Page 33 of Cole

Fourth rock. Halfway across now.

Cole stood on the opposite bank, one hand extended toward her, ready to catch her if she stumbled. His presence steadied her, that solid reliability giving her something to focus on besides the treacherous footing and deadly water.

The fifth rock was smaller than the others, and the moment Janice's boot landed on it, she felt it shift. It was just a slight movement that told her the stone wasn't as stable as it looked.

She gasped, arms windmilling instinctively as she fought for balance. The world tilted, and for one terrifying heartbeat, she was certain she was going in. She could already feel the shock of the freezing water.

"You've got it." Cole's voice cut through her panic, calm and steady as a lifeline. "Shift your weight to your back foot. Slow and steady."

Janice did as he said, moving slowly while redistributing her weight. The rock stabilized beneath her, and she felt her racing heart begin to slow.

Two more steps to reach the safety of his outstretched hand. Finally, she pushed off the next treacherous rock and felt his hand wrap around hers. She lunged for solid ground, stumbling forward as her boots hit the snowy bank. Cole's hand pulled her upward, and then suddenly she was held against his chest as his arms wrapped around her, steadying her until she found her footing.

"Nice work," he said, and even through all the layers of clothing and gear separating them, she could feel the solid warmth of him, the strength in his hands as they gripped her arms.

"Thanks." Her voice came out breathier than she'd intended, shaky with leftover adrenaline. "That was more nerve-wracking than I expected."

"You did great." He released her slowly, as though making sure she was truly steady before letting go. His dark eyes held hers for a moment, and she saw approval there, and something else she couldn't quite name.

Once they climbed the rest of the way up the bank, they took a moment to steady their breaths, the cold air burning in Janice's lungs as her heart rate gradually returned to normal.

"Ready to continue?" Cole asked.

Janice nodded, pulling her face covering back up as the wind picked up, carrying stinging snow against her exposed skin.

They set off upstream on foot, leaving the snowmobile behind on the far side of the creek. The snow was deep enough that each step required effort, their boots sinking into powder that came up past their ankles, and in the deeper drifts, the snow was closer to her knees.

Cole stepped first, his larger frame and greater strength making it easier for him to push through. Janice followed in his footsteps, grateful for the path he was clearing, her legs already burning with the effort of high-stepping through the snow.

The forest pressed close around them, with towers of black spruce and white birch, their branches heavy with accumulated snow. The silence was profound, broken only by the crunch of their boots and the whisper of wind through needles and bare branches. Occasionally, a clump of snow would fall from a branch with a soft whump, and Janice would be startled before recognizing the sound.

She found herself watching the woods with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent four months studying this ecosystem, cataloging every detail even as she walked. There were fresh tracks from a snowshoe hare, the distinctive large hind prints showing where it had bounded between the trees in that characteristic hopping gait. And there were scratch marks on a spruce trunk where a black bear had marked its territory before denning for the winter, the claw marks still visible despite the snow.

But as they walked, Janice began to notice other things. Things that made her heart race.

A few dead fish floated in a shallow eddy along the creek bank, their pale bodies stark against the dark water. Grayling, probably, though it was hard to tell from this distance. They shouldn't be dead. Not here, not in water that should be pristine and life-giving.

She wanted to stop, to examine them, to document what she was seeing. But Cole kept moving, and she knew they couldn't afford delays. Not when they were exposed out here, visible to anyone who might be watching.

A few yards farther, she spotted bird carcasses partially buried in the snow near the creek's edge. She felt sure they were kingfishers. They should have been flitting through the trees, their cheerful calls breaking the winter silence. Instead, they lay still, claimed by something that had nothing to do with the natural cycle of predator and prey.

Then she saw the larger animal. A red fox, its beautiful rust-colored coat dulled by death, lying curled in the snow as though it had simply laid down to sleep and never woken. The sight hit her like a physical blow, stealing her breath.

Janice stopped walking, staring at the fox's body. Cole noticed immediately and turned back.

"What's wrong?"

"The animals." Her voice came out thick with emotion she couldn't quite suppress. She pointed at the fox, then gestured back toward the fish and birds they'd passed. "They're dying. The contamination is killing them."

Cole's expression hardened. "Don't touch anything," he warned. "We don't know exactly what's in that water, what chemicals they're dumping. It could be toxic to handle."

"If it's poison, they would have had to ingest it," Janice argued, the scientist in her automatically analyzing the evidence. "Skin contact alone wouldn't⁠—"

"We don't know that for sure," Cole interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "Could be heavy metals, and who knows what else. Until we get those samples analyzed, we treat everything as potentially hazardous."

Janice knew he was right. Her training as a veterinarian included protocols for handling potentially contaminated animals. But knowing something intellectually and accepting it emotionally were two different things. Her heart hurt looking at the fox, and the other creatures whose only crime had been living in a place that corporate greed had poisoned.

These creatures had no voice. No way to protest or seek justice. They just sickened and died, or moved away if they could, the delicate balance of the ecosystem disrupted in ways that would echo through generations.