But Echo stood out in the storm, the snow pelleting her face, and all she could hear was the roar of the grizzly.

Cold. She’d never been so cold. But the fact that she still felt the cold probably worked in her favor, right? She burned, her entire body shivering, so she had to be alive.

The cave had probably saved her. That and the dog who’d crept in, curled around her, and finally found warmth next to her. She’d feared it was one of the wolves who she knew tracked her, but they wouldn’t have ventured in.

She and the dog had kept each other alive as the wind howled.

Her arm hurt—she knew she’d probably broken it in the crash, but she could still move her hand so maybe it was just her wrist. It didn’t hang at an angle or anything—at least from what she could see in the wan light.

She couldn’t know how far she’d hiked—she couldn’t remember the map, hadn’t a clue where they’d traveled. North, for sure, but they’d gotten lost in the storm.

She remembered the world spinning, and maybe it was adrenaline, or fear, but just like that, she found herself in the snow, flung wide of the disaster, pieces of the cargo strewn around her.

And then, the smell of blood.

She couldn’t find him, the animal who had stolen so much from her, but she didn’t look hard.

All she knew was that she was alone.

She got to her feet, the light fading, and remembered her survival training.

Shelter. She’d figure out warmth and water later.

She followed tracks through the snow—could have been dogs, or wolves, but they led into a ravine and then up a hill, and by then the night had nearly pitched around her.

The place was so vast—so much white—she’d forgotten, really, how big Alaska could be, the mountains brutal, majestic, and unforgiving.

She spied the shelter—no more than an overhang over the ravine, but when she crawled up inside it, the place was protected, the floor free of snow. She ventured out again for pine boughs, returned and found the dog.

So maybe he’d been following her.

It hit her then that maybe he was also following her. But with the wind whipping down, and the cold dropping fast, what choice did she have? She put down the pine boughs, tried to cover up the entrance, then worked on coaxing the dog toward her.

It was dark before she felt his furry body against hers. She lay down, curled up with him, and told herself that this was better than dying.

Maybe.

But please, God, she wanted to live.

Had to live.

Lives, besides hers, were depending on it.

Dodge did what he always did in a storm. Chopped wood. Hauled water. Built a fire. Shoveled the deck.