He shrugged, glancing at her. “Yeah. That’s usually when Knife’s Edge connects to the outside world again. It’s almost impossible to get anyone out here during the winter. Even if they tried, it’d be a death wish.”
He turned toward the door, angling his head like he could already hear the distant whisper of the next storm. “Another one’s coming in about an hour. I talked to Amos this morning—this one’s gonna last a few weeks.”
Brock nodded in agreement. “We’ll be lucky if we can get word to Anchorage, let alone send anyone in or out.”
Ophelia clenched her fists, frustrated. They had a dead woman lying here—evidence frozen in time—and no one to properly examine her.
“So, what do we do?” she asked, her voice tight.
Christian’s voice remained matter-of-fact. “Doc will freeze the body. Which ain’t exactly hard to do around here.”
Ophelia forced herself to stand, brushing the snow from her knees. Her legs shook, though not from the cold. She turned to Brock, searching his face for any sign of doubt.
He met her gaze, his jaw tightening. “We take her to Doc first. See what she can tell us.”
She nodded slowly. “Let’s do it.” She paused, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Then we need to notify Leo.”
Brock’s shoulders tensed, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. Finally, he exhaled and gave a short nod. “Yeah. He deserves to know.”
Christian gestured to the lights. “The rescue toboggan is attached to my sled. Help me load her up and pack the lights, and then you two go back and get some sleep. It’ll be slow going for me with the body, and I won’t be able to just take her over the hill.”
Brock glanced at Ophelia, obviously torn.
She lifted her chin. “I’m fine. We should go together.”
“No,” Brock said finally. “We’re talking about hours of difference. I’ll take you to get some sleep at my place. Period.”
She didn’t have the energy to argue with him.
The wind howled outside, as though reminding them of the storm barreling toward them. They didn’t have much time.
Ophelia took one last look at the woman’s lifeless form, committing every detail to memory. Whoever she had been, whatever had led her to this place—Ophelia was going to make sure her story didn’t end here, in the cold, forgotten and alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Before her morning coffee, Dr. May Smirnov finished tying off the last suture on Ace Osprey’s stubborn head wound. The thin line of stitches was neat despite his insistence on moving every time she touched his scalp. She usually arrived at work before dawn, so today was no exception, although she’d slept much better than usual on Delores’s couch and might’ve slept even longer had Brock not radioed her about a body coming in. She’d reluctantly moved off the sofa and headed into work, calling and awakening the forensic pathologist in Anchorage once she had cell service close to town.
Ace had been waiting for her, bleeding as he leaned against the building. Moron.
“Now, tell me again how you managed to slice open your hairline,” she murmured, focusing on snipping the final thread rather than the subtle, earthy scent clinging to him. The last thing she needed was to be distracted by a patient—especially one like Ace.
He grinned, the corner of his mouth tilting in a way that sent a jolt through her nerves. “I tripped and fell. It’s that simple, Doc.”
She arched a brow, unimpressed. He also smelled like whiskey. “Nothing is ever that simple.”
He shrugged but didn’t lose the grin.
She tossed the suturing tools into the metal bowl with a sharp clang. “Did you know the Surgeon General updated the guidance about alcohol? It's a toxin—never good for you, not even in small doses.” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but she blamed the way he was watching her.
“Yeah, I heard.” He reached for his coat. He shrugged it on with ease, despite the height of the examination table forcing him to sit taller than usual. She winced internally. The clinic’s old, cheap equipment didn’t make things easy—she’d had to stand on a step stool just to reach him, which irritated her more than it should have.
His green eyes caught the sterile light, sparkling with amusement. His unkempt hair, streaked with deep brown, was in desperate need of a cut. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to push it back and trim it herself—an impulse she fought off with a professionalism that was becoming harder to maintain.
She wasn’t here to take care of him in that way. She was his doctor. Nothing more.
A sudden crash sounded from outside. The loud bang reverberated through the small clinic.
She jumped.
