It sucks, but it’s better to know now and move on.
By the time I circle back toward the truck, the light has almost completely faded and the shadows between the trees are cast by moonlight rather than the sun. I shift back, faster than the first, pull on my jeans and boots, and reach into the cab for my phone.
Eleven missed calls. All from Marcus.
The even temperament I clawed back on my run evaporates as I hit redial, already reaching for my keys. Marcus is a man of few words. There’s no way he’s just calling to chat.
"Where the hell have you been?" Marcus doesn't bother with a greeting. This is Marcus, the sheriff talking, not my brother, and he has no time for greetings. "I've been trying to reach you for two fucking hours."
Something’s definitely wrong.
"What's going on?"
I brace myself for bad news, expecting it to be a wayward brother caught up in mischief, or another of Dad’s devious schemes or dodgy dealings coming to light to cause us more grief. But it’s worse than that.
"Missing child. A seven-year-old girl somewhere near Miller’s cabins."
There’s a brief pause, and while Marcus speaks to someone beside him, I listen to the radio chatter in the background relaying coordinates. Marcus’s tone is grim when he gets back on the phone.
"It's been over six hours now, Beau. Black River has requested back up, so I’m on my way from Grey Ridge with some K9 support, but soon it’s going to get too dark out there for them to keep going…"
The alpha bear inside me pushes forward, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive, as an immediate urge to track and care for her takes over. A child that age, unfamiliar with the wilderness and in dropping temperatures with nightfall approaching, every minute counts. As does every pair of hands.
"Where are they set up?"
I pull a map out of my glovebox and locate the rough area Miller’s rental cabins are located.
"North trailhead. John Taylor from Black River PD is running the search, but they've got nothing so far." He exhales, frustrated. "The place is crawling with volunteers and every cop within fifty miles. The scent trail is buried under a hundred pairs of boots."
That means Lisa will be out there.
The humans are doing their best, but the more people stomping through those woods, the less chance Marcus and histeam of shifters, willing to humiliate themselves by pretending to be K9s, will be able to follow the trail.
Running a finger along the map between my location and theirs, and excluding the area I’ve already covered during my run, it makes the most sense to cover the area furthest out, close to where I am. Any scent trail should be clean, and at the very least, I can rule out the child making it this far before Marcus and the wolves get here.
“On it. I’ll send you my location. Come in from the east ridge, and I’ll work down to meet you somewhere out there.”
I can cover ground in ways no search volunteer in an orange vest ever could, and my nose is stronger than anything the human search and rescue unit can offer, on four legs or two.
With a gruff goodbye to my brother, worry making both of us dispense with unnecessary pleasantries, I return to the bed of the truck and pull out some supplies. Not for me. My bear is perfectly equipped for nights out in the cold mountains. But in case I find her.
Shoving what I need into a backpack, I take off at a jog, ducking under branches and skirting massive trees. I reach deep inside, calling on all the ancient power that thrums inside me, and beg it to help me, to seek out that little girl and tell me where to go.
Because these woods are no place for a human at night, let alone a scared and helpless child.
“I’m coming,” I tell her, steely determination settling inside me. She’s out here. We just have to get to her in time.
9
LISA
By the time I pull up at the rental cabin near Miller's Creek, the search is already underway.
Vehicles line the gravel drive at odd angles with squad cars, a ranger truck, and civilian pickups whose owners have come to help. Taylor's mobile command post is set up at the trailhead, his big map spread across the hood, and a flashlight is lying on its side, shining light over it as a few people gather around.
The family huddles under a tarp at the edge of the clearing. The mother is pale, arms wrapped around herself, while the father does all the talking, hands moving as he describes exactly what happened, over and over. Nothing that’s likely to help us now but might be useful ensuring it doesn’t happen again.
I introduce myself and listen as they repeat their statements, writing everything down carefully because it gives me something orderly to focus on while I witness their lives falling apart.
