Dalton is calmer now. Cypher has seen Jacob, and he’s doing exactly what Brent said, which explains why he left his last camp and why he hasn’t been easy to find. Elk Ridge is north, and we haven’t searched in that direction. Brady will head south to find civilization. Actually, the nearest village is west, but he doesn’t know that. South makes sense. North does not.

We hide the ATV. It wouldn’t have done us any good anyway. The fastest trail to Elk Ridge isn’t more than a footpath, soon cutting through sheer rock. As we walk, Storm has a blast, tramping through the mountain streams.

“I want a dog,” Cypher muses as she whips past, water droplets flying.

“Well, we do find ourselves in possession of a very young wolf-dog cub,” I say. “His mother seemed like she might have been rabid, and the cub bit Dalton, so we’re holding him under quarantine.”

He glances at Dalton. “Doesn’t look like he’s quarantined.”

I roll my eyes. “The cub.”

“It’s not rabies anyway. Never seen that in all my years up here.” He walks a few more steps. “Wolf-dog you say? How much of each, you figure?”

“More wolf than dog. Just your style.”

He gives me a hard look. “Do I strike you as an idiot? Only a fool thinks he can domesticate a wolf. You should give him to your boyfriend there. Seems his style. Raised by wolves, weren’t you, boy?”

Dalton ignores him.

“If there’s a decent amount of dog in the pup, you might be okay,” Cypher says. “Too much work for me, but at least dogs are domestic animals. Wolves aren’t. Can’t be.”

“They probably can be,” Dalton says. “The root genus is the same. The question is time frame. It takes generations.”

“You letting him read again, kitten?”

Dalton continues. “There was an interesting study using silver foxes in Siberia. They keep breeding them with human contact. After forty generations, they had domesticated foxes. That’s forty generations. Going in reverse, with dog DNA already in the cub, it should be easier. You still have the wolf to contend with, though. The question would be mostly one of dominance. Not domestication so much as establishing a leadership position.”

“I like you better when you act stupid, boy.”

“I like you better when you don’t.”

“Who says I’m acting? You keep your wolf-dog. Getting too old for that dominance shit. Had that already with a dog like yours. Bull mastiff. Took it in partial trade on a job. I liked the dog. Didn’t like the way its master was treating it—the guy figured he’d beat the dog into submission. So I persuaded him to part with the beast.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It was a civil conversation. I asked nicely. The guy laughed, said the dog was a fucking purebred, too rich for my blood. So I asked again, said he could take five hundred off my pay. He agreed. Well, he nodded. Had some trouble talking dangling two feet off the floor with my arm crushing his windpipe.”

“You’re very persuasive.”

“You have no idea, kitten.” He looks at Dalton. “I want a dog. You got this fancy purebred for your girl. I don’t need anything that nice, but I don’t want some mangy mutt either. If I find this Brady guy and take him off your hands, I get a dog, okay?”

“If you find Val, you get a dog,” Dalton says. “After Brent, the other bastard can die out here. If he hasn’t already.”

* * *

Cypher keeps us entertained on the walk. Or I’m entertained. When it comes to Tyrone Cypher, I can never tell how Dalton feels. If asked, he grumbles and rolls his eyes and grumbles some more. I believe he sees Cypher the same way one might view the grizzly the big man resembles—potentially dangerous, potentially useful, trustworthy enough if you know how to approach him but really, you should probably avoid it if you can.

I like Cypher, but I respect Dalton’s wariness. Cypher is the only person here who knew Dalton when he was brought to Rockton. When we first met, Cypher mocked Dalton by calling him “jungle boy” and making his “raised by wolves” jabs. Having gotten to know the man better, I think he was teasing. But those jabs cut deep. Dalton might not be that boy anymore—and he was never the half-wild savage Cypher claims—but he feels like he was, like he still is in some ways, and that’s the sharpest needle you can dig into someone, piercing straight into their best-hidden insecurities.

There’s more to it, too. I’ve never met Gene Dalton—the former sheriff—but I used to presume Dalton inherited his personae from him. The profanity. The swagger. The creative punishments. The hard-assed sheriff routine that is fifty percent genuine and fifty percent bullshit. Then I met Cypher, and I realized it wasn’t Gene Dalton the boy from the woods had admired and emulated.

That boy wouldn’t have necessarily admired the man I’ve since realized Gene is—quiet, thoughtful, fair and reasoned. No, if that boy was going to look up to someone, it’d be Cypher, larger than life, everyone scurrying from his path, a man both feared and respected.

The problem is that Dalton didn’t stay a boy. He grew into a man who sees Cypher’s shortcomings. Who realizes Cypher was more feared than respected and that maybe he enjoyed meting out his creative punishments a little too much.

But the die had been cast. Dalton still subconsciously emulates his first role model.

We’re nearing Jacob’s camp.

“He should be here,” Cypher says. “When I talked to him yesterday, he said he wanted to finish butchering the caribou. If he’s gone, he won’t be far.”

“Jake!” Cypher booms. “Yo, Jakey!”

There’s a sound from up ahead, and through the trees I make out the side of a hide tent. Another sound comes, a grunt, and Dalton’s arm shoots up to stop me.

Cypher swears under his breath. Storm catches a smell in the air, and her fur rises as I grab for her collar. Dalton pulls back a branch.

“And that, kitten, is a bear,” Cypher whispers.

It is indeed, and it’s right there, next to Jacob’s tent, ripping through a pack on the ground. It’s not a grizzly, which is some relief. It’s a big black, though. A boar in his prime, maybe three hundred pounds. When he stands to sniff the air, he stretches to my height.

I cast a quick look around the camp. There’s no sign of Jacob, and I exhale. While black bears aren’t nearly as dangerous as browns, they can kill if provoked. Jacob knows better than to provoke one. Cypher on the other hand . . .

“You got a clear shot at it, kitten?” he asks.

“Only if it attacks,” I say.

“If you’ve got a clear shot, take it.”

“No,” Dalton says. “She won’t. We can’t skin it here, so we’re not taking it down unless we have to.”

“Fuck, don’t tell me you’re one of those. Doesn’t like killing things unless they need killing.”

“Weird, I know,” I say.

“Life’s a whole lot less dangerous if you just take out everything in your path. Kill or be killed. It’s the way of the jungle.”

“We’re not in the jungle,” Dalton says. “This is boreal forest.”

“Stop reading, okay? Just stop.” Cypher sighs. “Fine, so how you want to do this, nature boy? Ask the bear if we may approach?”

“We’re going to spook it. Casey can cover—”

Storm growls.

“I think your pup wants in on the fun,” Cypher says.

Storm growls louder. She’s straining at my grip, every hair on her body raised, head lowered. The bear rears up again and looks our way.

“Fuck,” Cypher says. “Can we shoot it now?”

“Well, that depends,” Dalton says. “Unless you’ve actually learned to aim a gun, you’d have to hold the dog while Casey shoots. And pray that Casey’s nine-mil will take the bear down in one shot from this distance.”

“You’ve got a three-fifty-seven.”

“I’m left-handed.”

Cypher glances at the sling on Dalton’s left arm. “Can’t just be right-handed like normal people. Fucking inconvenient, you are.”

“Eric?” I say. “As fun as this debate is, I’m going to back Storm up before that bear decides to charge. Ty, take my gun. Eric, if you need to shoot, even with your right, you’ll probably do better than him.”

“Guns are unsporting,” Cypher says. “I fight with my hands.”

“You do that then, and I’ll keep my gun.”

“I’d rather you kept it anyway,” Dalton says.

I start backing Storm up. It’s a tug of war, but she allows me to inch her away. Dalton lopes off to the side, making just enough noise to pull the bear’s attention.

I continue backing off until we’ve lost sight of them, and that’s when Storm finally settles. She grumbles and grunts, not unlike a bear herself, her shaggy head turning from side to side as she sniffs the air. I manage to get her lying down and park my butt on top of her.

I hear a “Hie! Hie!” from the camp. That’s Dalton. Cypher uses more colorful language to convince the bear it’s time to go. Both crash through the undergrowth, making as much noise as they can. When a shot fires, I tense and Storm whines, but it’s a warning shot, followed by crashes heading the other way and accompanied by the grunts of a fleeing bear.

“Casey?” Dalton calls.

“Right here!”

“He’s taking off. We’re going to check out the camp. Are you okay where you are?”

“I am.”

“Then stay there with Storm in case the bear circles back.”

“Got it.”

I listen to the forest, gun in hand, but all I can hear is the rustle and murmured talk of the men at Jacob’s campsite.

And then Storm leaps up. Leaps up, toppling me off her, and by the time I realize what’s happened, she’s a black blur disappearing into the forest.

I race after her. It happens so fast that I presume she’s heading for the campsite, and I’m not too concerned about that. Then I realize we’re heading in the opposite direction.

I should have shouted. If I’d even just yelled for Storm, Dalton would have heard it. I do now. I call for her, and I call for him, but I’m still running, stumbling through thick undergrowth, and I can tell my voice isn’t loud enough to carry back to Dalton. But I cannot stop because in that moment, I am absolutely certain that if I do not catch Storm, I’ve lost her. She’s running, and I see her, and as long as I can do that, I still have her.

I stop shouting for Dalton and call to her instead. Storm. Get back here. Stop. Come. Wait.

It’s too many commands. I know that. I’m panicking and shouting whatever comes to mind, and she is not stopping. Goddamn it, she is not stopping. I should have her on a leash. She isn’t ready for this, not well enough trained, and my hubris has failed her.

The ground opens up as we veer toward the mountain base. I can see her easily now, bounding over the rock. She’s chasing something. I catch a glimpse of brown fur. Tawny. A deer? It leaps over rock, and as it jumps onto one, I see . . .

I see that it’s not a deer.