nostrils as he approached the back door.

A crash—glass breaking.