Page 93 of Track of Courage

Could be it didn’t matter. Could be that the point wasn’t the danger and tragedy but what he did with it, just like Griffin had said.

“I’m convinced that nothing canhappen to me in this life that isn’t usedor designed by God to know him better.”

He looked up at the encroaching darkness, a few early stars speckling the sky. Maybe it wasn’t about escaping his mistakes, but letting God change him because of them.

The red flags on the trees wagged in the breeze, snow starting to blow over his tracks. If he remembered correctly, the outpost was just a quarter mile, maybe less—

A shot cracked the air, and he ducked, then shook it away. Branches falling, trees adjusting to the cold.

Calm down—

Another shot. This time, bark chipped off a nearby tree.

What—?

A third shot, and he reached for his rifle—

Tripped, his skies tangling. He got the rifle around, even as he fought for balance, the skis trapping him. His numb knee tore, heat spiking through him, as momentum pulled him back...

And over the edge of the riverbank.

Then he was tumbling, hitting rock, slamming against the boulders, and finally plunging into the lethal cold of the Copper River.

Keely wasn’tjust going to sit here and donothing. Like she might be a princess or something.

For one, she’d discovered the outpost ran on a generator, like the community, only this one was located in the back of the house, in a closet. She switched it on and voilà, let there be light. The instant hot water heater also worked, so that meant the dishes got cleaned, along with the floor. She should clean up the blood, but maybe it was a crime scene...

And in that case, she’d made a mess of it.

Except, then she discovered, in the bedroom with the missing comforter, a small cradle in the corner, covered in a blanket. She did the math and wanted to weep for the scenario she saw in her mind.

So yes, after she took off her underjacket—thanks to the warming house—she cleaned the blood and the plates off the floor, and made the bed with new, fresh sheets, and then swept the place, which left her with nothing to do except root through the cupboards for food stores.

Potatoes, onions, and canned meat. Dried garlic and some kind of herb—smelled like dill—and she found a pot and dumped it all together, added a can of tomatoes, and after a bit, the place smelled homey and stirred up memories of the community.

Please,Dawson,come back.

He’d been gone for hours. At least three, maybe more, and night crept into the room.

“Stay put. I’ll be back.”

She simply refused to believe anything else.

With the soup simmering, she headed to the office. Small, tidy. A map hung on the wall with tacks marking locations. One tagged the community, another a cabin on the river. She guessed that might be where Dawson went.

“Stay put.”

She’d put the handheld transceiver of the ham radio on the desk, and with the smell of soup filling the cabin, she pulled out a chair and took a look at it. The back of the device had dented in, the case breaking open, and the antenna had broken off, so maybe it took a hard fall.

Like a guy trying to call for help only to have his wife collapse in the kitchen, breaking the plate she was holding, causing him to drop the transceiver.

She should be a detective.

Please,God,bring Dawson back.

It felt like a perfect prayer, easier than she’d thought.

Screws held the back in place, so she rooted around the desk drawer, past more tacks and duct tape and pencils, and found a small screwdriver.