Page 42 of Cold as Hell

I turn to look around, and the wind slams the air from my lungs.

“I’ve got this,” Dalton shouts near my ear. “Let me figure it out.”

I turn my face from the wind and bend to hug Storm, both of us sharing our warmth and shelter. If I hadn’t known we were on ice, I’d think it was solid ground. All I see underfoot is snow.

My heart hammers as a little voice whispers we need to move, we’re putting a strain on this piece of ice. Yet I know Dalton’s right. Last time we checked, it was nearly three feet thick. We walk on it. We ice fish on it. We even have bonfires on it, with no worries that the heat would melt that much ice. What’s happening now is small fissures. We wouldn’t intentionally walk across it, but the ice is still thick.

We’re fine.

We just need to get the hell back to Haven’s Rock.

Dalton’s hand grips my shoulder, and he points. I don’t know what he’s seen to tell him the town is this way, but I trust him enough not to waste energy asking.

I push to my feet as he helps me up. Then he puts his arm through mine. Since we’re on the lake, we don’t need to worry about walking single file down a narrow trail.

How long have we been off the path? The fact that we had no idea we’d left it tells me exactly how much danger Lynn was in out here.

How much danger shewasin?

Past tense?

What if she’s still out there, having found shelter, knowing to stay where she is and wait for rescue.

Isn’t that what we teach? Whateverywilderness safety program teaches?

Stay put. Wait to be found.

Wait to be found… while your would-be rescuers are sleeping soundly in town, having no idea you’re missing because your husband didn’t bother mentioning it. Wait to be found… while your would-be rescuers question people on your whereabouts instead of getting off their asses and looking for you.

I can’t think of that. Right now, Lynn could be literally inches from us, and we’d never know that. It’s a miracle we found that clothing.

No, not a miracle. Storm scented Lynn on the glove because that’s what she does. Dalton spotted the sweater because that’s whathedoes. It was luck that we got close enough for them to do that, but we can’t keep looking until this blizzard dies down.

Find town. Get indoors. Rest and be ready to go out again with Anders and others to help search.

I walk with my head lowered and one arm raised against the snow, as if that will help me see. When Storm stops suddenly, I smack into her and would fall if it wasn’t for Dalton’s arm through mine. I lower my hand to Storm’s back and feel it vibrating.

She’s growling; I just can’t hear it over the wind.

I move up beside Storm. She has her head up, as if sniffing. Then she starts forward. Stops. Growls. Looks at me.

“Something’s wrong!” I shout to Dalton.

He moves up to Storm’s other side, where he bends. The wind changes direction, and I catch a deep musky smell. My hand tightens on Storm’s fur, and I move toward Dalton. He’s already rising. He smelled it, too.

The smell is gone, but my brain holds on to it and whispers, “Bear.”

I want to laugh. It’s March. Bears are hibernating for another month. The problem with that, as I’ve learned, is that bears don’t know the schedule. Mother Nature tells them when they should go to sleep and when they should wake, but a dozen factors can influence that, and we’ve seen bears in March, woken by unseasonably warm weather or a grumbling stomach, if they didn’t get enough to eat before they went to bed.

Whatever woke it, a bear out of hibernation in March would be hungry and angry, confused by the storm.

Something is out there.

It might be a bear.

And we can’t see anything.

I grit my teeth. Yes, we can’t see a foot in front of our noses, but we’re with a companion who has a very good nose, one that scented danger before we did.

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