A blanket of snow all but silenced the plod of horses’ hooves as Rand and Daniel picked a path downslope of the springhouse. Tree limbs, burdened with ice and freshly fallen powder, cracked and popped around them. “Mitchell! Kurt!” Rand called out every few seconds. Ranslett joined him, and they took turns calling the boys’ names as they rode on up the mountain.
With no pattern that Rand could detect, Ranslett would stop and dismount, check the branches or a spot where the snow might be marred or crushed, then he’d mount up and they’d ride on. A short while later, they arrived in a clearing and Daniel reined in.
Built on the highest peaks—north, south, east, and west—fires burned bright against the dark night sky. Flaming beacons lit in the hope that Mitch and Kurt would see them and make their way to where help was waiting.
They rode for another hour, covering a treacherous stretch along Crowley’s Ridge before picking their way back along a ravine that bordered Rachel’s land. Rand called the boys’ names, over and over, and could hear someone from another party just across the ridge doing the same. Every few feet, Ranslett stopped to examine the trail, or a tree, or a boulder, looking for a sign. Rand did likewise. Looking for anything that might indicate what path the boys had taken.
They circled back, retracing their path, checking every cave and crevice in the mountain, and Ranslett seemed to know them all.
Finally, they arrived at a bluff not far from Rachel’s cabin. Feeling the night wear on, a fraction of the fear Rand had seen in Rachel’s eyes seeped into his bones and began to take hold, threatening to extinguish his hope.
With the aid of his torch, he checked the time. Almost half past three.
The snow had tapered off. Little wind stirred, but the night was bitter cold. His hands were numb, despite his gloves, and his feet ached. He could only imagine how cold Mitch and Kurt must be right now, and what injuries they would suffer if made to endure an entire night in these conditions. Molly had said the boys left for the springhouse with only their jackets on. No hats. No gloves. Frostbite would set in within hours, then confusion, disorientation. . . .
But that possibility, however difficult, was less brutal than the other. Rand pictured the brown wrapping paper, shredded into ribbons, and shut out the thought that followed.
Ranslett pulled up sharply and peered off to his right.
“You see something?” Rand whispered, trying to decipher whatever it was that had caught his attention. To him, the dark wooded hillsides looked much the same. But he trusted Ranslett’s experience and skill, as did Rachel, obviously. He didn’t know all the history between Rachel and Daniel, only that they’d grown up together and that, from what he’d noticed, she was uncomfortable in the man’s presence. But whatever their differences were, he was grateful things seemed to be on the mend. Especially now.
Ranslett pointed. “See the lowest bough of that spruce? Just to the right of the largest boulder. About fifteen feet out.”
Rand squinted, trying to distinguish which spruce he was referring to. There were about two hundred at a glance and all of them seemed to be situated right by a— Then he saw it, and hope sprang up inside him. “It’s not covered in snow like the others.”
“And it’s sheltered from wind beneath the larger ones around it. The snow had to be knocked off. And since most of the larger animals bed down for the night . . .” Ranslett dismounted, rifle in hand. “Let’s go on foot from here.”
Rand tethered his horse to a tree, grabbed his medical bag and rifle, and followed.
Ranslett pointed as he cut a path through the snow. “All along that ridge are caves. They’re not deep, but they go back a good ways. Perfect place for cougar or bear.” He gestured behind them. “Back up this hill, a couple hundred yards or so—”
“Is Rachel’s springhouse,” Rand said, having regained his bearings.
Ranslett nodded. “Imagine we’re Mitch and Kurt, and we’ve just latched the door to the springhouse behind us. We’ve got the meat Molly told us to get, but then—”
“We hear something.”
Ranslett nodded again, stepping over a fallen aspen. “We already know what it is from the sound, but we turn around anyway because instinct tells us to. And that’s when we see the cougar. What do we do?”
“Why do you think it’s a cougar?” Rand asked.
“Because a bear would’ve left more tracks, even with the snow. I’ve seen a cougar leap from rock to rock, at least twenty feet, then shoot straight up a lodgepole pine, never stopping, and hardly leaving a trace.”
The mental image was chilling, especially when considering the chance two young boys would have against such an adversary. Back to Ranslett’s initial question, Rand turned the possibilities over in his mind, trying to think like a ten- and eight-year-old boy might. “Kurt does whatever Mitch does, so—whatever they did—I think Mitch made the decision.”
“Agreed.” Ranslett knelt just shy of the spruce, then stood, walked a few paces, knelt again, and leaned close to the ground. “Mitch’s first thought is going to be for—”
“His brother,” Rand supplied, knowing without hesitation that it was true, and rushing the possible scenario through his mind, just as he imagined Ranslett was doing. Mitch and Kurt had been taught not to run from bears and mountain lions. But they’d be scared, and undoubtedly remembering what happened to their father. “Do you think Mitch might’ve thrown the meat to the animal right away?”
Ranslett shook his head. “A person’s first instinct when seeing something like that is to run. And anyway, I found the bag farther down here.” He pointed. “The cat could’ve carried it a distance, but I don’t think so. Cougars are normally shy of people, unless they smell food. My guess is that it was more interested in the meat than in the boys.”
Rand shook his head. “But Mitch and Kurt wouldn’t necessarily have known that. I think Mitch just grabbed his little brother’s hand, and they ran. He probably tossed the meat down without thinking the cougar would go for it first.”
Ranslett nodded, adjusting the pack on his back. “I’m hoping that bought the boys a little time.” He crept closer, his moves cautious, wary. He ducked to peer beneath the branch. “Doc . . . you need to come here.”
Uncertain at Ranslett’s tone and feeling as if someone had punched him in the gut, Rand readied himself. He knelt, praying . . . The snow beneath the tree had been scraped back from around the side of the trunk, creating a kind of wall. “They were here,” he whispered, hope rekindling. “They tried to create a shelter.”
“And did a pretty good job of it too,” Ranslett said, voice soft.
Rand looked over at him. “Something you taught them?”
Ranslett nodded. “Something I showed Thomas when we were out hunting together one time. Then Thomas and I taught them together at Thanksgiving, four years ago. I can’t believe they still remembered.”
They rose and walked deeper into the foliage, the shadows richer beneath the snowy canopy, the pungent scent of evergreen overwhelming.
“There.” Rand motioned, then headed toward what appeared to be a crevice in the side of the mountain. Not knowing how far back it went, he knew that if he were a boy seeking shelter from the snow, that was where he would have headed next.
But as he peered into a tunnel of endless dark, he knew it was the very last place he, as a grown man, would ever choose to go.