“The cabin’s still there.” She tossed the ball again. “Dad always made sure there were supplies. I leased it to High Country Tours, a local guiding service. I’m sure they stocked it with a generator, supplies, emergency radio.”
“And the terrain?” Deke asked. “It’s pretty rough up there.”
She moved toward the wall map, traced a path with her finger. “Broken Tooth sits in this valley, but there’s an access trail that runs along the ridgeline. The cabin’s about a hundred yards northeast of the lake, just below tree line.”
“There’s a small window in the weather,” Deke said. “Dodge can chopper us in. I called Moose, but his team’s socked in down in Anchorage. Earliest they could get here is tomorrow.”
“I’ll get the gear,” Jericho said.
“Me too.” Harley turned to follow him, but he stepped into her path.
“You were shot just, when was it? Oh yeah—yesterday.”
“I’m fine. And I know that terrain better than anyone. I spent every hunting season in that cabin from age eight to eighteen.”
He sighed. And still wanted to punch something when Deke said, “She’s right. But Dodge’s bird isn’t big enough for all of us, Winter and her passengers, so I’ll need to stay.”
Orlando punctuated the statement by dropping his ball at Harley’s feet again. Wagged his tail. His dark eyes held an eagerness Jericho hadn’t seen in weeks. “Fine. I’ll get my gear bag from the truck. We’ll radio when we have eyes on the plane.”
“Good,” Harley said. “Because we need to get moving. There’s another blizzard headed this way.”
MAIN STREEThad already surrendered to the forecast, it seemed, with the storefronts battened down. Snow drifted against the deck of Starlight Pizza, and even Bowie Mountain Gear sat closed, both Malachi and Hudson back at the resort. The town felt haunted, almost.
They passed Mulligan’s Hardware, its windows showcasing snow blowers and rock salt, then the Midnight Sun Saloon, where Hudson had mentioned running into Dodge and Echo and heard about baby number two on the way. About how Echo was craving pickled herring and ice cream, how Dodge was already planning to add a nursery to their house out at Sky King Ranch.
The kind of normal, everyday life Jericho had thought he wanted ... once.
Maybe.
Harley had gotten in front, and Orlando curled up beneath her legs, his head on her lap, instead of taking his usual alert position by the window.
What kind of magic had she worked on his dog?
Jericho adjusted the rearview mirror, then caught a glimpse of Harley scratching behind the Bernie’s ears.
Aw, it was diabolical. First she’d take his dog.
Then his heart.
Aw, maybe she already had it.
The airport access road wound through stands of snow-laden spruce. Orlando sat up and pressed his nose to the window, then turned back to Harley, like he couldn’t quite decide which view interested him more.
The small FBO huddled against the weather, its sign proclaiming Copper Mountain Municipal Airport in faded blue letters. But the Sky King Alaska Air Rescue Bell 429 that was parked on the pad looked anything but municipal. The helicopter’s deep blue body gleamed even in the flat morning light, its black trim distinctive against the snow.
“Nice bird.” Harley whistled low as Jericho got out. Orlando jumped out after him. He refrained from helping Harley out, although ignoring the urge forced him to turn and grab his bag from the back.
Dodge Kingston stood beside the cockpit, doing his preflight check. The years had filled out his lanky frame, turned the wild teenager into something solid. Dependable. The kind of guy who built nurseries and flew rescue missions. Proving that clearly anyone could change.
“Jericho Bowie,” Dodge said in greeting as he pulled off his glove. “Heard you were back in town.”
“Yeah. I guess all the good ones come home.” He patted Dodge on the arm. “Though I seem to remember you saying you’d rather die than stay in Copper Mountain.”
“I said a lot of things back then. Made a lot of promises. Broke most of them. Not a bad thing, coming home, as it turns out.” He grinned and opened the door. “Deke sent me the GPS, and it’s all logged in, along with our flight plan. But the ceiling is dropping, and our window is tight, so we need to get moving.”
The helicopter’s interior smelled of leather and coffee and the wide open sky. The same scent that had filled his father’s old bush plane, the one they’d used to track caribou herds and scout fishing spots.
The memory didn’t hurt quite as much as it might have yesterday.
