Nothing sliced the dark in half like her best friend’s boyish grin or the way he knew just by looking at her that she didn’t want to be alone.
As soon as she was back in her vehicle, she checked her phone, half expecting to see Nick’s name in her notifications.
There was nothing.
Her brow furrowed. She wished he was back in cell phone range. She wished he’d been with her when she’d flipped back the lid of that dumpster and confronted those raccoons. She’d have been able to laugh over the situation then. Laughing was always easier with Nick, no matter the circumstances.
She checked the date—March 12.
She counted the days since his departure.
He normally spent four nights in Dark Canyon Wilderness, following the trail he and his father had once hiked together. She wouldn’t lie and say it unnerved her that he always made the trip solo.
So far, he’d been gone three nights.
“Malone, if you’re not back in twenty-four hours,” she muttered as she cranked the Bronco, “I’m going in after you.”
The engine sputtered. She tried again, cooing encouragements until the pistons fired. She mashed on the gas to hear the comforting roar of the engine. “Thatta girl,” she murmured before putting the Bronco in Reverse and watching her rear window as she backed out the way she came, leaving the night critters to their dumpster fight.
Chapter 2
Don’t freak out.
The worst thing a solo hiker could do was panic in situations like this.
The mixed-breed rescue dog who’d nestled beside Nick during the five-minute breather whined in consolation.
Nick ran his hand down Riot’s short, spotted coat. “It’s all right, bud,” he assured him, his voice rough. The feel of the coarse hair beneath his palm quieted some of the doubts in Nick’s mind over whether they would make it back to the trailhead before dark.
They were already a day behind. They didn’t have the supplies to make it another night in Dark Canyon Wilderness.
Nick cursed himself silently. Their situation wasn’t dire, but it wasn’t encouraging, either. Nick had let Riot drink the last of their water hours ago. Nick knew dehydration was becoming a problem for himself. His lower lip had cracked down the middle. His mouth felt as dry as the loose-sand trail. A small headache bored at his temples, and he was feeling more and more sluggish.
He and Riot had come several miles from the last water source. They hadn’t been able to use it, thanks to the buildup of moss and the risks of giardia, cryptosporidium and E. coli. Nick had chosen not to boil the water and purify it, knowing how far he and Riot were behind schedule and how many miles they had to go before dark.
Nick knew they wouldn’t meet another water source before he got back to his truck. Despite recent snowmelt and the plentiful pools they’d found closer to the canyon deep in the wilderness, Dark Canyon was notoriously dry. Pools and streambeds were widely separated. Many had dried up, thanks to droughts in previous years.
Nick was an experienced hiker. He was no stranger to Dark Canyon Wilderness and its challenges. Thanks to rising insurance costs, the bills for his mother’s treatment and the facility he’d chosen for her had soared, so he had been taking extra shifts as a Dark Canyon paramedic. As a result, his preparations for this year’s hike had been rushed. He’d thought he’d brought enough liters of water to last him and Riot the entire hiking trip.
Clearly, he’d been wrong.
His pace, normally a decent two and a half miles an hour, had slowed. The sun had started its steady crawl toward the horizon.
He would not panic. Riot would pick up on Nick’s negative feelings. He probably already had. The low whine continued in the back of the canine’s throat. Nick picked up the rhythm of his petting to comfort him. “Not much further, boy,” he murmured, scratching Riot behind the ears.
It felt like a lie. Ten miles wasn’t much. Usually. But with the threat of dehydration-related sickness lurking, those ten miles to the trailhead seemed like twenty.
Nick had taken more time at the ruins this year. Too much time. His father, Dr. Lincoln Malone, an archaeologist who had settled his family in Dark Canyon, Utah, after his retirement from the field, had loved nothing more than exploring the Ancestral Puebloan Indian structures and uncovering artifacts that had not been touched by human hands since the time of the Ancestral Puebloan people. He was the leading expert on ancient American rock art and petroglyphs.
Or, he had been. Until one morning in March fifteen years ago when he’d said goodbye to Nick’s mother, Margot, and left for his and Nick’s annual hiking trip to celebrate his son’s twelfth birthday. Far into the canyon, they’d been set upon by thunderstorms, followed by a flash flood. The rushing water had scoured the canyon floor. Nick’s father had gotten caught in the surge. Once the water levels settled, his body washed up amid a debris pile of ponderosas and aspens.
Nick had barely survived the ordeal. His father’s last words to him had been for Nick to stay on the small, slippery ridge where he had been safe from the floodwaters. He’d hugged the canyon wall as the rain fell, frozen with fear. He’d been terrified he, too, would slide off the ridge and get swept downstream.
Days later, Search and Rescue had found him in the same spot. He’d been so weak, he hadn’t been able to walk away from the canyon on his own.
Fifteen years. It wasn’t enough time to forget his father’s quiet laugh or the contemplative lines around his mouth or the light in his eyes when he’d made an archaeological discovery. Nor was it enough time to forget the towering wave of terror he’d felt at seeing his father plunge from the ridge where they’d taken shelter or the sight of him flailing, helpless to fight the unstoppable current.
He could remember too much of the intervening years. His mother’s sorrow, her mental breakdown and later decline. He could remember the self-blame that had lurked in the heavy, dark corridors of depression.
