Page 115 of Always a Bridesmaid
Staticky words filtered in from the scanner, bringing him back to reality—a harsh place where Violet Abrams would never speak to him again.
“…injured hiker… The storm coming…”
A renewed sense of purpose found its way to the surface, and Ford hurried over to the mantel and cranked up the scanner. Then he called in and talked to dispatch.
See, this was what his life was all about. Heading into an oncoming storm to find a lost hiker. Adventure. No one to answer to, his life free of drama and completely his own.
“Who’s ready for a mission?” Ford asked his dogs, and Pyro pranced around in circles, eager to get going.
Now to figure out which other dog he should let tag along.
Trouble was biting Tank’s tail, and while Violet might get the distracted mutt to be halfway useful, Ford didn’t have time to deal with the puppy’s lack of focus.
Nitro could scent the farthest, and she followed commands the fastest and most accurately.
After grabbing his gear, Ford let Pyro and Nitro into the cab of the truck—they’d have to deal with the cold plenty tonight. Then he raced to the police station, where the family members of the lost hiker were waiting.
Twenty minutes later, Ford was speeding north on a rutted dirt road. Mr. Wagner had called his family and left a patchy message. They were able to make out the words “left the trail” and “lost,” and when his family tracked the phone, it said it was offline.
Luckily, they were able to narrow in on the coordinates from before he lost signal, which gave them a place to start.
Unfortunately, most people continued to move when they should stay put.
A red truck sat at the top of the trailhead, and a quick glance at the make, model, and license plate confirmed it belonged to Mr. Wagner. Ford climbed out of his truck to peek inside the vehicle, but it was empty.
His GPS indicated they were about two miles from where the man made his last call. “Looks like we’re gonna have to hike the rest,” he said to Pyro and Nitro as he opened the passenger door for them.
Not a big deal if they weren’t running out of time.
Heavy gray clouds obscured the sky, and the scent of rain and pine hung in the air. Storms in the forest were a beast of another kind. One minute it could be sunny and cloudless, and before you noticed the change, torrential rain would be upon you, soaking you to the bone.
Ford radioed in to the crew from the town over and informed them he’d be coming from the southeast. They were going to start on the northwest part of the trail, and they’d make wide passes till they met in the middle.
So he wouldn’t end up wet and suffering hypothermia, Ford slipped into his neon orange waterproof jacket with the wordssearch and rescueemblazoned on the back. Then he pulled his lightweight nylon pants over his jeans and slung on his search and rescue pack.
Since the last thing Ford wanted to do was lose Nitro on her first trip out, he snapped on the longest lead rope he owned.
Then he walked over to Mr. Wagner’s truck, offered a prayer to the karma gods, and yanked on the door.
The door was unlocked, and while the dogs could still scent near the truck, inside of it would be more effective.
Pyro put his paws up on the seat and sniffed, already on task, and Ford instructed Nitro to “Scent.”
She padded the length of the bench seat a couple times, her nose against the frayed fabric.
“Now seek,” Ford said in a firm voice.
Both dogs put their noses to the ground, and after a couple seconds, Pyro took off at a full sprint.
Nitro barreled after, although neither she nor Ford would be able to keep pace.
The other thing about following dogs—they didn’t choose the easiest path for someone six foot three who walked on two legs instead of four.
Speed was most important, though, so Ford hunched under bushes, launched himself over fallen logs, and rushed as fast as he could without injuring himself.
“Hold tight, Mr. Wagner,” he muttered.
A fat droplet splattered his nose, his cheek, the forearm of his jacket…
