She could call him from Sky King Ranch, but if her father didn’t answer, they’d be revisiting this conversation.

“Fine,” he said darkly. “Call me on the ham as soon as you get home.”

She offered him a small smile. Then she opened her door. Goose scrambled up to the front seat and out behind her. Granite ran up, leaping at her. She shut the door, pulled out her headlamp, and turned it on.

He watched her until she disappeared into the darkness, the dogs running and barking beside her.

“I’m not going to lose you again.”

He couldn’t help but feel like she’d just walked out of his life.

Take a breath, Dodge. He was just tired. She’d call him, and tomorrow they’d talk. Work out the kinks in his plan.

He drove through the darkness to the main road and toward Sky King Ranch.

The outside light was on when he pulled into the driveway. He parked in the Quonset hut and noticed the nose cone of his Piper PA-14 was reattached.

Inside, the house smelled of tangy garlic roast stew, and his stomach roared in need. He dropped his outer gear in the arctic entry and headed inside.

His father’s office light was on.

From the floor near the fireplace, where the cinders glowed a rich red, Iceman looked up at him.

“Hey, buddy.” Dodge walked over to the dog and ran his hand through his pretty icy-gray fur. The dog’s wound seemed to be healing well, his father having doctored it with a salve.

Iceman licked his hands, and Dodge rubbed his ears. He’d have to take the dog home tomorrow. Which, maybe, would give him time to figure out what was going on with Echo. “Go back to sleep, buddy.”

Dodge went to the refrigerator and found leftover stew inside. He scooped some out into a bowl and set it in the microwave.

“It’s such a nice spread, I really can’t believe your dad is letting it go.”

Dodge took a breath.

He knocked on the open door to his father’s office. His father was sitting at his desk, his laptop open, working out something on paper. A cup of coffee sat on an old envelope on the desk. He wore a flannel shirt, a five-o’clock shadow on his chin, and his reading glasses low on his nose.

Dodge had always liked his father’s office. It held a mishmash of pictures taken with fishing charter groups, homesteaders, legendary bush pilots, and a few family photos. But the best part was his mother’s watercolors. He had framed most of her originals—bears climbing trees, a moose standing in a river, the Alaskan range, a bald eagle, a grizzly holding a fresh salmon in its dripping jaws. In her pictures, Dodge felt like he could know her, see what she loved about this land.