One time, years ago, after he and Caroline first bought their house in Moose Creek, Mitch drove to his parents’ house in record time after receiving a call from his mother that his father had been thrown from his horse and was dangling from a barbwire fence. By the time Mitch arrived, his father had cut himself free with the knife on his belt despite a dislocated right shoulder and had given his horse a dressing down that caused the mare to hang her head in remorse.

Dad had been angry that Mom had bothered Mitch over “such a silly thing.” Mitch had insisted on taking him to the clinic, but Dad had rammed his shoulder into the side of the house on the way to the truck and popped it back into place. His mother had fussed over him at first but had eventually taken Dad’s side. “Now he can finish his chores before dark,” she’d said. “Everything’s fine.”

This time was different. As his truck charged down his parents’ gravel drive, Mitch knew things were not fine. Would not be fine. His father was not physically injured. He was broken inside. And his mother was not waiting, hands on hips, to fuss over his father or him or anyone else. She was missing.

How had she gone from undercooking apple pies to wandering off in a snowstorm in a matter of weeks?

The sight of his parents’ truck parked next to the house brought little comfort. About six months ago, his mom had had an incident with some loose gravel on their drive, ended up in the ditch, and stubbornly decided she wasn’t going to drive ever again. At the time, he’d figured it was just a phase, but looking back, he could see it had been a warning sign. Now he was glad he didn’t have to worry about her getting into an accident, but if she’d taken the truck, at least she’d have some protection from the elements. On foot she was entirely exposed.

He jumped out of his truck and jogged toward the house. His dad was waiting on the porch, wringing his hat in his hands. He took the steps as quickly as his bum leg would allow and met Mitch. “I’m sorry, son. I never should’ve left her alone.”

“It’s not your fault.” Mitch gripped his father’s shoulder. “I should’ve been helping more.”

Rand wiped a hand over his face. “I tried tracking her, but the snow’s falling too fast. It’s already covered any prints.”

The snow in Montana was often fine and dry, blowing and swirling like desert sand in the subzero temperatures of winter. But the snow today was thick and heavy, covering the ground with alarming speed.

“Which way do you think she went? Where would she want to go?”