Ty Remington blamed the homemade orange marmalade cake for why he found himself huddled under an overhang off some faraway path in Glacier National Park, shivering, praying he might live through the night.

Rain bulleted the enclave, a shallow divot in the granite at the lip of a now-rising flowing mountain creek. Wind tore at his thin rain jacket — he'd given his fleece to the couple huddled behind him, eking warmth from the scant fire he'd built. The blaze gave off a meager trickle of smoke and heat, but hopefully enough to keep them from hypothermia.

If it hadn't been for the growl in his stomach when the fragrance of Karen Reycraft's signature cake tugged at him, arresting his escape from the Fourth of July celebration at Mercy Falls Community Church, he'd be sitting on his leather sofa, watching through his window for fireworks to light over the river bridge in town.

Or he might have said yes to Gage Watson's invitation to join him and his girlfriend Ella for a movie.

Instead, he'd grabbed a plate and fallen into the potluck line ahead of Renee Jordan, proprietor of the local Free Fall B & B. Who happened to be worried about a couple of guests who hadn't shown up for breakfast this morning. "They left for a hike in the park yesterday and never came back."

Yes, she'd knocked on their door, just in case.

Ty reined in the urge to remind Renee that she ran a vacation rental. That maybe Mr. and Mrs. Berkley wanted to be left alone.

She added, "I just know how scary it is to be out there alone in the park with a storm coming. I was hoping, since you're on that rescue team ..."

There went his appetite, because unwittingly Renee had landed a lethal blow with the trifecta of arguments: in a storm, alone, and they might be in real trouble.

Most of all, maybe he could help.

Ty's gut had begun to roil with the weight of what if. He pulled out his map of the park and found the moderately strenuous and remote trail Renee had suggested to them. "The Dawson Pass hike has the best huckleberries," she said in defense.

Yes. It also passed through prime grizzly territory.

Not to mention the 2,935-foot climb.

Although, with its sweeping views of Dawson Pass, the seven-mile trek to No Name Lake could be the most dramatic day hike in the park.

"Maybe I'm overreacting," she said.

Ty had finally left his cake behind and headed over to PEAK HQ.

"You sure they're out there?" This question had come from Chet King, co-founder of the team.

After a thorough study of the map, as well as a call to local park rangers, Ty's best answer had been, "Not in the least. But my gut thinks yes."

His gut. He'd actually looked at Chet and delivered that statement. And yes, okay, he'd added a wince, a little what-to-do shrug, but still, he'd stood there like his gut might be the homing beacon they needed to activate a callout.

Chet had pursed his lips. Added a deep breath.

So maybe Ty shouldn't be listening to his gut. But it had told him the truth more than once.

Like when it warned him that journalist Brette Arnold would only cause trouble. He just hadn't quite realized it meant she'd break his heart.

Clearly, his gut needed to be more specific.

With Renee's words, however, it had grabbed ahold of him, an uncanny, bone-deep feeling that someone was hurt. "Since you're on that rescue team ..."

A placeholder, really, the guy who helped carry things. Once upon a time, he'd been the chopper pilot, but he'd screwed that up, and royally, so now he simply showed up for callouts and hoped not to ride the bench.

Maybe he could really help, for once.

"It's a holiday, no need to call in the team. I'll just ride out there and take a look," Ty had said.

"It won't be nice for long, so put a hup into your step," Chet said. "Take a radio with you."

Ty parked his truck at the Two Medicine Lake campground and knocked off the first four miles by taking the ferry across the lake.

A mile in, as he turned toward the Dawson Pass trail, the faintest rumble of thunder sounded beyond Flinsch Peak to the north.

Spotting a couple hikers headed down the trail from No Name Lake, he asked them about Jan and Richard Berkley, but they hadn't seen them.

He stopped for a moment at No Name, sweat trickling down his spine. He'd shoved a first aid kit, an overnight survival kit, and an extra blanket into his pack. The weight of it burned into his shoulders.

Maybe his gut was just reacting to the wannabe inside him. The fact that he hated standing on the sidelines, that without EMT training or rescue climber certification, he usually drove the truck or hauled up the stretchers, muscle that filled a gap in the team's roster.

He'd thought about upgrading his certifications, but getting EMT training felt like admitting that his days as a pilot were behind him. So what if he hadn't flown anyone but himself ... and recently, Chet, for his biennial exam. He would get back in the cockpit when he was ready.

Eventually.

Really.

Shoot, maybe it was time to face the truth. Without something to add to the team, he could be replaced with any number of the volunteers that showed up every year for callout training.

Ty had no doubt that only Chet's affection for him kept him on the payroll.

Ty had glanced at the storm gathering to the northwest — a rolling black thunderhead still forming on the horizon, bisected by jagged mountain peaks and rimmed on all sides by the mid-afternoon sun.

A couple miles later, he emerged through the tree line to the spit of a light rain. No Name and Two Medicine lakes were tucked into the valley below. The wind bit at him as he turned and ascended the south slope of Flinsch Peak. Bighorn sheep scuttled off the shale-littered trail.

When Ty's foot slipped on the slick rock, he stopped, breathing hard.

This was silly. The Berkleys had probably risen early and headed to Bigfork for breakfast at the Echo Lake Café.

Ty was leaning over, cupping his hands over his knees, when he heard it. A scream, and it echoed through the canyon, up the slope, and niggled the weight in his gut.

Maybe a hawk, but he stood up, listened.

It sounded again, and this time he recognized it as the shrill rasp of a whistle.

He reached for his own whistle and let out a long blow.

Three short bursts answered, the universal signal for help, and the hum in his gut roared to life. After returning the signal, he dug out his binoculars and cast his gaze over the trail that jogged up toward the pass. Then he swept his vision down, across the forest of lodgepole pine and huckleberry that dropped into a steep tumble from the trail.

The whistle continued to blast.

He stepped off the trail to angle his search and nearly slipped on the now-icy layer of snow that crusted a fissure in the rock. As he looked down, his heart stopped, lodged in his ribs at the footprints that bled down the snowfield.

Not a steep pitch at first, but the crust had broken off, and as he dragged his glasses over the field, he spotted the debris of where falling bodies had churned up snow, probably fighting for purchase before plunging down a scree slope into the trees.

A fall of nearly a hundred feet, although not straight down. He couldn't make out anyone at the bottom but followed his hunch anyway and backtracked down the trail. Finding a crossing place, he hiked down the base of...