Page 24 of One Last Chance

“I can see that. Okay, I’m leaving in an hour. If you want to check out the cabin where she stayed, I’ll drop you off on the way. Meet me outside with gear.”

“What kind of gear?”

“Do you have a sleeping bag? Food?”

“I will. Thanks, Peyton.”

She stepped outside. The sun gleamed on the river down the street, deep blue, fresh, alive. And she felt it in her soul.

Hope.

An hour later, she’d purchased a sleeping bag from Bowie Mountain Gear, along with hiking boots, a rain poncho, a kit of kitchen supplies the good-looking owner had suggested, along with some dehydrated food, and even a pack. Then she joined the other hikers on the deck.

Peyton came out of the office wearing her own pack and waved her over.

They got into a truck, a four-wheeler parked on the bed. Despite the mud-caked wheels, it seemed clean, with a couple jerry cans shoved alongside it on either side. A couple ramps were tied across the back, over the tailgate.

Peyton dropped her pack up front, behind the front tire of the four-wheeler. “There’s a space on the other side for yours.”

And then they were off.

An hour later, Peyton parked the truck at a private home, waving to the owner, then unloaded the four-wheeler and told Flynn to climb onto the back. They drove another hour into the woods, following what felt like deer trails, hopping off now and again to move downed trees, and even driving down a rugged shoreline to follow the riverbed all the way to…oh no. The last place Flynn had imagined she’d sleep tonight was a one-room shack that shared space with a nest of mice.

Flynn had to admit, when she’d heard the words “drop you off,” she’d imagined Peyton pulling up to a cabin set in the shadow of some mountainside with a flowing creek and maybe handing her more than a handheld radio and a promise to return in two days.

But Peyton seemed nonplussed by the condition of the cabin, a one-room timber shack that served as a way-side rest for local forest rangers. It contained a wooden bunk bed, a stove, a small rough-hewn table, and a counter and sink.

But the porch did overlook a river, wide and glistening under the afternoon sun.

“A good sweep, some fresh air, and you’ll be golden.” She checked the potbellied stove. “No nests, and there’s some fresh wood in the bin”——” she pointed to a wooden box—“so you should be warm enough. The river is fresh, but you can boil the water if you want.”

She pointed to a cupboard where Flynn found a kettle, some dusty metal plates and forks, metal coffee cups.

Then she handed Peyton a handheld radio. “I’m on channel six. And I’m only a couple miles away, downstream. We keep a kayak under the porch if you need it, but if you’re not a proficient paddler, I’d stay on the hiking trails. If you need me, call me. I’ll be here in a jiff.”

A jiff. What was that in Alaska time?

“Oh, and I almost forgot. If you get desperate, there’s a ham radio.” Peyton opened the bottom cupboard. A small radio sat on the shelf, and she pulled it out and turned it on. It powered up. “Oh good, it’s working. I replaced the twelve-volt battery last time I was here, so it probably has plenty of juice. We keep it out here for emergencies. Or if you get lonely, you might find someone listening on the other end.” She winked.

Flynn didn’t have a clue how to use such a thing. She followed Peyton out of the cabin.

Peyton paused before she got onto the four-wheeler. Then her smile fell. “You sure about this?”

Flynn stood in the yard. Actually, despite her first impression, the cabin seemed like a haven in the middle of all this wild. A small front porch held a homemade Adirondack chair, and inside, the bunk bed would at least have her sleeping off the floor. She had food, and the river glistened a deep blue under the sun.Sheesh,it could nearly be called paradise.

And then there was the silence. Or maybe just . . . the absence of clutter. Of voices and demands and people calling her and knocking on her door and . . .

Maybe she should have left more than a voicemail on her mother’s phone. But she didn’t need questions. Or fear.

Or . . . well, reminders that she was the only daughter left.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You will. Oh, and . . . I brought a bear gun. Just in case Nash is wrong.” She pressed a little Glock G20 into Flynn’s hand. “I’m assuming since you’re a cop?—”

“I know how to use it.” She checked the safety, found it on.

“It won’t kill a grizzly, but it might scare it away. Radio me if you need anything.”

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