by Ilsa J. Bick
“Home? She’s not—” the father blustered.
“In a minute, sir. Sarah?” Hank’s eyes were the color of stone-washed denim, and now his gaze, so calm and yet so commanding, fixed on hers. “Now would be a really good time.”
“Right. Okay. Thanks.” Her legs were stiff as pipes. Turning with an awkward little shuffle, she took a step, stopped, looked back over her shoulder at Douglas and his family. “I’m sorry. He’s not a bad dog. He really isn’t. It was the backfire and then he saw Douglas and he’s just...” He’s just what? A sick animal? No worse than any person who ever served and came back with wounds you can’t see?
Whatever she said wouldn’t matter. At the end of the day, and at a sound he took to be weapons fire and the sight of an enemy with a weapon, Soldier became what he was: a well-trained killer.
She took her dog and fled.
4
If she’d any sense at all, she would’ve hightailed it up to the lookout, thrown essentials into a pack, grabbed Daisy, retraced her steps with the dogs down to her truck parked eleven miles back at the base of Chaney Peak, and beat feet. By the time she hoofed it up to the lookout, though, her legs were wobbly; the day had bled away two hours before, and she felt about as wrung out as a used-up Brillo pad.
Soldier wasn’t in much better shape. The whole thing with Douglas seemed to have sucked the energy right out of the dog, who plodded up the mountain after her, chest going like a bellows, tongue flopping, tail dragging.
Still, she thought about turning right around. She knew the trail well. Slower going down guided by only her headlamp, but she could do it. Except she was beat and still upset. One misstep, one lapse in concentration, and she could twist an ankle, break a leg, and maybe wind up hurt a whole lot worse—or dead. All that wasn’t counting the very real danger from bears, grizzlies, coyotes. Mountain lions, whose cries sounded more like a woman screaming bloody murder than an animal. Plenty of wolf packs, too, who sometimes followed hikers and stalked their animals, only to cull an unwary dog.
Only criminals on the run, drug smugglers, or idiots would try a stunt like that, taking these trails at night. On the other hand, she was an idiot, so...
Instead, she fed the dogs—Daisy was delirious with joy and Soldier snarfed down his kibble in less than a minute—before setting them loose to do their business. Tomorrow morning, she’d do poop patrol; there was just something about dog shit that got the park service’s panties in a wad. Then she built up the fire in her woodstove so it would last until morning.
She had no shower but plenty of hot water from a huge pot she kept on the stove. After stripping down, she stepped into a large metal tub and then took her time, drawing a warm wet cloth over her skin before soaping up and rinsing off. In the cabin’s relative chill, her nipples hardened and she brushed them with her knuckles, sucking in a breath at a sudden lance of heat between her legs. Skimming a hand over her stomach and then lower, she worked a finger along swollen, wet lips. Her knees trembled. How good this might feel if she would let herself go. God knew, she needed the release.
Don’t. Clamping her lips together, she forced herself to stop. She hadn’t been with anyone since Pete deployed. Not even myself. The thought filled her with a kind of grim satisfaction. Maybe penitents felt this way when they resisted temptation and scourged their flesh raw with a whip.
After she dried off, she crossed to the crate in which she kept her clothes. From the very bottom, she pulled an old blue chambray shirt and shook it out. Pete had worn the shirt that last evening before he deployed. She remembered how slowly they had undressed one another, carefully, not rushing a thing, as if this was a moment they could seal in amber. Afterward, the earth took him, but she kept the shirt.
Oh, Pete. Pressing the fabric to her nose, she inhaled as deeply as she could, searching for his scent. There was nothing. What? That couldn’t be. She’d never washed this shirt. Frantic, she went over every inch, but she caught no scent, no hint of spice. No Pete.
So damned unfair.
In the end, she cried herself to sleep. When she woke in the morning, wrapped in Pete’s shirt, Daisy and Soldier lay snoring on either side of her.
She smelled only wood smoke and dog.
5
On Saturday, the weather took a turn a little after noon. Sarah smelled the change, a hint of aluminum on a northwest wind as she pushed out of the three-room cabin that sat about fifty feet from Chaney Peak’s fire tower. Topping out at nearly nine thousand feet, Chaney was mostly alpine grass with a few stubborn Douglas firs corkscrewing up from hard earth. The steel skeleton of the fire lookout tower pushed up an additional seventy feet.
About halfway up the long climb to the top, the steps suddenly jerked under her boots. There you go again. The tower buzzed as the tremor worked its way up the steel. Under her right palm, the handrail shivered, and a few stray pebbles bounced off the steps to patter onto the tower’s concrete base. After another five seconds or so, the trembling ceased.
Tugging a small notepad and mini-pen she always carried from a back pocket—habit, because a good vet always took notes—she jotted down the time and date. Interesting. She’d come up to Chaney in early May, snow still on the trail, and here it was late September, which made… She counted, ticking off dates and times with the tip of her pen. Eleven tremors in about five months. But twice in two weeks. Not being a geologist or seismologist, she had no idea what constituted a swarm or if a tremor was the same as a real earthquake. Next time she went down-mountain, she ought to drive down to Jennings, see if anyone kept records. Maybe Wednesday after her next session training with Josie.
Oh, you moron. Slipping the notepad back into her jeans, she started climbing again. They come for Soldier, there’s not going to be a next time.
At the top, she swung up onto an open catwalk edging an enclosed room with cantilevered windows. The room wasn’t bad, just very small, about fifteen feet square, and drove her a little stir-crazy. Other than a small woodstove and bare cot, the only other object was a bare pedestal which once held the lookout’s Osbourne Firefinder, a topographic map set within a metal ring, marked with degrees, to which a sight was also affixed. The map was long gone, although, by some fluke, the metal ring remained.
Instead of going inside the lookout, she ambled around the catwalk, her view unobstructed and panoramic. Glassing the spine of the Black Wolf south, she followed the chain to the Selway-Bitteroot, which spread in broad green and brown folds and deep wrinkles. The Kootenai lay to her west. The craggy peaks of Glacier were east, with the Flathead to the southeast. Due north, she easily picked out the slump of Dead Man’s distinctive summit, only six miles away as the crow flies but more than fifteen on foot.
Neither the mine nor ghost town were visible from the tower, but, feathering the focus, she picked out where secondary slides had gouged troughs, chutes, and deep swales in the slopes. Some of the boulders in those debris fields were enormous, big as buses, and, looking at them, she thought back to that movie where the hiker or bicyclist...she couldn’t remember which... finally hacked off his arm with a knife from his Leatherman. The guy lived—as did James Franco—and, she thought, still climbed.
The landscape beyond Dead Mountain and the Black Wolf Wilderness was just as treacherous. The Canadian Rockies spread themselves along the far northern horizon, their peaks like a stormy ocean of high gray breakers frozen in time. Several of the highest peaks were already shrouded in a froth of heavy cloud cover, turning the air beneath the color of slate.
Storm coming, for sure. No need to tune in her weather radio. Canada was about twenty-five, thirty miles away. Those clouds and that color and the way the air smelled all meant snow, tomorrow morning at the latest.
So maybe this is a good thing. Chewing her lower lip, she thought about that. She was set for supplies, so no problems there. What this meant, though, was that anyone who might come for Soldier—if that even happened—would have a much harder time getting to her. This would buy
her and the dog time. Maybe things would calm down and everything could go back to being as normal as things got for Soldier.
Or she still could leave. If she hustled, she could be across the border and into Canada by nightfall. Driving into the teeth of the storm, yeah, but they’d be out of here. Canada required no special documentation for pet dogs. Hell, even without the truck, she and the dogs could pull up stakes and walk the Black Wolf into Canada. There were fourteen border crossings between Canada and Montana, all along major roads in and out. Lots of folks made the crossings illegally, some dumb enough to put it up on YouTube. Other people—drug smugglers, she assumed—tiptoed into the U.S. from Canada or vice versa, with no one the wiser. If she were a smuggler, that’s what she’d do. Despite the border crossings, Montana had a lot of mountains like the Black Wolf and a ton of open country with no one around.
Oh, get a grip. She was leaving town with a dog. No need to go to Canada, for God’s sake. Just drive south to Kalispell and then—
The thought derailed at a loud series of yaps and deeper-throated barks. Peering down, she saw Daisy, all twelve pounds of her, with one of Soldier’s toys clamped between her teeth. The little dog was running circles around the big, black shepherd, who only chuffed, tail swishing, and bowed low. Then, as Daisy pranced past, the bigger dog sprang in a mock charge, pulling up short as the smaller dog bounced away.
Just having fun. Maybe she had this all backwards. “You’re the one without purpose,” she muttered. Stop taking it out on the poor dog. Perhaps Soldier’s mission now was to have a life.
“Sound medical advice, Doc.” She should take it. She glanced again at the coming storm. Since she’d been chopping wood from day one, she had more than enough seasoned and dried and ready for use, some already stacked along a wall near her stove. The bulk of her fuel rested beneath a ventilated but covered lean-to at the rear of the cabin within easy reach of a back door. Having not yet lived through a really cold night up here, it would probably pay to bring in more wood and kindling. Shovels, too. When it came to snow, Daisy was somewhat of a wimp. One dump two winters ago in Kalispell, the little dog had refused to poop until Sarah created a path to Daisy’s favorite tree. The upside here? No trees.
Turning aside, she started for the steps then paused as something winked from the corner of her eye. Sun dazzle from the lookout? No, too high. That came from the east. The valley. A car on the road, maybe. She glassed the slope and, there, at the bottom, she caught the wink again. Some sort of reflection. Fiddling with an eyepiece, she brought the twinkle into focus and felt a sudden stone in the pit of her stomach.
Crap. Couldn’t make out the face, but she recognized that star. Whether there was anyone else tagging along farther up or down the trail, she couldn’t tell.
Six hours, she figured, or seven. She was used to that hike, and it still took her nearly four.
Man, she really should’ve gotten them all out of Dodge while she had the chance.
6
After another two hours, when that wink had gotten closer, Sarah glassed a series of long switchbacks stitching back and forth across neighboring Grover Mountain and realized then only one person was on his way up, which made her feel a little easier. On the other hand, maybe the sheriff thought she’d take it better this way. Nothing she could do about it but build up the fire against the advancing chill, put on a kettle, and wait. Although she did wonder if anyone had bothered, oh, checking a forecast before heading up. She’d have a guest for at least the night and perhaps longer.
At the thought, her heart gave a queer little thump, which only pissed her off. They were close, but they could never be that.
About half past five, the wind flooding up from the valley washed over the lookout and carried with it the sound of barking dogs. Ever since the animals had caught this visitor’s scent, they’d been going wild, begging to be let go and serve as an advance greeting party. This was a human they knew and liked. She’d let them have their heads and race down the trail, while she settled down with a book and a cup of strong tea to wait.
She’d gotten halfway through her tea and three chapters when Soldier bounded into view, his lush black coat gleaming in the late afternoon sun. At the crest of the hill, the dog skittered to a stop, bounced around to look the way he had come, and yammered encouragement.
Just be calm. Closing her book on a finger to mark her place, she stood and shaded her eyes. It may not be all bad news.
His hat bobbed into view first, and then his face and shoulders. He lifted a free hand in a wave, which she returned and then started down to meet him halfway. He’d tucked Daisy into the crook of his left arm, the little dog obviously content to let him do the work. As he crested the hill, the little dog gave a happy yap and squiggled until he put her down. Racing up to Soldier, Daisy bounced around the big shepherd, darting in to wash Soldier’s muzzle.
The corners of Hank’s eyes crinkled behind dark Ray-Bans. “Little squirt got pooped out.”
“Thanks for bringing her back.” She itched to take off his sunglasses so she could see his eyes. People could lie, but their eyes usually didn’t. “You’re in uniform. This official?”
“Partly.”
I knew it. Folding her arms over her chest, she hugged herself. “And the other part?”
“Dinner. Steak, potatoes, salad fixings, a couple bottles of red wine and”—he reached an arm behind his head to pat the top of his pack—“huckleberry pie from Chuck’s. It was warm when I started, so—”
“Salad?” Fresh vegetables were as close to heaven as she got up here—and fresh pie. Her mouth was already watering. “God, can I have your first-born?” Then, hearing what she’d said, she colored. “Sorry.” Idiot. “I was just kidding around. It was...” Something I joked about with Pete. She couldn’t tell him that. “It was dumb.” Okay, that was lame.
“Yeah, it was. Don’t worry about it.” His tone hadn’t changed, and his eyes were still invisible behind his Rays, though she thought an arrow of hurt flashed across his face. “Let me dump my stuff,” he said, striding past. “Then I’ll see about a fire for that steak.”
She followed, not sure if she wanted to press. This wasn’t the first time Hank had spent the night. He’d visited several times over the course of the late spring and summer to check up on her, see how she was getting on. She wasn’t exactly sure when that had graduated to an open invitation for him to use the spare room, but it was also a courtesy to allow visitors to spend a night, just as anyone visiting contributed a decent dinner.
Just keep your mouth shut. But for heaven’s sake, she had to watch it. Especially cracks about having his kid. She wondered if Hank knew what she and Pete used to talk about, their in-jokes, how they teased each other. Their hopes for a future.
Well, perhaps Hank did.
After all, brothers did talk.
7
Kate McEvoy was gathering wood in a small clearing hemmed by blue-green subalpine fir, the trunks and lush fans of limber pine, and a colony of leafless quaking aspen. The day had been good. Up a little after dawn, a pot of strong scalding-hot coffee, some breakfast before breaking camp. Then, a long twenty-seven miles over rough terrain, most of it uphill, in a hair less than five hours. She could’ve gone longer and probably faster, but she was in no real rush. She wanted this time alone with Jack to last.
Now, her canvas carry nearly full of wood, she stood, eyeing a fallen aspen. The tree was about forty feet long, the off-white trunk maybe a foot and a half around. Easy-peasy. Planting her left boot on the trunk, she reached down, grabbed as much of the tree in her right hand as she could, tensed her shoulder and back, and then gave a quick yank. The tree fought her, protesting with a high, long squeal of overstressed wood, but she kept up the pressure, muscles bunching as the wood screamed. Another two seconds, and then there was a violent hitch followed by a loud CRACK.
Excellent. Giving the splintered trunk a final twist, she wrenched off about ten feet. Hefting the wood in her right
hand, she studied the long daggers at the broken end. No rot, no insects. She’d need her axe to split this trunk lengthwise, chop the wood into manageable lengths, but she would break this piece in two first. Laying the broken trunk back on the ground, she set her boot again and took hold for another go.
And then she caught wind of the man. The feel of him coming her way.
Uh-oh. She froze.
An instant later, Jack was there: behind her left shoulder and at the tail of her eye, a blur of digital camo always just out of sight. “Kate? Honey, you feel that?”
Yes, she did. Call it the bleeding edge, or that little black rain cloud Winnie the Pooh pretended to be so he could sneak up and grab all that honey, or Pig-Pen’s dust-storm, or even that thunderous, brooding look people got right before they bit your head off. Whatever the metaphor, Kate sensed the man as a dense brume boiling in pillars thick and high as the anvils of a coming storm.
And, well, damn. Since hitting the trail, she’d met no other people, which was fine. She had Jack. People were overrated and largely irrelevant. Although, sometimes, she thought back to Leo and the other guys and women in rehab at Walter Reed—even that little pissant Dowell—with something like nostalgia, same as any soldier soon as she was out of the shit and able to look over a shoulder.
Once in the Black Wolf, she’d seen plenty of animals, though, especially grizzlies and black bears roaming the lower elevations, fattening themselves on late-season berries, pine nuts, fish, and the occasional unlucky deer. Two, three nights ago and farther down in a valley, she’d ferreted out a pack of wolves not by scent but the bright green coins of their many eyes shining from the dark woods. Ever since, their scent rank and musty and wild, they’d dogged her, slinking after as she drove higher and deeper into the mountains.