The day was bright, and the chill that had ridden in on a northern draft had died last night, leaving only the warming sun, the sparkling snow, and the majestic peaks to the north cutting into an endless blue sky.

He followed the river south, then cut over to the ridge that led to Moose Lake and cabin 37, where he’d put down to rescue Holly so many days ago.

Not a whisper of smoke came from the tiny cabin, so he turned his chopper down Seventeen Mile Lake, heading northwest. He hung low, curving around the creek bed, his eyes on the trail that ran beside it, then ascended as the land rose, snow-clothed granite dotted with pine. He spied tracks, but they looked like ATV wheels rather than the pucker of dogs’ feet or the thin track of a dogsled.

He followed the creek north for a bit, then crossed over and headed west, remembering their trek to cabin 63.

Their trek, and their night, and the way she’d felt in his arms.

Please be okay.

The ski marks from the Remingtons’ de Havilland Beaver cut into the lake, along with the snowmobile treads leading away, to Remington Mines, but otherwise the place looked cold.

His father had said she was heading toward Cache Mountain, and he remembered a hunting cabin near there, but he headed toward the PLB location.

He turned northwest, an eye on his instruments as he cut down into a gorge, following another riverbed, rising to crest the ridge. He spotted a dead moose, its antlers gone, lying in a bloody splotch on a hillside near the river. Beyond that, the river sheeted out white, except for an open patch that ran icy-gray over rocks and boulders.

An ATV was half submerged in the water.

He hovered over it a bit, noting the location. The PLB indicator was beeping, signaling its presence, and he flew north, hovering overhead.

The tracks here seemed blemished, but he made out the definite press of dogs’ feet, a trail of thin skids—

She’d fallen here. Gotten back up and headed into the forest. But most likely had dropped her PLB. Yes, that made sense.

Maybe she didn’t even realize it until too late.

His fuel gauge had fallen, but he always left ten percent in the tank, so he pushed forward, through the forest.

Sitting over the crest, near a tiny lake, he spotted a cabin, the finest wisp of smoke curling from the pipe, and the fist in his chest eased.

He put down on the shore and got out.

The sun was warm, his feet breaking through icy layers, crunching hard through the snow onshore.

As he drew closer, he spotted a couple ATVs outside the cabin, and slowed.