Granite was still barking, louder now, a few growls, and she called to him as she flicked on her headlamp.

The night was starting to lift but clung to the forest and slunk out into the yard. Her light peeled back the darkness some fifteen feet ahead of her, awash with snow. It pelleted her face, her open jacket. Her hands turned to ice in the wind. She should have grabbed gloves.

“Granite!”

She tromped out to the driveway—the snow had accumulated a good ten inches in the night, nearly to her knees, and she fought through it, seeing Granite’s prints. They led out to the barn.

Oh no. Maybe it wasn’t a coyote but wolves, maybe daring to take one of the goats. She picked up her pace, slogging hard.

Granite burst into the glow of her lamplight, running hard for her. He stopped, barked, and took off again.

“I’m coming!”

She shined the light on the barn, but the doors were closed. And Granite’s gray form lit out down the driveway. “Granite!”

Oh, she hoped he wasn’t on the trail of a moose. The last thing she needed was to run into a bull moose and get trampled.

Or a grizzly.

Suddenly her gut dropped.

“Granite!” She stopped, shouting for him, her voice shrilling. “Granite!”

Barking, coming closer, more warning, and she stilled, held up the gun, trying not to shake.

Granite burst into the light again, only this time, another animal followed him, a dog, black and gray. For a moment, she thought it was a wolf.

Then as the dog came into the light, she lowered her gun.

“Jester?” She knelt in the snow and the dog ran up to her, caked in ice and snow, breathing hard. She ran her hands over him and found the harness and the cord that attached him to the gangline torn, fraying, and hanging from his body. The pads of his feet were bloody, the paw protectors gone.

She caught his face, found his golden eyes. “What are you doing here? Where is Peyton?”

Another bark. She stood, her breath catching as Merlin arrived, also dragging her harness. She bore a long scratch on her body, dried blood, and limped, her paws raw.

“Echo?”

Her father had run out into the storm, his coat open, his mukluks dragging their laces. He was also carrying a dart gun.

“It’s Merlin and Jester,” she said. She stood up as her father called to them, looked at their wounds.

She called for the rest of her pack. “Goose! Viper! Iceman!”

Nothing, her voice swallowed in darkness.

“Maverick!”

The wind howled back.

“These harnesses look like they’ve been cut, Echo,” her dad said. “We need to get these dogs inside and tend to their wounds.”

He started to herd them into the house.