Scott knew that, too. When the world had ended—his world, at least—he was the last person either of them cared about.
But Newman wasn’t done waxing poetic. “I imagine all of us dream of that, of loving someone so much it consumes everything else.”
“I don’t.”
Newman blinked at him.
“I think it’s bullshit.”
“Scott, it’s not what you—”
“Don’t patronize me,” he said, feeling the same happiness, the anger, the resentment, the excitement—all of it. It swelled up inside him before going flat again. “Save it for someone who believes in happily-ever-after. I’m not saying it wasn’t heartwarming and romantic at the time, but you saw what happened when she walked out. You know what it did to him.”
“That was…unfortunate.”
Unfortunate. Hardly. That word wasn’t descriptive enough for a man so crushed by disappointment and despair that he gave up. On work, on life, on the twelve-year-old boy who might not have lost the love of his life, but who lost both his mother and his father in one fell swoop.
He could still remember walking in the door after school that day, his feet crunching on broken plates and broken glass, everything in the trailer that wasn’t nailed down smashed beyond repair. Not even the bathroom mirror had emerged unscathed. That was where he’d found his dad hunched over the sink, the bloody streak from the point of impact matching the one on his hand.
Sorry, kiddo, he’d said, his words slurred from hours of hard drinking. I broke them all. I guess we’re looking at about seventy years of bad luck.
“It wasn’t unfortunate.” Scott’s jaw clamped tight against the memories. “It was catastrophic.”
“And yet, if you went next door and asked him right now, he’d still say it was worth it.”
Scott grunted. He wouldn’t ask. Nor was his dad likely to be sober enough to understand the question. “Has he gotten around to fixing that mirror yet?”
“No. But he will.”
Scott grunted again. He didn’t know why his dad insisted on holding on to that bad luck charm, staring through bloodshot eyes at his cracked reflection every morning, but Scott refused to cross the threshold until it was replaced. He wasn’t going back there, to that place where misfortune reigned. In fact, most of his adulthood had been spent doing everything he could to escape, avoiding any of the bad luck omens that could whirl him into the agony of his adolescence all over again.
Since this wasn’t a topic of conversation he cared to continue much longer, he changed the subject to one only marginally less painful. “Did you get the rest of the report on Mara?”
“Ah.” Newman settled himself on the chair next to him. “So that’s why you really stopped by. And here I thought you were just being friendly.”
“I’m sorry. I have to know what went wrong.”
Asking for the details of Mara’s death was a bit like ripping a Band-Aid off and immediately rubbing salt in the wound, but Scott was determined to do it anyway. He welcomed the pain. At least it was more productive than shattering mirrors. “Based on the article in the paper this morning, it sounds like they made a mess of things out there,” he said. And waited.
After about a minute of sitting there together, their consciences at war, Newman sighed and gave in. “Fine. I’ll tell you—but know that it’s against my better judgment. I don’t think it’s relevant or helpful.”
“Noted.”
“If I were asked to do a full review on the situation—which, for the record, I haven’t—I wouldn’t cite human or canine error. At least, not on behalf of the rescue team. I blame the guide more than anything else. He never should have taken those hunters up there in the first place. In that weather? It was too risky.”
That much Scott knew already. A pair of deer hunters had gone missing near Gypsy Peak when yesterday’s storm blew in. At that altitude—the highest on this side of Washington—the snow fell fast and hard, and it was no wonder they’d been separated from their guide.
“From what I can gather, the team found them fairly quickly, thanks in large part to Mara. She picked up on their scent almost immediately, and directed them to an overhang where they managed to take shelter. Unfortunately, the storm picked up again and took them all by surprise. In the rush to get the volunteers and hunters secure before they lost visibility again, Mara went missing.”
Scott had been sitting there with his eyes closed, trying to paint a mental image of the scene, but at that, his eyes flew open. “What did you just say?”
“The winds were too high by that time to bring in a helicopter extraction team, so they had to rendezvous with the snowmobile fleet at one of the ranger stations. It took almost eight hours, and she got lost somewhere along the way.”
“Lost?”
“I know it’s hard, Scott, but these things happen—”
“Last night on the phone you said she was gone. Not lost. Gone.”
“She is gone.”
“No.” Gone implied dead. Gone implied irretrievable. He knew what gone meant. “If they didn’t bring a body back with them—if they didn’t actually witness her death—then she could still be out there.”
Newman caught his meaning before he finished the sentence. “It’s been over twenty-four hours, Scott. The weather forecast is still grim. Even if she did find a place to hide out, the chances of her still being alive—”
“Are just as good as if a human had been left out there. No—better, because she has the instincts to survive.” Scott sprang to his feet, pausing only to glance at the clock hanging on the wall above Newman’s head. Just past four o’clock, which gave him about an hour to get home and formulate a plan before most of the Search and Rescue group got off from their regular jobs. He could call around. Pull together a team. Force the Colville SAR and national park rangers to join him in heading back out there.
“They looked, Scott. They tried. You have to trust that they know what they’re doing.”
“That’s exactly what I don’t have to do. Leave no man behind—that’s rule number one, isn’t it? And they broke it.”
“Actually, rule number one is always listen to your unit leader.”
Scott appreciated the rare show of humor from his friend and mentor, but he wasn’t swayed. It was a long shot, he knew, and it was unthinkable to encroach on another team’s territory like this, but he had to try.
This was Mara they were talking about. Mara, who lived and breathed to make her handler happy, who would do anything—even sit out there alone in the freezing cold, shivering and waiting, her eyes on the horizon for any sign of human life—if she thought that was what was being asked of her.
He almost choked at the way that image hit him, how true it was to her personality, how much of an idiot he’d been to entrust her to anyone else’s care. Predictably, his emotions began moving outward, a splay of anger he couldn’t contain even if he wanted to. “I can’t believe they just abandoned her like that. This is the last time I’m selling them one of my dogs.”
He grabbed his keys and started heading for the door when Newman spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “That’s not fair, and you know it. They wanted to go back out and search for her, but even if they did feel confident about finding anything, there’s no way they’re getting into that area. The blizzard warning is still in effect and the roads are impassable—they’re saying not even snowmobiles can get through.”
That wasn’t good enough for Scott. He’d been doing this long enough to know there was always a way in. Always. When human life was on the line, when someone’s daughter or son or mother or father was out there, you found a way.
“It’s just not possible,” Newman added. His tone was designed to soothe and pacify—Scott had heard it enough times in his life to know—but for once, it didn’t work. “You have to let this go. You have to let her go.”
He couldn’t do it. He knew he should, but he couldn’t.
When Scott had first started training
the dogs, a side project Newman had given him during those long winter breaks when school was out and being at home was unthinkable, he’d wanted to keep every animal for himself. Kendrick, Lance, Birdy, Wallace, Frog…he remembered each one, could say exactly where each one had been placed and what their individual strengths were. Kendrick was a leader, so intent he spurned all attempts at physical affection. Lance had a scratchy bark from a vocal cord injury at birth, but his nose was impeccable, and he could sniff out almost anything. Birdy was a picky eater but had stamina that could carry her for days. Wallace and Frog were rambunctious and inseparable, and they eventually had to be placed together or they refused to work at all.
He’d cried those first five times he said goodbye—curled up on his unmade bed, listening to his dad doing the same thing the next room over for a woman who was never coming back. He was barely a teenager, and he’d already become so much like his old man you couldn’t tell their sobs apart.
That was the moment that had changed everything. Without waiting for the tears to dry, he’d planted his feet on the floor and got back to work. Training dogs was something he enjoyed—and he was good at it—but he would never let himself become like the shell of a man he lived with.
He’d never cried over another dog again after that…though he’d sure as hell come pretty close last night.
“I can’t let her go. I wish I could walk away from this—you have no idea how much I wish it—but I can’t.” Scott took a deep breath, feeling the past rip open, hearing the echoing shatter of glass all around him. “If the place is inaccessible by snowmobile, then I’ll go by air. A chopper can get me close enough to set up a base camp and search by foot. It’s worth a shot.”
“Scott. Listen to yourself.” Newman pulled out his phone and stabbed at the screen, and Scott knew without looking that he was accessing his weather updates. “Winds up to twenty miles an hour. Gales twice that. Temperatures well below the teens. Even if you could find someone willing to land a helicopter in that, the chances of any area being clear enough to safely touch down are almost nothing.”
“Steady Pete’ll do it.”
“Steady Pete will laugh in your face.”
“Then I’ll do it without him.” He steeled his expression and met Newman’s gaze dead-on. “I’ll charter a flight. I’ll pay someone all the money I have to take me as close as they can. If I can find a pilot, you’ll give me clearance for one of the new choppers, won’t you?”
Newman clucked and shook his head. “No one is crazy enough to risk their career and life for a dog, Scott. No one.”
Scott felt a sudden sharp pang in the center of his chest. He thought for a moment he was having a heart attack, but it abated as quickly as it had started, leaving only a cold numbness in its place.
He welcomed that numbness. He relished it. Somehow, he’d always known it would come down to this.
“That’s not true,” he said, his eyes not wavering from Newman’s. “One person is just that crazy.”
Unfortunately, her name was Carrie Morlock.
Chapter Four
“Oh, Carrie—I’m so sorry I treated you like the scum that was growing inside my vest. I was wrong, and I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
“Would you? Would you really? Anything?”
“Of course. I love you more than the moon loves the stars, more than you love re-watching Gone with the Wind, more than a necrophiliac loves his job at the morgue.”
“Scott, I can hardly believe it! How do I know you’re not just trying to sweet-talk me?”
“Believe this, my darling.”
Their lips touched somewhat awkwardly, since their noses got in the way and Voodoo Scott still had his creepy Joker face on, so Carrie made a few kissing noises for authenticity. Barbie Carrie was totally into it, her cotton miniskirt riding high under Scott’s wandering plastic hands.
But then she realized what she was doing and stopped. Best-case scenario, she was a grown woman sitting in her bedroom playing with dolls. Worst-case scenario, she was an unemployed and recently dumped helicopter pilot pining after a man who hated her.
Not her best moment either way.
She tossed Voodoo Scott into the corner, where he hit the wall with a satisfactory thunk. “I hope he feels that one tomorrow, the jerk.”
As if by magic—the dark, scary kind—her front door thunked one time in a similar way. She thought for a moment she was imagining it, that too much wine and not nearly enough human interaction was having its eventual effect on her, but the knock sounded again.
Her misery decided it could use the company, so she got to her feet and pulled the door open with a flourish.
“Hey, Carrie.”
Her jaw landed somewhere south of her knees. “Scott? What are you doing here?”
He didn’t look her in the eyes, which was her first clue that he’d been possessed by demons. As the alpha in his own little canine world, he had a freakish attachment to staring at people until they caved under his will. Her second clue was when he cleared his throat and spoke words that had never before crossed his lips.
“I came to apologize for last night.”
She slammed the door in his face and turned the deadbolt, her heart pounding all the way up to her throat. It was that stupid candle of Lexie’s that had done it. There had to be some kind of supernatural powers in there to make the wax smell so good. She’d tapped into those powers and claimed Scott’s soul. That was the only explanation for this.
Another knock rattled her body, but it was just Scott re-announcing his presence. “I deserved that,” he called, his voice only partially muffled by the wood.
“What are you doing here?” she called back. “Who sent you?”
“No one sent me. Would you just open the door, please?”
She wasn’t falling for it. The second she turned the knob, he was going to transform into an evil spirit and possess her—mind, body, and soul. Just like he did last time. “What’s our secret code?”
The sound of his forehead hitting the door in a gesture of exasperation was unmistakable. “We don’t have a secret code, Carrie. Just open the door.”
“Oh, we have a code. Maybe if you try very hard, you’ll remember it.”
Pause. “You mean that one?”
Yes. She meant that one—the one they’d come up with one playful night with a pair of handcuffs and two of Carrie’s silk scarves. The one they’d never actually had to put to use, because neither one of them was all that good at being submissive.
It was a mistake to introduce the subject, though, because the moment she let her thoughts wander down that path, there was no retrieving them. Her thoughts were much too independent for their own good. They frolicked and remembered. They tingled to think of Scott pretending to lose the key to the handcuffs and vowing to keep her chained to his bed forever.
He groaned, sending a jolt of desire through her. He must have been remembering, too. “Banana Nut Muffins.”
She snickered in spite of herself. “What’s that? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Banana. Nut. Muffins.” His words were no louder than before, and she could almost feel him tensing up through the solid walnut door.
“Nope. I didn’t quite catch that. Once more? For old time’s sake?”
“Banana nut muffins!” he practically roared. “There—is that better? You win. I’m a horrible person who deserves to have the door shut in his face. I’m the jerk who could stand out here yelling in your hallway for years and still not earn enough penance.” He paused, his voice sounding from a distance as he said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ralta, but it’s important this time. I know we promised we wouldn’t yell anymore, but this is a matter of life and death.”
Carrie didn’t envy him at that moment. Her neighbor across the hall was scary. As the mother of three rambunctious boys who spent most of their time expelled from school, that woman could scare a full SWAT team.
“C’mon, Carrie.” More sounds of a heated dis
cussion in the background. “Let me in. Mrs. Ralta is threatening to use her kids’ baseball bat on me.”
She probably would, too. Carrie was tempted to leave him out there to face Mrs. Ralta’s wrath, but she recalled the sound of Voodoo Scott hitting the wall earlier and cringed. Okay. This was starting to get really freaky. She’d been taught from a young age not to believe in magical forces—her dad had never even bothered to stick a gift from Santa under the tree—but Scott believed it, and that was enough for her. Faith via proximity.
She pulled the door open.
“I should just leave you out here, you know.” She didn’t miss the shadows under his eyes or the scruff of a jaw that hadn’t seen a razor since yesterday, but she forced her attention over his shoulder. If she concentrated only on how gorgeous and grumpy and miserable he looked, she’d lose this thing before it even began. “Hey, Mrs. Ralta. Sorry for the noise. I’m not sure I want to let Scott in. He dumped me last week.”
That got the older woman’s frown to lift a little. She was raising those three boys all on her own after her husband walked out on her, so she probably loved a good woman scorned tale. “Did he now?”
“Yep. Do you want to know why?”
“That I do,” Mrs. Ralta said just as Scott hissed, “Carrie—can we please skip this part? Now isn’t the time.”
Of course it wasn’t. That was because she was the one holding all the cards for a change. She held his gaze, those dormant brown-black eyes sparking to a lively wrath, as she answered her neighbor.
“He didn’t know how to recognize a good thing when he held it in his arms,” she said, her voice clear. “Eight months of my life I gave him, and he failed to appreciate what kind of a gift that was.”
Mrs. Ralta just clucked and turned to re-enter her apartment. “None of them do, honey. None of them do.”
Off the Map (Winter Rescue #2) Page 5
