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I stop.

The stall door is open, the blanket that had been draped across the rail is gone, and so is the bridle I left hanging beside it.

So is Boone’s horse.

I walk toward the empty stall slowly now, every step strangely disconnected from the one that came ahead of it, and grip the wooden rail while I stare at the trampled straw inside. Boone was here. I can see where his boots disturbed the hay and where the horse shifted impatiently while he prepared him, and all of it happened while I was standing less than a hundred yards away.

He asked me.

He stood in my kitchen with that ridiculous hopeful smile on his face and asked me to take him outside. He offered to let me accompany him, practically promised he wouldn’t leave my sight.

I told him no.

So Boone found another answer.

I close my hand around the rough rail until the rough wood digs into my skin. When I finally force myself to look toward the opposite stable door, I see the trail immediately. Deep hoofprints tear through the untouched snow beyond the stable, accompanied for several yards by Boone’s smaller footprints until those disappear completely.

He mounted the horse there.

The tracks continue toward the trees.

Toward the road that no longer exists.

Toward the life he has spent months insisting still belongs to him.

A life that does not include me.

The anger comes first because anger is familiar. It makes sense to me. For one vicious moment, all I can think about is dragging him back here and locking him in his room until spring. I imagine taking away every possibility of escape, every privilege I’ve given him, every freedom he has slowly convinced me he deserves, because apparently the instant I loosen my grip, he disappears.

Then the anger gives way to something I understand far less.

Fear.

I lift my eyes to the sky.

Another storm is coming.

I don’t waste time wondering where he went because there is only one place Boone would try to go.

His father.

Of course he went after his father.

I turn toward the castle, shove through the doors and cross the entrance hall quickly, taking the stairs two at a time as I head for my room. Boone knows what waits outside these walls. He knows how deep the snow has become and how quickly the mountain can kill someone who doesn’t understand it. None of that would matter once he decided his father needed him. He would walk straight into a blizzard if he believed there was even the slightest chance of reaching home.

I grab my coat, gloves, and everything else I’ll need, then head downstairs again, moving through the castle faster than I have in years. There’s no reason to search the rooms or call his name anymore because I already know he isn’t here. Every minute I waste gives him more time to put distance between us.

By the time I reach the stables, my horse is already shifting restlessly in her stall. I pull open the door and grab the saddle, securing everything into place as quickly as I can with my thoughts fixed on Boone somewhere beyond the castle walls.

He’s heading toward the village.

Or he’s trying to.

I tighten the final strap and lead my horse from the stall, then swing into the saddle and turn her toward the open stable doors. Snow blows inside immediately, collecting across the floor as the wind tears at my coat.

Boone thinks he knows this mountain because he crossed it once.

He doesn’t.