The wind lifted, swept snow across the land, and carried the faraway drone of a motor.

Dad?

Maybe he’d stopped at the hunter’s cabin, but her guess was that he’d been patrolling this area, searching for Elsa and her cubs. The sound of an engine urged her on.

“Yip, yip,” she called to the dogs, and they went from a trot to a run as the snow turned to ice, the skids slick. They drove on, toward the narrowing gap, and the sound of the motor rose, and with it a cacophony of other motors.

And behind that, a bellowing, heavy, breathy grunt.

Then a roar lifted through the valley. It raised the hairs on her neck, sent a ripple down her spine. “Easy, Granite.”

He slowed, and she lifted her monocular again.

Not her dad on his snowmobile, but three men, dressed in white camouflage, on ATVs. They circled a mother grizzly, about fifty yards away from the animal, as she charged, then howled, roaring as they stung her with spray and a cattle prod.

Nearby, her cubs screamed.

Echo also wanted to scream, especially when she spotted the white tuft between the bear’s ears and a large GPS collar around her neck.

Elsa.

No. The poachers would torment her until she finally charged, enraged, uncaring of the pain.

Someone would die, but in the process, so would Elsa.

Echo pulled out her capture gun. If she could put Elsa down, asleep, maybe the poachers would abandon their sport.

She couldn’t think of anything else.

“Hike! Hike!” She just needed to get closer—enough to secure the shot.

The poachers were at the far end of the river, past the open water, where Elsa had probably been fishing with the cubs. Two hundred yards. Then a hundred. The dogs, as if sensing danger, pressed on, no yipping, their approach almost stealthy.

“Whoa up,” she said, standing on the drag, and Granite stopped, urging Merlin to settle beside him. They stood, breathing hard.

The scene in front of her had unraveled. Elsa had become braver, angrier. She nearly caught up to one of the poachers, but he gunned his ATV away, and the others chased after a cub, who shrieked.

Echo propped her elbow on the handle of the sled, brought up the gun, and set the sights on Elsa.

What she really wanted to do was shoot the stinger into one of the men, but that would be a crime.

The irony filled her chest with acid.

Elsa chased the men from her cubs, roaring, dancing back and forth, desperate. Then, she turned to her cubs, giving Echo a beautiful view of her back haunch.

“Sorry, Elsa.” She pulled the trigger.

The bear roared, rising up on two feet. The sound of the gun echoed, but with the noise from the motor, maybe they hadn’t heard.

Or maybe they had, because as she peered through her scope, one of the poachers rounded.