Her gaze dropped to the knife, sheathed in the strap on his thigh. She tasted her heartbeat as it climbed up her throat.

“Sure, sweetheart.” He let go of her wrist but grabbed her by her jacket lapels. “As long as you stick around—”

Behind her, the door opened. It hit her, and she bumped hard into Idaho.

He let her go and fell back, caught her from falling, too, his hands on her upper arms.

“Let me go!” She tried to jerk away from him, but his grip was strong. She turned.

Blinked.

Dodge was standing in the doorway, staring at her. He wore a blue jacket, his dark hair under a wool cap, his scarf covered in crusty snow.

He shot a look at Idaho, who let go of her.

Something in Dodge’s dark gaze on Idaho ran a cold finger down her spine. “Echo. You okay?”

Her heart thundered as she stepped away from Idaho, toward Dodge. “Yeah.” But her voice was sharp and thin.

Maybe he read her face, or maybe he was just that perceptive, but his eyes narrowed at Idaho. “What are you doing here?”

“I have every right to be here.”

“I thought Peyton might be here,” Echo said quietly, glancing at the door. She dearly wanted to know how Dodge had appeared, but right now, she only wanted out. “Clearly, she’s not.” Then she left, barely stopping herself from sprinting from the cabin.

She didn’t know what Dodge said to Idaho, but after a moment he joined her as she stood outside, breathing in the clean, pine-scented, crisp air.

Stay calm. She was fine. Just fine.

Dodge’s snowmobile was parked next to hers. Now he came up to her, his expression dark. “What happened in there?”

“Nothing . . .”

“Echo—”

“Idaho’s a jerk.”

His lips tightened, and he drew in a breath. “Do you need me to go back in there and settle something?” He met her gaze again.

And the look in it didn’t match the boy she knew, the one who loved books and flying and running with her dogs and . . .

This looked very much like the man who’d leveled his brother ten years ago. Angry, protective . . .

Fierce.

“Peyton’s not here, and that’s all that matters.” She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

He was frowning too. “What’s this about Peyton?”

“Oh, I thought . . . maybe . . . Did my dad get ahold of you?”

He shook his head. “Actually, I spotted you from the hill over Moose Creek. I’ve been following you for about an hour. I was headed to your place to tell you we found Iceman in our barn.”

The words took a moment to form. “Iceman? At your barn?”

“Yes. And we think he was shot.”

“What? Oh my—”