“I’m not sure.”
She grumbles at that. An idea is forming in my brain. It’s been there since Cherise mentioned seeing Baptiste and Sidra across the river, and my gut screamed that she was wrong. Not lying. Just mistaken.
My brain demanded—and then supplied—an alternate explanation … and berated me for not asking more questions while I had Felicity and Baptiste here. Simple questions, easily answered, and yet I didn’t ask, because they didn’t seem germane to what was happening.
Baptiste or Felicity could tell me what I need to know. I also want to find Dalton to bounce this theory off him. He didn’t hear our voices and come running while we were talking to Cherise. That bothers me, and I’m trying very hard not to freak out over it and shout for him. That would risk tipping off others in this forest. I must trust that Dalton is fine.
I could be wrong about Baptiste. If I am, then that may answer my “where are they?” question. My only consolation is that I haven’t heard a shotgun blast. Which doesn’t keep me from wishing we’d kept the damned weapon we’d taken from Baptiste.
After another half kilometer, I can’t silence that fretting anymore. We might be hot on Sidra’s trail, but we need to reunite with the others.
Petra agrees.
“I’ll play signpost and mark the trail,” she says. “You take the pup and go find Eric.”
I set out with Storm. I’ve told her to find Dalton, and I’m hoping she’ll catch his scent on the breeze. We walk through unbroken snow wherever possible, leaving bread crumbs back to Petra. It’s less than ten minutes before Storm goes still. She sniffs the air. It’s not Dalton. If it were, she’d veer that way without hesitation.
“Who is it, girl?”
Her body language is relaxed, meaning whoever it is doesn’t worry her. Not Cherise and Owen then. It’s a scent she recognizes, though, someone she has no strong feelings about either way. She glances at me, and there’s question in that look. It suggests she’s smelling another member of our party—Felicity or Baptiste—and while they aren’t her target, perhaps I’m also looking for them?
“Good girl,” I say. Then I tell her yes, please track the new scent. I’m not sure she’ll understand my command, but she sets off at a lope.
I take out my gun. I must, in case this is Baptiste, and I am mistaken about him. We head into thick forest, and I slow Storm, only to get a look that says we’re too close to the target to bother. Yet despite the thick forest, I don’t see anyone.
Storm stops. She goes rigid and whines, anxiety strumming from her. I look arou
nd. There’s no one here, no place for anyone to hide.
“What is it, girl?”
I follow her gaze. Just ahead, snow has been flattened. I see prints, multiple sets. That’s when I spot the blood, drops of red sunk into the snow.
I race over.
There’s blood. Definite blood, recently sprayed, droplets falling into fresh snow. Under my feet, the snow isn’t just trampled—it’s flat. Someone fell here. A struggle on the ground, a blow, blood flying.
Two sets of prints, coming from opposite directions. One significantly smaller than the other.
Felicity’s prints. I recognize the imprint of fur around the edge. The other set is male. Not Dalton’s boots. That’s all I can tell. His prints would be instantly distinguishable from the tread-free ones. Felicity was here. Someone attacked her.
Or she attacked someone.
If it was Felicity attacking, though, she lost. I see the male prints leaving the flattened snow of the fight … and dragging something with him. Dragging Felicity.
I’m following that trail when Storm whines. Not the anxiety of smelling blood, though. This is excitement. Her nose goes up, and her entire body wriggles with the joy that can only mean one thing.
“Eric?” I say. “Do you smell Eric?”
She woofs, a deep adult-Newfoundland woof, even as her massive body puppy-gyrates with excitement.
“Good girl.” I glance at the trail where someone dragged Felicity away. Is leaving it to go after Dalton the right move?
“Stop right there!” a voice shouts. Baptiste’s voice, ringing through the forest … coming from the direction Storm is looking.
From Dalton’s direction.
A shotgun blast, and I’m running, running as fast as I can. I hear Dalton’s voice then. Thank God I hear Dalton’s voice, even if it barely pierces the blood pounding in my ears. He’s saying something I can’t catch, his voice calm, and Baptiste shouts at him again, telling him to get back, get back right now, get away from her.