Page 28 of High Frequency

“She found something?”

Jonas nods. “A body at the bottom of the gorge.”

“No shit?” That comes from Sully. “Do we know who?”

“The sheriff’s looking into it. The body looks like it’s been there a while though.”

“Then why does Sloane have to go? If it’s just a recovery, our guys can go,” Sully suggests.

“Because it’s her job,” I remind him. “She’ll need to process the scene for evidence before we can recover the body.”

My comments earn me a glare, but I don’t give a damn. It’s about time people start treating her like the adult she is. Starting with her uncle.

“And once she’s done, we can have a team with a basket up top to haul the remains out that way,” Jonas adds.

“Then isn’t it faster just to rappel down the gorge?”

“Your niece has no experience,” I point out.

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna be able to make it in and out in one day if you follow the creek,” Sully counters.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s feeling a little protective of her.

Jonas saves me from a response.

“Exactly, which is why I need Dan to pack gear so they can set up camp.”

Nine

Dan

I strap the bedroll holding a mat and sleeping bag behind Pudding’s saddle.

Both horses have been outfitted with saddlebags holding a few basic supplies for us and the horses, a set of dry clothes and shoes, an emergency kit, and everything Sloane will need to process the scene, including a few high-powered flashlights and a machete. My bedroll includes one of the lightweight pop-up tents the team uses when we’re on longer trips, and as an afterthought, I also loop a lightweight sleep-hammock around the horn of Will’s saddle.

I turn my head when I hear the storm door slam shut and just catch Sloane coming down the porch steps. Biting off a grin, I watch her walk toward me, a little bow-legged, as she tries to navigate Alex’s borrowed leather chaps. It had been Jonas’s suggestion—a good one—since we’ll be going through some rough terrain. This won’t be an easy trail ride.

“Shut your mouth,” she grumbles when she reaches me.

“I didn’t say a word,” I point out.

I notice she opted out of a western hat and chose a Tilley hat instead, which is better than the ball cap she was wearing when she showed up. At least the floppy hat will give her better coverage from the sun.

“You didn’t have to,” she mutters. “I could read you loud and clear.”

I guess being a single mother does little to improve one’s morning mood. Sloane never was a morning person, to my recollection.

“Did you manage to have a coffee this morning?” I carefully inquire.

“Barely half a cup.”

I hand her the thermos I prepped earlier and point at the neoprene sleeve I fit over her saddle horn.

“It stays pretty hot.”

I get a mumbled thanks as she fits the thermos into the sleeve.

“Are you ready to roll?”

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