That’s what they did at the Yazzie homestead—lied to themselves. Told themselves that everything would be okay. They could survive the winter, their animals would live, and people wouldn’t break their hearts.

Told themselves, at the least, they were tough enough to survive anything.

She was such a liar. After Dodge left, she’d put herself back together with anger and blame, and then good old-fashioned denial. They were never meant to be. He didn’t want what she wanted.

He wasn’t the one.

But that was the thing with lies. Eventually they break apart and you’re left with nothing but the ugly truth.

She’d had her happily ever after and had blown it. And there was no putting it back together again.

So, even if Dodge did show up, there was no happy, hot-chocolate ending waiting at the end of this not-so-Hallmark blizzard.

No. Instead, come spring, they’d find her frozen body gripping a cold capture gun, her beloved dog dead, and her dog pack abandoned in the snow.

Except for Peyton. She’d make it back. Hopefully.

See, there was a reason Echo didn’t stay in the cabin. She was oh-so-fun to be around.

And tired. So very tired. And hungry. And maybe a little achy, right to the center of her body.

“Stay alive, Echo.”

The voice drew her up, made her realize she’d closed her eyes. She looked out into the night, but of course, it was just her father in her head.

She picked up a stick and poked the fire. Sparks bit into the night.

Tired. So . . .

What? She sat up, listened.

The night pulsed with a rhythmic chopping of the air, growing louder, a hum, and then the roar of an approaching engine.

“Peyton!” She got up and flicked on her headlamp.

In the clearing just beyond the cabin, the snow kicked up in a terrible whirl. She threw her hand over her face, the snow biting, stinging her eyes.

The dogs woke up, climbed out of the snowy hovels, and started barking.

Out of the sky, like some ephemeral beast, descended a deep-blue, beautiful Bell 429 chopper.

The wind pawed at it, but the chopper fought, turning in the air, steadying back on course.

Whoever helmed it had more guts than brains, but she was nearly in tears by the time they set down. The skids were fitted with wide skis and the chopper settled on the snowpack.

“Hello!” She hiked out beyond the ring of light and fire, shining her light on the snow, her heart thundering. “Peyton! Get Holly!”

She turned back just as the chopper door opened.

Briefly, she imagined that Barry Kingston might be emerging—the pilot was tall and wearing thermal windbreak pants and jacket and a wool hat. He had a sure gait about him, earned by his forty-plus years flying the Alaskan bush. Or maybe Sheldon Starr. Or someone from Anchorage?