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private cabin. Her father had it built for her when she returned from the
FBI
Academy
at Quantico ten years ago, announcing, “Randy, you need your own place. But I’d be mighty lonely if you moved to town.”
    Bill Moore would never be alone. He was well liked and admired by everyone in
Gallatin
County
, and his lodge did well with both the summer tourist trade and winter skiers, as well as locals coming in for dinner or Sunday brunch throughout the year. The lodge had eight suites upstairs for guests; twice as many cabins dotted the eighty-some acres Bill owned. Longtime friends visited often; strangers were like family. That was Bill’s way.
    Miranda longed to sink into her private hot tub and watch the day go by through the picture window. Soak until she was red and raw from water almost too hot to tolerate. Cry until there were no tears left.
    Instead she grabbed extra ammunition for the .45 auto she carried and retrieved her shotgun. Her dad would provide food, but she packed her survival kit. Three days of dry food and water pouches, knife, flare gun, and matches stacked into the bottom half of a backpack. She added the ammo, as well as a lined Gore-Tex jacket, change of clothes, and thermal blanket.
    She would never be caught unprepared.
    Fifteen minutes later she walked into the commercial-sized kitchen and watched as her father and Ben “Gray” Grayhawk—cook, general handyman, and friend—loaded an ice chest with water bottles and individually wrapped sandwiches. There were at least forty meals. Six thermoses were packed into a box, along with Styrofoam cups and a green garbage bag for trash.
    She put her backpack down by the door and wrapped her arms around her father. “Thank you, Daddy.” She smiled her appreciation at Gray.
    “Your father won’t say it but I will,” Gray said. “You watch yourself, young lady. Don’t be going traipsing off into the woods without backup. Don’t be the hero. Be smart.”
    “I’ll be careful.” Miranda loved Gray, even though he worried constantly about her. A few years older than her father, his long, braided silver hair, high cheekbones, and flat face bespoke his Indian heritage, but his green eyes favored his European mother. Born in Bozeman, he’d moved away as a teenager, returning after serving three tours of duty in Vietnam.
    It was Gray who had taught her about guns.
    The three of them took the food and beverages to Miranda’s Jeep. As she was about to get in, her father grabbed her arm. His blue eyes, a pale reflection of her own, shone with worry and concern. “Randy, be careful.”
    She nodded, unable to say anything for fear the tears she’d held at bay since her moment of weakness at the university would break free. She hopped in, waved, and drove away.
    Bill watched the Jeep until it disappeared around the bend, just past the sign that announced: You’re always welcome at Gallatin Lodge. He took out his bandanna, blew his nose.
    Gray clamped his large hand on his friend’s shoulder. “She’ll be okay, Billy. She has a strong spirit.”
    “I know. I know.” He breathed in deeply, eased the fresh mountain air from his lungs. “She deserves to be happy. I just love her so much, I hate seeing her go through this over and over again.”
    “It’s what she’s meant to do. You can’t force her down your path, just like Nick couldn’t force her down his.”
    Bill glanced at his friend. “Quinn Peterson called for a room.”
    “You give him one?”
    “Yep.”
    “Miranda ain’t gonna be too happy with that.”
    “Don’t I know it.” But he had amends to make. He only hoped that Miranda would forgive him when she learned the truth.
     
    Elijah Banks thanked the God he no longer believed in that his luck was finally changing.
    He tore out the back door of Gazette headquarters in Missoula and jumped into his rusting pickup truck. A quick glance at his watch told him he had just enough time to swing by his apartment and grab an overnight