Her hands were frozen by the time she found the cutoff that led up to the cabin. The tiny timber-framed building sat on a ridge that overlooked both Moose Creek and Seventeen Mile Lake.

If Peyton wasn’t here, she’d continue on to their next scheduled stop, the cabin some ten miles away at Peters Lake.

As Echo drew near, she spotted the faintest wisp of smoke circling out of the chimney, and a fist eased in her chest.

Peyton had found her way back here, holed up, and built a fire.

Echo stopped in front and glanced toward the field where Dodge had landed his chopper so many days ago.

Maybe she should have stayed with Peyton.

Pulling off her helmet, she left it on the snowmobile and tromped up to the house. The snow lay thick on the deck, only trampled near the door.

She kicked some of it away, headed to the door, and pushed it open.

Someone lay on one of the cots in the room, trussed up in a sleeping bag, a pack on the floor next to boots and snow clothes.

The stove glowed, the fire turning to coals inside, but a hint of a chill laced the cabin. Snowshoes leaned against the wall, and on the table sat a gas stove and a bucket of water, probably melted snow.

It didn’t look like Peyton’s gear, but, “Peyton?”

The body stirred, and she took a step closer.

“Stop.” The body sat up, and Echo’s gaze froze on the ten-inch buck knife that protruded from the sleeping bag. “Don’t move another hair.”

The man wore a fur hat, his brown hair long to match his matted beard, a thermal shirt, and, she guessed, long johns, but he didn’t sally out of the bag, thankfully.

Probably because she obeyed and put her hands up. “Idaho. It’s me, Echo Yazzie.”

She probably should have used his real name—Ray—instead of the local nickname, but it just sort of emerged. The guide looked at her, as if trying to get a fix on her.

“Yazzie?”

“Yeah. Echo. Charlie’s daughter.”

Aw, she should have probably left that reminder alone.

However, he put his knife away. He peeled out of his bag, and to her relief, he wore a pair of fleece pants.

“What are you doing here?” He got up and walked over to the stove in his stocking feet, opened it, and added a block of wood.

She backed away, and only then noticed the small bottle of whiskey on the table. “I’m looking for Peyton Samson. She’s a researcher with Fish and Wildlife? She’s been missing for a few days.”

“That Black girl?” Idaho said.