Page 46 of Death Valley

“Risky in these conditions.”

“Riskier to be caught out after dark.”

Understanding passes between us, unspoken but clear. Eli knows what’s at stake. He nods once, then moves ahead to take the lead, guiding us toward a barely visible game trail that cuts through a stand of pine before ascending sharply toward a rocky saddle. The shortcut will save us nearly thirty minutes—the difference between reaching the cabin before full dark or being caught on the mountain.

I nudge Jeopardy forward, coming alongside Aubrey. “Trail gets rough here. Stay close.”

She glances at me, snowflakes caught in her eyelashes, her cheeks flushed with cold.

Looking damn pretty.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Just the weather,” I lie. “Storm’s moving in now, and faster than expected.”

Her eyes hold mine for a moment too long, searching. She senses there’s more I’m not saying, but mercifully doesn’t press.

The game trail narrows as we climb, forcing us into single file once more. Snow has accumulated enough to obscure the path, but the horses pick their way forward with instinctive caution. Above us, the saddle appears as a dark notch against the rapidly darkening sky. Once we cross it, we’ll drop down into the protected valley where the cabin waits. Just another half hour, maybe less.

A sound carries on the wind—a distant, mournful cry that might be mistaken for a coyote if you didn’t know better. Myhand drops to the rifle in its scabbard, a reflexive gesture. Behind me, Hank mutters something that’s lost in the wind.

“Just the storm,” I call back, not believing it myself.

We reach the saddle as the last usable light fades from the sky. The wind hits us full force here, unobstructed by trees or terrain, driving snow horizontally into our faces. I dismount briefly, checking the trail ahead for safe passage. The descent is steep but manageable if we take it slow.

“Everyone dismount and lead your horses,” I order. “Too dangerous to ride down.”

No one argues. The danger is apparent even to Red, who’s been challenging my authority since we left the ranch. One misstep on this slope could mean a broken leg for horse or rider—a possible death sentence in these conditions, this far from help.

I take Jeopardy’s reins in one hand, offering the other hand to Aubrey as she slides stiffly from Duke’s back. Her gloved fingers grip mine for a brief moment, surprisingly strong despite the cold.

“Watch your footing,” I tell her. “Stay between me and Eli.”

The descent is treacherous, each step a negotiation with gravity and uncertain terrain. Snow has filled the depressions between rocks, creating false impressions of solid ground. Twice I have to catch Aubrey as she slips, her body colliding briefly with mine before she regains her balance. Each contact sends an unwelcome surge of awareness through me, a distraction I can’t afford right now, bringing up hungry memories from earlier.

Focus on survival, I remind myself. On reaching shelter. On keeping these people—keepingher—safe through the night ahead.

The cry comes again, closer this time. Not a coyote. Not the wind. I pretend not to hear it, but my pace quickens slightly. The horses grow more agitated, tossing their heads and rolling theireyes, ears flat back. They sense what’s out there, what’s following our scent through the gathering darkness.

“We’re almost there,” I call, voice steady despite the tension coiling in my gut. “Another quarter mile.”

The valley opens before us, a natural bowl sheltered by ridges on three sides. And there, nestled against the eastern slope just as I’d promised, stands the McGraw hunting cabin. It’s a solid structure of timber and stone, built by my grandfather after the war with an understanding of mountain winters and mountain dangers. Two stories with a stone chimney protruding from a steep shake roof that can shed the heaviest snow, and even an exterior door on the second floor just in case the snowpack gets that high, which isn’t unusual here in the middle of winter.

Relief floods through me at the sight, though I know better than to let my guard down. We’re not safe yet. Not until we’re inside those walls, with the doors barred and the fire lit.

“Thank god,” Cole mutters beside me, giving voice to what we’re all feeling.

We move across the valley floor with renewed purpose, fatigue temporarily forgotten in the promise of shelter. The snow is falling heavier now, driven by gusts that cut through layers of clothing to chill the skin beneath. The cabin remains our beacon, a dark silhouette against the whiteout conditions surrounding it.

As we approach, I scan the structure for signs of damage or unwelcome visitors, human squatters or otherwise. The windows are intact, shutters secured against the weather. The door stands firm, no tracks in the snow to suggest recent entry.

“Get the horses into the lean-to and rugged up,” I direct Eli and Cole. “Red, help me get the door open and start a fire.”

For once, Red complies without comment, following me to the cabin’s entrance. We don’t bother locking it. As much as I don’t want strangers squatting here, it seems cruel to lock it up when someone in the area might need to take shelter. I put myhand on the frosted knob and it turns with resistance, metal stiff with disuse and cold. Once inside, Red gets to making the fire in the hearth while I scout the place for mice. I only find dust.

It’s not a huge cabin, but it feels like a second home. Downstairs there’s a kitchen, dining area, living room and bathroom with a compost toilet (you used to have to travel outside to the outhouse, which is still there), then there’s the stairs leading up to a loft that’s divided by a partition, a single bed in each section.

Dinner is a quiet affair—canned stew heated over the stove, hardtack biscuits, some hot chocolate. Red and Cole make use of an old bottle of rye, but I forgo it. No one speaks much beyond practical necessities. The events in the tunnel, the punishing ride through worsening conditions, the isolation of our situation—it all weighs on us differently, but it weighs nonetheless.

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