“You gotta let Idaho go, Dad.”

“I know he’s out there, poaching bears. I feel it in my gut.” He picked up his own bread and dunked it in the soup. “But I picked up Elsa’s signal. She’s awake and roaming near the Cache Mountain area.”

She touched his arm. “See. Everything’s fine.”

He gave a laugh, and it warmed her through. Yes, two against the world. She didn’t need Dodge.

Even if he was the only man she’d ever love too.

She finished her soup, then gathered up their bowls. She was filling the sink with water when she heard a screech outside.

Her dad was already on his feet. “That’s Gregory.”

Her rooster.

“I’ll bet the coyote is back,” Echo said, reaching for a towel. Her dad grabbed his capture gun by the door and headed out the back.

More screeching, now joined by her hens. She slipped on her boots and grabbed a jacket.

“Echo! You’d better get out here.”

She pushed open the door, the cold a slap, and ran outside to where her father stood under the floodlights.

What—?

Granite stood in the driveway. He was without his harness, collarless, as if he’d been freed from the gangline.

She crouched and he ran into her arms, jumpy, upset. Snow caked his paws, without his booties.

She ran her hands down his body, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Where is your team?”

She stood. “Maverick! Goose! Iceman!” The wind swallowed her words. Overhead, snow drifted down, lazy, a hint of the northern storm.

“Peyton!”

She listened, her heart thudding. Granite whined, sitting, then leaning against her.

No answer in the endless darkness.

Dodge probably deserved the frigid gush of water that woke him before the sun arose.

Mostly because he had been re-dreaming his angry words with Echo, his stupid decree.

“You stay away from me, and I’ll stay away from you, deal?”

He didn’t know when he’d turned into a full-out jerk, but he cringed at the memory, trying to escape it as he tossed and turned—

And then his cabin ceiling decided to come down on him. It started with a drip, something he swatted away in the folds of sleep, then a drizzle, a ripple of chill that brought him awake to stare at the dark ceiling. With so much gauzy darkness, it was tough to guesstimate the time, but he’d pin it around 6:00 a.m.

After the first drip—which he thought he’d imagined—he’d lain there, thinking about his day. Before, on a day like this, he might have gone hunting with his father. Or maybe checked on the herd.

He couldn’t believe his dad had sold the cattle. He’d asked about the herd, casually, wondering if Dad had hired a ranch hand.

Sold. All thirty head.