Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) by Nya Rawlyns Page B

forties. Following George, he ducked into another cabin, mindful of the clearance and marveled at the iron bed frame and old shelving gathering dust.
    Anticipating Sonny’s next question, George said, “Nobody’s used this facility since the eighties. What with the winters and lack of maintenance it’s a miracle stuff’s held up well as it has.”
    They poked their heads into a solitary unit nearest the lake. It seemed surprisingly free of dust, the odd bits of broken furniture moved to the side, leaving an open space in the center.
    Sonny asked, “Do people stay in these cabins? Hikers, maybe?”
    “I imagine they do. Roofs leak like a sieve though, so it’s not the best of shelter.” He looked around curiously. “Somebody’s been using this one. Recently too.” The ranger got a strange look on his face.
    “Is that a problem, sir?”
    “Probably not.” He exited the building. “Come on, it’s getting late. Don’t want to hold you up from making camp.”
    They exchanged a few comments, Sonny explaining where they planned on going and what he hoped to accomplish. When the ranger asked if they had everything they needed, Sonny assured him Michael had done all the packing.
    “You’ll be fine then. There’s nobody tougher and more trail savvy than Brooks. He’ll make sure you come back alive.”
    Grinning, Sonny said, “That’s a relief.”
    The man chuckled. “Mind you, Dr. Rydell, I didn’t say in one piece.” His expression turned serious. “Listen to Brooks, do what he tells you. Don’t argue, don’t ask questions. And don’t piss him off.”
    Sonny sighed. “Too late.”
    “Too late for what?” Michael came around the rear end of the stock trailer with buckets in hand. Sonny nearly jumped out of his skin. Searching for Ranger George to bail him out, he saw the man looking in the back of the truck.
    George asked Michael, “Where’s your hunting rifle, son?”
    “Impounded. I didn’t have time to shop for another one.” He slapped at the weapon in a low-slung holster at his hip. “Won’t bring down an elephant, but it’ll sure annoy most critters we’re likely to run across.”
    “Go get mine out of the truck. It needs sighting in, but it’ll do you well enough. Spare ammo’s on the floor in a box.”
    Sonny felt his nerves ratcheting to high alert. What the heck had he gotten himself into? On a clear day he might be able to see the interstate from one of the higher peaks. Why were the ranger and Michael acting like they were pioneering into uncharted wilderness?
    George walked with Michael to the truck. Sonny followed, drawn into a conversation he barely understood.
    “One of the cabins looks to be in use.”
    “It’s almost summer, George. Not too surprising.”
    “Been reports of vandalism south of here, down around the walk-in campsites. Stuff stolen. Tents ripped, that kind of crap.” George handed Michael the rifle. Sonny nearly messed his shorts. It looked like a sniper rifle, all lean and modular, with a scope that would work nicely if you were looking at the rings of Saturn.
    Michael glanced back at the horse trailer. “You don’t think it’s safe to leave it here?”
    “Might be fine, might not. That there truck of yours is a powerful incentive to misbehave.”
    “Can’t do anything about it now, George.”
    The ranger paced in a small circle, thinking. “How about I bring my brother up tomorrow. He can take the rig down to his place. It’ll be safe enough there.”
    “I don’t like to put anyone out.”
    Sonny agreed, nodding his head vigorously, because the thought of not having the rig to return to on a moment’s notice wasn’t high on his list of favorite things. He liked his life neat and orderly, with all his ducks in a row, data dutifully recorded in columns. He was comfortable with metrics, with measuring his world and lining up the numbers so they made sense.
    When Michael said, “You might be right, let’s do that,” Sonny wanted to curl into