Chapter One

      “Sam? Where the hell are you?” Southern Oregon’s dense coastal fog absorbed Heath Stone’s words, rendering his words useless in the search for his dog, who lately felt like his only friend.

      Heath had let him out the previous night at 2200 for his usual evening constitutional, but the dog had caught the scent of something, and a chase ensued through the forest thick with sitka spruce, western hemlock and red cedar. Heath had spent the entire night searching the pungent woods, his footfalls silent on winding pine needle-strewn paths, all the while fighting the urge to panic.

      Now, in dawn’s fragile light, with his heart empty from mourning Patricia and the pain still too raw, he couldn’t even consider suffering another loss. “Come on, Sam! Quit fooling around!”

      Heath clapped, then whistled, hoping the shrill sound carried.

      It did not.

      Thirty minutes later, he’d wound his way back to the one-bedroom log cabin that for the past year he’d called home. After relieving himself, he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face.

      He took an energy bar from the cabinet alongside the propane stove and a bottled water from the fridge. Stopping only long enough to retrieve his wallet and keys from the metal bucket he stored them in beside the door, he soon sat behind the wheel of the 1960 Ford pickup that his grandpa had bought new.

      The trek down the cabin’s single-lane drive proved daunting, with visibility being a few feet at best. After rolling down both windows, he called periodically out either side.

      By the time he reached the main road, the fog had thinned to the point he could at least make out the double yellow lines on the pavement. Usually, at this time of the morning, he and Sam set out to fish on the Umpqua River. Most weekdays, the road was deserted. Hell, most weekends—unless his hometown of Bent Road was hosting a holiday festival or fishing tourney. Most tourists traveling north from Coos Bay on Oregon Coast Highway 101 blew right by the lonely road leading to the largely forgotten town. With no trendy B and Bs or campgrounds, visitors had no reason beyond curiosity to ever stop by. A fact that suited Heath just fine.

      “Sam! You out there, boy?” Crawling along at the harrowing rate of fifteen miles per hour, Heath continued calling, intermittently scanning the faded blacktop for the potentially gut-wrenching sight of his wounded—or even dead—dog.

      “What the—” He’d driven maybe five miles before pumping his brakes, having damn near hit not his dog, but a woman—a very pregnant woman—standing in the road’s center, waving her arms. “What’s the matter with you?” he hollered, easing the truck onto the weed-choked shoulder. “Got some kind of death wish?”

      Upon killing the engine, he hopped out and slammed the door shut behind him. The dense fog stole the thunder of a gratifying bang, leaving him with a less satisfactory thud.

      “Th-thank you so much for stopping.” The ethereal blonde staggered his direction. Was she drunk? “M-my car broke down yesterday.