My father, Daniel Mercer, knew that. He had spent half his life outdoors—working cattle, fixing fence lines, hunting elk in the high country, and doing every hard job a man could find after life had taken most of what mattered from him. He knew storms. He knew mountains. He knew how quickly a bad night could become your last one.
But even he hadn’t expected betrayal.
“Caleb!” he shouted into the dark.
“I’m here!” I yelled, my voice cracking from shock more than fear.
I pushed myself up from the ditch. Snow was already piling on my jacket. My left side screamed where one of the men had kicked me. Ahead of me, half-blinded by the storm, I saw my father on one knee. He was clutching his ribs with one hand and reaching for me with the other.
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