He’d looked at his father. Right. No problem.

That’s when he’d started texting her PLB and pacing late into the night.

He was up before the sunlight tipped the mountains.

His father met him in the kitchen with fresh, dark coffee.

Then, just to make sure she hadn’t returned home, even though she still wasn’t answering her ham, he’d headed out on the snowmobile, crossing overland—faster than on the back roads—to her place.

Now, with the rising of the sun, the warming of the land, the river had started to break free behind her house, icy chunks finding their way along the shore.

He checked on the animals in the pens—the foxes were gone, the bears in their dens, although they were probably stirring from hibernation. He fed the coyote and thought his leg looked healed enough to free.

Then he got back on his sled and motored home, a plan forming.

He’d take the chopper to her PLB location and get eyes on her. Probably, yes, she was . . . Just. Fine.

No need to panic. Most likely, it was like his father had said—his fears trying to convince him that it would all explode in his face if he wasn’t in control.

Which sounded exactly like what was going to happen.

The sun was up by the time he pulled into the driveway. He headed into the house, not bothering to take off his shoes or outer clothing. His father sat at the counter, listening to the Good News radio show, Norm Dahlquist talking about a warm front heading from the southwest.

“Her place is a mess,” he said to his father, whipping off his hat. He set that and his gloves on the kitchen table. “The foxes got out of their pens, and I think they ate her chickens. The place is abandoned. I can’t shake this idea that she’s in trouble.”

His father slid off his stool. “You still haven’t heard back from her?”

“No. I’m going to take the chopper out and see if I can track her PLB. Maybe the texts aren’t getting through.”

“You said you were low on fuel.”

“I have enough to get out as far as Cache Creek and back. But that’s dense territory in there—it’ll be hard to find a place to land. The chopper is easier.” He’d been kicking himself for not checking on the refueling tank out back earlier. “But I’m not even sure she’s that way. I think . . .” And he winced, not really wanting to go there, but . . . he had to. “Would you take my Cub up and scout south of Cache Mountain? She might have gone to the cabin at Peters Lake, maybe trying to pick up Peyton’s trail from there.”

His father made a face. He looked away, out the window. “I’m sorry, Dodge. I can’t.”