The dogs played, and his heartbeat slowed, even as Orlando stood up and barked. “Next time, buddy.”
Maybe.
But yes, probably, because the past couldn’t hold them trapped forever, right?
Tanner high-fived the patrollers, then looked up at him and gave him a thumbs-up. Jericho waved.
So maybe today, the trek out to the mountain had been a good idea. It wasn’t like they had any leads on Mars Sorros. And, according to Sheriff Deke, they were still waiting on the specialist to show up, the one contracted by the sheriff’s department to track down the fugitive.
Felt right, in a way, for Jericho to circle back and finish something he—well, not exactly him, but in a way, yes—started.
Finish it right. No one dying, but justice winning.
Marla hiked back up the hill. “You sticking around for the debrief?”
“I think you got this. Good work. Keep drilling them—same setup, deeper burials next time. I’ll come around next week to check on your progress.” He turned and grabbed his skis, stepped into the bindings. “Ready, buddy?” He leaned down then, and picked up the Bernie, all forty-five pounds, and set him on his shoulders like a shawl. The dog didn’t squirm, used to riding, but Jericho steadied his legs. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” he told Marla.
Then he pushed off.
The wind whistled in his ears, and he took it slow so as not to jostle Orlando. But the dog knew his moves, knew how to stay calm, and Jericho finally sped up. He moved through the snow with precision, the weight on his shoulders easy.
By the time he reached the bottom, his thighs burned, his breaths were coming in fast. He set Orlando down, and the dog ran beside him, on his lead, as Jericho skated back to the chalet.
The sun cast upon the snow, glistening, bright. The scent of grilling burgers rose from the chalet, while skiers basked in the sun, holding coffee or hot cocoa.
His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten anything since pushing off from Anchorage at O-dark-thirty this morning.
He stepped out of his skis and picked them up, then crunched through the snow to his Chevy Silverado. He packed his skis and his boots into the covered back, then pulled out a bowl and poured water for Orlando. The dog lapped it up, then jumped onto the front seat, his tail wagging.
Jericho’s heart had stopped thundering, his pulse back to normal. So, clearly, getting off the mountain did them both good.
“I need some coffee, pal, and then it’s time to face the music.” He got into the truck and pulled out, heading for Copper Mountain.
Aka, the place he just couldn’t seem to forget.
Early afternoon sun slanted through the storefront windows as Jericho pulled up to the Last Frontier Bakery. He left Orlando in the truck, curled up on the passenger seat with a chew toy, the windows cracked to let in the crisp air. Five minutes in, five minutes out.
And oh, he’d forgotten how much he loved the scent of cinnamon rolls and fresh espresso. Even now, the place hummed with conversation, and the warmth hit him like a wave, thawing the chill in his bones.
Jericho ordered a black coffee.
“Jericho Bowie, as I live and breathe.”
He turned to see Echo Kingston standing by the counter, her golden hair braided over her shoulder, a little boy on her hip. He couldn’t remember the kid’s name.
“Echo. What’s going on?”
“You first. When did you get back?”
Her green eyes looked to the window, back at him, her smile almost conspiratorial.
Whatever. So he was back. Big whoop. Not for long.
And besides, he doubted anyone would notice.
Or care.
“Just passing through.” The barista handed him his coffee, the heat of the cup seeping into his hand. He added a cardboard sleeve. “I’m helping the sheriff with a case.”
