Rand jammed his hat back on his head and shoved his hands into the pockets of his wool-lined coat. “Maybe toward town, but you would’ve seen her. I think she’s headed for the mountain. She’s always going on about that treasure.”

“Then let’s go.” Mitch jogged back to his truck, and his father followed. “She can’t have gotten far.”

“Mebbe.” Rand heaved himself into the passenger seat and pulled his right leg in with a grunt. “But I don’t know how long she’s been gone. And you know your mother.”

Mitch turned the key in the ignition and scowled to himself. He didn’t feel like he knew her at all anymore, actually. But his dad was referring to his mother’s stubbornness and iron will, and Mitch did know about that. If she wanted to climb the mountain, she would find a way to climb the mountain.

He turned the truck around and headed back to the road. “We’ll find her.”

Neither of them spoke as he drove up Pass Creek Road. The snow fell faster and thicker. Mitch punched a button on his phone and called Bea for the third time since leaving the house, and for the third time, it went straight to voicemail. He threw the phone down on the seat with a growl.

“What?” Rand’s gnarled fingers gripped the knees of his worn denim jeans. “Where’s Bea?”

“I don’t know. She went for a drive.”

“In this weather?”

“She was mad.”

Rand peered intently out the window. “I don’t like this. Maybe we should call the sheriff.”

Mitch nodded. “Keep your eyes out. If we don’t see any sign of her before the schoolhouse, we’ll call.”

He said it with confidence, but Mitch knew how long it could take to get anyone out to help them. On a good day, the emergency response times were slow. During the first big storm of the season, when everyone realized they’d forgotten how to drive in the snow and ended up stuck in a ditch down on the interstate? Every police officer and ambulance for fifty miles would be busy for hours.

Though he was tempted to race down the road, Mitch took it slow so they could examine every suspicious-looking figure or heap or hiding place they passed. A half mile before the schoolhouse, he pulled the truck over and hopped out when he saw what looked like a jacket lying next to the road. It was a black garbage bag.

He kicked it and climbed back into the truck, giving his father a guarded look. “It’s getting colder.”

Rand worked the knees of his jeans, his callused palms rubbing the fabric like June’s kneading dough. “You reckon it’s time to call for help?”