Yellowstone meets INTO THIN AIR Patrick Flint is about to make the most harrowing climb of his life.
When the body of Patrick's beautiful young climbing partner floats up dead in the creek behind the Flint home, rumors about the two of them explode, thrusting Susanne into the role of the woman scorned and the crosshairs of the police.
If he fails to summit, he may lose his life. And his wife.
The Flints' teenage kids get sucked into the turmoil, too, with Perry making decisions that could cost him his future, and Trish becoming entangled with two local thugs, just as a past love resurfaces in her life.
It's a race against time, a killer or killers unknown, and the mountain itself.
With their freedom at stake and a killer on their heels, Patrick and Susanne must learn to trust again, revisit old memories, and delve into secrets, all to unearth a treasure the likes of which tiny Buffalo, Wyoming has never known.
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Excerpt: "Patrick rolled to his back, cradling his hand. The grade of the slope surprised him, and his roll extended to two, then three rotations. At that point, unfortunately, the ground dropped away to the creek, and his roll turned into a free fall. The sensation of air and gravity ended with a thump on the back of his head. The ringing of bells. Splashing. Wetness. Cold, over his body. On his face.
He was in Clear Creek.
Patrick spewed water from his mouth and rose to his elbows. He wasn't sure what hurt worst. Hand. Head. His skin everywhere. He was aware of sounds like voices shouting as if they were outside a glass dome, with him on the inside. He'd figure them out in a second. But before he could do anything to remedy his current situation, something bumped into his leg.
It bumped him again.
And then a third time.
Moving slowly, he used his uninjured hand to support his ringing head and lifted it higher to see what was thumping him. Nothing that he could see. Not above the water anyway, which was only six inches deep. He strained, lifting further, and then he saw it. It was a log, or something like a log, floating but not floating. Half in, half out of the water. Long and narrow. With moss billowing around one end. Stubby branches halfway down its length.
That's not moss, and that's not a log.
Crunched hand bones forgotten, Patrick scrambled to his knees for a closer look at the lifeless young woman in their backyard creek."
SKIN