Not that he was very warm. Hunter had moved to lie beside what was left of the campfire. Scott couldn’t feel his toes or his fingers, and every few minutes a violent shiver rocked him.
He carefully extricated himself from around her. She stirred. “You okay?” he asked.
The sleeping bag wriggled and shifted, then her head emerged. Her face was puffy, hair a wild tangle hiding half her features. She looked soft and vulnerable and younger than her years. “I’m cold.”
“Yeah. I’ll get the fire started.”
When he had a blaze going, she fought the rest of the way out of her sleeping bag and staggered to her feet. “Be right back,” she mumbled, and shuffled off into the woods.
By the time she returned, he had the kettle over the flames and both dogs were eating the kibble he had packed. “I’m going to give them the first water I melt,” he said. “Then I’ll heat some for us.”
“I’ve got instant coffee crystals,” she said. “And oatmeal and peanut butter.”
“I’ve got boiled eggs.”
She made a face. “Don’t those get crushed in your pack?”
He shrugged. “They’re good protein. And I don’t care what they look like. I’m going to eat them anyway.”
The coffee, when it was finally ready, was scalding hot. The warmth spread through him, driving the last of the sleep from his brain and making him feel halfway human. They ate, the cold making them ravenous. Even oatmeal—not his favorite—tasted good when he was this hungry.
Breakfast over, he stood. “If you’ll pack up everything, I’m going to look around a little bit,” he said.
“What are you looking for?”
“I want to see if I can find some sign of whoever was shooting at us.”
He moved away from the clearing where they had sheltered, both dogs accompanying him. He crossed over the trail they had been following yesterday. The brush thinned, giving way to thick stands of aspens, slender white trunks all leaning slightly to one side, like grass bent by the wind. He studied the snow, which was thinner here, until he found what he was looking for—a single boot print. Not a ski boot, but with lug soles, like a hiking or work boot. Another partial print farther on. He moved more slowly now, carefully placing each step, trying to be as silent as possible. The rising sun slanting through the trees glinted on something at the base of one aspen trunk. Scott bent to look and found two brass shell casings. Forty-five caliber. A new cold slithered up his spine. Too close for comfort. Had the shooter spent the night nearby? He could have killed them in their sleep.
He took out his phone, intending to note the GPS coordinates of this location, but the device had switched itself off and refused to power up again. He swore to himself. Why hadn’t he remembered that cold drained batteries? He should have sleptwith the phone next to him in his sleeping bag instead of stuffed into the side of his pack. He hoped Lily had been smarter.
He went a little farther, but saw no more boot prints or shell casings. No sign of a camp. The shooter must have moved on after he had determined they weren’t a threat. Maybe he had decided they were a couple of hikers or skiers out for adventure. Maybe he decided to leave before they spotted him.
He returned to camp. Lily had packed up their belongings and was scooping snow over the fire to douse it. “Did you find anything?” she asked.
He shook his head. He’d keep the information about the bullets to himself for now. “Let’s keep heading toward Pandora,” he said. “Maybe we’ll find Jackson there.”
“It’s a week today since he was taken,” she said. “That’s a long time to be out in this cold.”
“The kidnapper was probably taking care of him before he was killed,” Scott said. “We found their camp, with a fire and shelter.”
“But now Jackson is out here without a pack or anyone to help.”
“Don’t think about that,” he said. “Just focus on finding him.”
They picked up where they had left off, following the trail of disturbed snow. It could have been a trail made by a boy, but it could have just as easily been a path followed by wildlife—mule deer or elk or even moose. They saw no more boot prints, nothing to tell them for sure that they were on the right track.
The trail ended abruptly, at the base of a large pine, the furrowed reddish bark bright against the paler aspen and white snow. Shelby barked, then planted her front feet against the trunk of the tree. The dog stared up into the limbs, then barked again.
“What is it, girl?” Lily asked.
Scott craned his head to look up into the tree. The branches were thick, a tangle of needles so dark they were almost black. “I don’t see anything,” he said. “Maybe she treed a squirrel. Come on, Hunter.” He turned to move on.
“Wait!” Lily said. She shifted position, craning her neck. “Jackson, is that you? It’s me, Lily.”
The tree limbs shifted and a pale face—familiar to Scott from the posters stuck up everywhere around the resort—poked out. “Lily! What are you doing here?”
“We’re looking for you,” she said. “We’ve come to take you home.”
