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group headed back to the warmth of the bonfire, where the concern and fear draped over them like a bad cloud. Maybe this missing man had headed down the mountain on his own. It was only an hour or so back out to the main road. Maybe he would turn up at any minute with a good story to tell and none the worse for wear. Ellenberg said a quick prayer to the public relations gods.
     

Three
    It was fatigue all bound up with worry and weird thoughts. Allison had a hard time connecting the images from the day in her mind. She had put Bear away in the barn with a small sack of his own oats and had unloaded Eli. They both needed a good scrub but that would wait. It was midnight.
    There was no one around to help or even talk to. Someone sleeping in the barn would have demonstrated concern for her whereabouts or well-being, but Allison had to remind herself not to look for such civilized touches. She was safe, dead, or struggling alone in the wilderness. Three choices. Take your pick. Had someone been sleeping in the barn, Allison would have felt like she belonged to a family. Loose-knit for sure, but still a family. But the barn’s lack of humans said it all. So much for sentiment.
    Allison walked the last stretch home. David might already be there. But occasionally he’d have a beer and unwind before driving up from Glenwood Springs. She wanted to curl up and wrap an arm over his broad back and conk out. But now she was torn between wanting to avoid the long talk, in order to maximize sleep time, and wanting to discuss the details of the day and attempt to put logic to the events.
    She followed the road until the fence ended at the edge of Pete Weaver’s Ripplecreek Ranch. She cut diagonally through an open field and couldn’t quite get her legs out of first gear, a common sensation after a day on a horse. Her strides felt minuscule; the earth slowed.
    She crossed Owl Creek on a footbridge, followed the creek down along the opposite bank, trudged through snow to the top of a small ridge and spotted the dim shape of her cabin. A weak porch light cast enough watts to offer a bearing, but it looked as if David Slater had not yet arrived. Otherwise, the whole place would have been ablaze.
    She stopped on her porch, kicked the snow off her boots with a gentle tap against the threshold and opened the door to her small A-frame. The kitchen corner faced south, so in daytime the sunlight poured through two large windows. The bedroom was on the opposite side, tucked back in the corner. A heavy, wood-frame couch and a couple of old sitting chairs framed a living area around a wood stove. A long table made for an eating space next to the kitchen. The only closed space was a closet-sized bathroom stuck off the back. A spiral staircase led up to a set of twin beds in a loft where Allison liked to sleep because she could wake to a view of the peaks off to the east toward the Holy Cross Wilderness.
    Allison lit a candle on the dining table, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and headed straight to the bathroom to start the shower steaming. Remaining on her feet would delay sleep and it might keep her perked up enough to wait for Slater. Surnames ruled among conversation and wildlife officers so that’s how she thought of him, too. Slater.
    She was certain sleep wouldn’t have its way with her until she told someone what she’d experienced and she was equally sure Slater would have some ideas about what she’d seen. Telling someone would make it seem more real. She lit newspaper and kindling in the wood stove and took a long draw of Coors. She undressed. The can of beer served as friend in the now-steaming stall and she let the shower blast her from behind, expecting Slater to call out any second.
    She dried off. She stuck a few pieces of wood in the stove and stretched out on the couch. She finished the beer and thought about making some tea to keep her moving until Slater arrived. She stared at the flicker of light from the vent in the