“The sheriff’s office said they were sending in someone. But that was—”

“Hours ago. I know. And the wind has really kicked up. I thought I heard a plane earlier, but they probably turned around.”

She got up. “I should hitch up the dogs.” She walked over and poured herself a cup of coffee that was simmering on the stove.

“It’s fifteen below out there,” Peyton said. “I get that you want to wait for help, but going out there in the wind is going to burn your dogs’ lungs and freeze off your fingers.”

She warmed her hands on the coffee cup. “She is from one of Granite and Nanook’s litters.” Echo could still remember Holly’s birth, the first time she’d bred her own dog team.

And with that memory came the image of Dodge, learning with her the basics of running a team so long ago, training her father’s dogs before they were sold. He’d been about fifteen then, same age as her, also gangly and wild-headed.

Perfect in every way.

If only she’d figured that out sooner.

“Echo,” Peyton said, “I know you don’t want to think this, but . . . she’s suffering.”

Echo turned to her, her breath caught. “No. Not yet. There’s still hope.”

“Is there?” Peyton’s eyes had filled.

“I’m going back outside to wait.” Echo put her mittens back on over her gloves.

“You should stay inside,” Peyton said softly. “No one is coming.”

No. She would not give up on Holly. Not yet. Besides, “There’s a bear out there. I made my dogs a promise.” She pulled on her goggles.

If she couldn’t keep the promise to Holly, she intended on saving the rest of her pack. Still, her throat closed, her eyes burning as she fought tears. Her eyes could freeze closed.

Tromping back outside, she picked up a log from the pile on the porch and added it to the fire. Then she rearranged her nest in the snow, packing up the wind break. The sleeping bag kept her warm, and the fire had melted the area around her enough to create a cocoon despite the vicious cold. Still, the trees shivered in the darkness and the wind moaned. Any creature with sense would be tucked into a den somewhere.

And maybe Peyton was right. Holly was suffering.

No. Not yet.

Besides, that grizzly was still out there. It had to be injured to attack a dog on a tether. Maybe it was the grizzly they saw fighting the wolves.

George.

The thought had crossed her mind earlier—she thought she saw a white tuft between its ears, but it was dark out, so she couldn’t know for sure. And with the snowfall, she couldn’t track it.

Wishful thinking. In all reality, George was probably dead. Her father just didn’t want to admit it.