Chapter Text
A crap-ton of wind tears across the Wyoming plain. No, seriously—it's like her face went through a lawn mower and someone's now just generously dusting it with salt for good measure. What the hell. Emily stumbles through the shin-deep snow toward the cabin, her gloves doing absolutely nothing to shield the shaking from the slap-in-the-face weather. "Agent Prentiss," she announces to the men giving her the once-over, keeps it cool—no hint she's one layer away from turning into an icicle.
The older from the two gives her a quick nod. "Is it just you?"
"Just me."
"Bobby Tate, County Sheriff." He gestures to the man beside him. "And this here works for US Fish and Wildlife. He found the body." He jerks a thumb toward another man in the shadows, not far behind. "That's Frank. Doesn't do much, just... exists."
Frank grunts. "Guess we got the same job, eh?"
Emily forces a polite smile—it barely lasts a second—then turns to the Fish and Wildlife guy. “Can you show me the body?”
Snow is already starting to cling to her shoulders.
Her feet are ice blocks.
She sighs, rubbing her hands together. "Not to be rude, but I'm freezing my ass off here."
The sheriff gives her a look. "Yeah, that's only gonna get worse if you're out here dressed like that."
Emily straightens, her shivering pride hanging on by a thread. "I'm a big girl. Thank you."
Fish and Wildlife guy steps forward. "Body's a ten-mile ride by snowmobile," he deadpans. "Dressed like that? You'd be dead before we got there."
She huffs, glancing away, it's an annoying situation, and she's annoyed. Court in Riverton, called in, quick flight from Denver, and here she is—annoyed, and dying, and underdressed. "This is what I have," she mutters. "Closest agent to the scene. You don't think I can't make it like this?"
The sheriff and the Fish and Wildlife guy share a look.
"Come on," sheriff says. "We'll get you fixed up."
-
Inside the cabin's bedroom, Emily is bracing herself against something close to humiliation. The space smells faintly of wood smoke and something fried, remnants of last night's dinner maybe. She's tugging on a pair of too-tights that pinch at her waist, the material stiff and scratchy.
Alice—her unexpected wardrobe assistant, sixty-four, a good hundred pounds overweight, eyes that miss nothing—watches her like a hawk. Emily catches her own reflection in the bedroom's smudged mirror, layers upon layers of winter clothes making her look like she's ready to go bobbing for apples in the Arctic. She's trying not to make eye contact with Alice, focusing instead on buttoning herself.
"Thermals can make underwear wedge up your bottom," Alice comments, "but I guess yours are already there."
Emily bites her tongue, opting for silence. Just... getting through this.
Alice hands her a wool skull cap next, pulling it out of a pile on the bed. "You got gloves?"
Emily shakes her head. "No."
Alice clucks her tongue in disapproval, shaking her head. "Goodness. What were they thinking, sending you here?"
Emily catches another glance of herself in the mirror. With the skull cap and layers of borrowed winter gear, only her face is visible. Looks like an overstuffed snowman, absurd and vulnerable under Alice's scrutiny. Alice looks her over, then quickly covers her mouth, almost like she's trying not to cry. She turns away, busying herself with folding a blanket.
Emily clears her throat. "Thank you."
"You return them the minute you get back. They ain't a gift.”
Emily nods. "Of course."
-
She figures out Fish and Wildlife guy’s a dad the moment she steps out of the bedroom. “Couple more hours, kid. Sorry,” he says—fish guy, wildlife guy—Hotch (or at least, that’s what the others were calling him a second ago).
Kid’s face falls. Deflates. Someone popped his balloon kind of way. But he still nods.
Emily shifts, this is… starting to feel like total crap. Temperature’s dropping faster than her patience, and the wind’s already slapping at her cheeks like a snowman with a serious attitude problem. She glances outside—snow’s coming down hard.
The sheriff catches her eye, frowning. "It ain't letting up."
She fiddles with the turtleneck.
Hotch watches, frowning. His gaze lands squarely on her coat. He gestures at the storm outside.
“Look, it’s ten below. You’re gonna want to leave your pride on the porch and hug me like your prom date, got it?”
She steps forward, squaring her shoulders. "I'm the highest-ranking law enforcement officer for three hundred miles in any direction. Don't tell me what to do."
Hotch’s face doesn't change much, just a slight lift of his brow. "Not trying to insult you, ma'am, just making sure there's only one girl frozen to death out there today."
Emily clenches her jaw, steps out the door.
Okay.
Alright.
He tosses her a helmet as they approach the snowmobile. She's perched on the back, clutching him to avoid getting whipped off.
Her fingers dig into the sides of his coat as they race across the prairie, free samples of hypothermia punching in the face, teeth chattering. She presses her forehead into his back, the only barrier against the sting that's seeping in, creeping up her spine, and lodging itself somewhere behind muscles.
They arrive at the scene, and she's greeted by the sight of four police snowmobiles, officers huddling near a mobile propane heater like moths to a flame. Two EMTs are crouched around the body.
Fish guy—Hotch—her reluctant guide, whatever his name is—doesn't wait for her to ask. He points to the snow. "Picked up her tracks about 300 meters south."
Emily nods, doing her best to shake off the chill. She walks toward the officers, and crouches beside the body of a young woman. An EMT waves a heat gun over the area, attempting very hard to unfreeze the ice where the snow meets the victim's skin.
"Got a positive ID?"
The sheriff shakes his head. "Not positive, no."
“Natalie Hanson,” Hotch says.
The sheriff clears his throat. "No ID on her," he mutters. "And nobody from the family has identified the body, but..."
Emily's eyes flick up, a nod. "Let's call that positive for now." She glances out into the endless sweep of white. "She live close?"
"Fort Washakie," he replies, eyes trailing northward as if he can see through the snow to the small town. "North a ways."
Emily squints. "What's 'a ways'?"
"Thirty-minute drive."
She looks down at Natalie, her sweatpants cling to her legs, stiff and frozen. No shoes, just bare feet turned a sickly shade of purple. "Okay," Emily murmurs, "she didn't run from home."
She reaches out, fingertips hovering just above a long gash that cuts across the girl's leg. The flesh beneath is pale, stretched taut. Frozen solid. Emily pulls her hand back.
"No one reported her missing? Her parents?"
The sheriff shakes his head. "No."
A girl goes missing in a place this small, and no one thought to check in? Makes the parents rather suspect.
She looks up at the sheriff again. "How experienced is your medical examiner?"
A faint, almost pitying smile touches his lips. "He stays busy.”
"Order a rape kit," she says, eyes on the sheriff. "When he's done with his prelim, I want her sent to Cheyenne. And make sure her belongings go with her. I need them tested. I’m listing this as a homicide.”
One of the officers mutters under his breath, "Gee, you think."
Emily's gaze flickers over to him, quick, makes the man visibly swallow whatever half-baked thought he was about to add.
"We're not going to find the attack site if it's out in the open," she says, half to herself, half to the group. "Not until spring, anyway."
She turns to Hotch. "How well do you know this land?"
The man shrugs. "Like it's my job. Which it is."
Emily raises an eyebrow. "Anywhere she could have been running from? Anything close?"
He looks out over the landscape. "Nearest homes are seven, maybe eight miles southeast."
Another voice chimes in—sheriff again. "Sam Littlefeather's house is out there."
Hotch nods. "Yep. Those boys are worth looking into."
Emily considers this, but shakes her head. "I'm no survivalist, but that's too far to run in the snow," she says. "She's dressed no better than I was, and I almost froze to death in your front yard."
And Hotch’s mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. "You're not from here," he points out.
"Thanks, I noticed. There's no structures closer?"
He seems to think for a moment. "Drill rigs, maybe five miles from here. There's trailers for the workers, but they shut it down in winter."
"So why would a teenage girl be out here?"
"Kids come out here on snowmobiles," the sheriff offers.
"Not barefoot they don't," of course they don’t, and then she turns to Hotch. "What do you think?"
Isn’t he wildlife guy? He doesn't answer right away, brow creased in thought. "Only thing I can tell you about is the tracks."
"That's the only thing we've got."
He nods, then moves a few steps, pausing to kick away some snow. Kneels, blowing the loose flakes until something appears—Natalie's footprint, the toes splayed out, stained with the telltale dark red of frozen blood.
"Look here.”
Emily leans in, cold pinching her exposed cheeks.
She sees it.
"See how the toes twist out?" he points out. "And the front of the track here—deeper than the heel."
"Yeah." She nods.
"She was running," he says simply.
Emily glances up, following the line of his arm as he points across the snowfield to where Natalie's body lies.
"She ran until she dropped.”
He moves forward, guiding Emily to a patch of stained, trampled snow. Gestures, and she sees it—the mark where Natalie's body collapsed, face-first into the ground, blood staining the snow in a rough, macabre halo. He crouches beside the spot. "Gets down to twenty below out here at night. You breathe that cold air deep, like when you're running..."
He almost trails off, but. "It freezes everything. Lungs fill up with blood. You start coughing it up. Wherever she came from, she ran all the way here. Her lungs burst. She curled up under that tree." His eyes narrow, lingering on the spot where Natalie's life slipped away. "She didn't freeze to death. She drowned.”
"And how far could someone run barefoot out here?"
"I've seen tourists freeze to death in these mountains when it was barely 40 degrees," Hotch replies.
“Oh.”
"I've seen a fur trader caught in his own trap drag himself six miles to a forest service cabin and radio for help. In the dead of winter. There ain't no gauge for the will to live. Some have it. Plenty don't."
He looks at her. "I knew this girl. She was a fighter. However far we think she ran, my guess is she ran farther."
Emily watches him turn his gaze eastward. There's a flicker of something—a softness in his face that wasn't there before.
"I gotta get back to my son," he says, almost apologetic. "I promised him a few hours."
Ah.
She gets it, sure, but… survival in this terrain? She’d be lost, no question. She swallows, glancing around at the other officers, then back at him.
"Would you be willing to help me? I mean..." She stops, collecting herself, words coming out softer than she intended. "I can't... Hell, I couldn't find the way back to my car.”
She turns to sheriff. "Can I borrow him for a few days?"
Sheriff raises an eyebrow. "He don't work for me." He gives a short nod in Hotch’s direction. "You got a lion to kill, don't forget."
"There's three of 'em," Hotch replies. "And I didn’t.”
Emily tilts her head. "What do you do for the Forest Service?"
"I'm a hunter."
"A lion hunter?" she asks.
He corrects her with a faint shake of his head, "I hunt predators."
"Good," she says. "Come hunt one for me."
-
The decor inside is a bizarre homage to the Old West—wagon wheels, black leather couches, and watercolors depicting rugged mountains, cowboys, and galloping horses.
Behind the counter stands a man almost comically tall as he lounges against the counter, eyes glued to a small TV broadcasting some late-night talk show.
"You look a little frazzled," he says, not even glancing her way.
"Quite a storm out there.”
"Yeah, you could've picked a better day to travel."
"Could I get a room?" she asks, trying to keep her impatience in check.
"How many nights?" he replies, finally tearing his gaze away from the TV.
"I don't know. A week, maybe?"
"Smoking?"
"No."
"Pets?"
"No."
"Listen," he says, leaning closer, "if you have a pet, now's the time to tell me. A whining dog at 3 AM puts you both back in the storm."
"Definitely no pets," she assures him.
He slides a large index card across the counter. "MasterCard, Visa, or cash. Fill out your home address and vehicle information. I need to make a copy of your license."
Emily lays her FBI ID and badge on the counter, her eyes narrowing. "Do you give a government discount?"
He chuckles. "Government's never given me one."
"So that's a no.”
-
Emily moves down a dim, washed-out hallway the next day. Sheriff propped against the wall, nursing a cup of something that’s probably coffee, and she’s just a little bit jealous.
“Did you sleep?” He asks.
“Barely,” Emily mutters. “Did the family ID her?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“They say why they never reported her missing?”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Had a boyfriend she stayed with sometimes. They didn’t think much of it. She was eighteen. Free to do what she wanted.”
Emily huffs. “Gonna need to talk to the boyfriend.”
“We’ll get to that.”
He steps toward the exam room, hand on the door, then hesitates.
“You ever done this before?”
Emily squints at him. “Observed an autopsy? Come on. Why? Is it that obvious?”
He doesn’t answer. Just takes a sip of his probably-cold coffee.
-
“I’ll be quick,” Dr. Randy Whitehurst—that’s his name—doesn’t waste time with handshakes or pleasantries. Just straight to business. “You are…”
Emily swallows back whatever’s crawling up her throat. “Agent Prentiss.”
Sheriff stands beside her, adds, “FBI.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m FBI.”
Whitehurst gives her a once-over. “First autopsy?”
“It’s my first on an investigation, but I’m trained for this, so can we just—” she gestures at the body, “—get to it?”
Whitehurst doesn’t argue. “Yes, ma’am. As you can see, she suffered a deep laceration along the brow line.”
He points at each injury. “Two separated ribs. Frostbite in both feet, up through her ankles. More on her nose and left ear. The frostbite on her feet is stage four—you can tell by the blueing here, see that?”
Emily nods, jaw tight.
“Vaginal wall is torn,” Whitehurst continues. “The damage—different depths, different angles—suggests penetration by multiple individuals. Bite marks along the neck and left nipple, distinct measurements.”
“So there were two assailants.”
“At least,” Whitehurst confirms. “Swabbed her, sent the samples by courier to Cheyenne,” barely looks up from his notes. “We should have DNA results in a week or so, but I’ll state it in my report—sexual assault by multiple offenders.”
Sick, a deep, relentless sickness in her stomach. Not even thinking, her hand reaches out, fingertips brushing a strand of hair from the girl’s face.
“Don’t touch her,” Whitehurst warns. “I haven’t combed for forensics yet.”
Emily pulls her hand back. “Sorry.”
Sheriff shifts beside her. “What are you listing as the cause of death?”
“You’re not gonna like it,” Whitehurst mutters. “Pulmonary hemorrhage.”
Emily frowns. “Which means?”
Whitehurst exhales. “When subzero air is drawn into the lungs, it can cause the alveoli—tiny sacs in the lungs—to burst. Fluid builds. If the air is cold enough, that fluid crystallizes. Eventually, the victim either freezes from the inside out, or they drown in their own blood.”
Emily swallows. Hard. Jesus.
“That’s the cause of death in this case,” Whitehurst finishes.
Hotch was right.
But.
But then it hits her. “You’re not listing this as a homicide.”
“Can’t,” Whitehurst says simply.
“But—you have to factor in the circumstances,” Emily argues. “She was raped. Repeatedly. Beaten. And then—”
“Look,” Whitehurst interrupts, rubbing his temple. “Circumstances are your field, not mine. Let me show you—”
“I don’t need it explained,” Emily snaps. “I need to find whoever chased her to death in this frozen hell and put them in prison. And not calling this a—”
She stops, breathes. Walks a slow lap around the room. Comes back to where she started.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
Dr. Whitehurst leans back, tapping his pen against his clipboard. “This is very prosecutable as a murder—clearly, she wouldn’t have been running through the snow if she hadn’t been attacked. But I can’t list the cause of death as a homicide.”
What the fuck. What the actual fuck.
Emily clenches her jaw. “The only way I can get an FBI team to the reservation is if it’s listed as a homicide. I’m not here to solve this. I’m here to obtain a cause of death and have someone sent here who can.”
Whitehurst doesn’t budge. “Look, present the rape, present the assault, and I’m sure—”
“Those aren’t federal crimes,” Emily interrupts. “Those fall under the Bureau of Indian Affairs and…” She trails off, frustrated. “Sorry.”
Emily glances at the sheriff, her eyes silently begging him to offer something, anything. Literally.
He shrugs, an old, tired look in his eyes. “Hey, we’re used to no help.”
Emily doesn’t give an inch. “You guys don’t have, like, six officers on your entire force to cover an area the size of Rhode Island? No offense, but this is going to have to curl up in your lap for you to solve it.”
Whitehurst bristles. “We all know it’s a murder,” he insists. “Have a U.S. Attorney sign off on it. I’m happy to corroborate that, but I just can’t put it on the death certificate.”
Emily shakes her head. “Okay. Thank you.”
-
“So, you never met him?”
“No.”
Sheriff presses on, a little sharper now. “And she never talked about him?”
“Not to me.”
Emily finally speaks up, flat. “Why would you, her father, let her stay with a man you’ve never met? A man whose name you don’t even know?”
“She was an adult,” the man replies.
Emily doesn’t flinch, just shoots back, “Barely.”
“What’s all this?”
“I don’t mean to offend you. I’m just trying to understand the dynamic here, Mr. Hanson.”
“Why is it, whenever you people try to help, it starts with insults? I don’t know why she wouldn’t tell me,” he growls. “But she was eighteen. I chose to trust her. I chose wrong.”
He eyes her up and down.
Emily stays quiet for a second, thinking.
Then, “How about your wife? Did your daughter talk to her?”
His response is quick. “Do you talk to your mother?”
Emily ignores it. “Annie, right? Is she here?”
The father shrugs. “She’s in the bedroom.”
Emily nods. “I’d like to speak to her.”
His hawk eyes narrow. There’s something almost amused in the way he says, “Be my guest.” A dare.
She holds his gaze. “Thanks.” She gestures toward the hallway. “That way?”
Sheriff shifts beside her. “Emily.” A warning.
What. What is going on? She glances at him, then back at the father. “You don’t mind?”
Arms crossing. “Hey, you don’t need my permission. You’re an adult.” A pause. “Barely.”
Point made.
Emily moves down the hall. Comes to a door. Knocks softly. No answer.
She pushes it open—
First thing she sees is Annie Hanson drenched in blood.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, sobbing, mumbling, rocking back and forth. A kitchen knife clutched in trembling hands. Cuts winding like thin, jagged trails up her arms.
The air leaves Emily’s lungs.
She doesn’t wait for it to escalate, spiral—nope, not happening. Just—yeah, no—shuts the door.
For a long second, just stands there.
Zero thoughts. Nothing in her head.
She turns, walks back to the living room.
Natalie’s father is waiting, burning holes into her.
She’s got it coming.
Emily meets his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Before he can respond, a knock at the door. The man opens it.
It’s Hotch.
-
HIP-HOP shakes the flimsy house to its foundation, bass rattling the windows like they’re seconds from giving up entirely.
Sheriff glances down, and—yes, Emily sees it too, snowmobile tracks leading away from the highway. And then… nothing. Like whoever was riding either grew wings or got hauled off in a trailer.
Hotch peels off toward the back of the house.
Emily and Sheriff take the front.
Sheriff draws his pistol. “Natalie’s brother lives here with Sam and Bart Littlefeather. And a real piece of work named Frank Walker.” A moment where she thinks okay, following. “Hanson’s kid’s bad, but the others are stone evil. Watch yourself.”
Emily nods. “Should we maybe wait for backup?”
Sheriff snorts. “This ain’t the land of backup, agent Prentiss. This is the land of ‘you’re on your own.’”
Fantastic.
Emily shakes her head while somehow nodding—right on the line between fuck fuck fuck and reluctant acceptance. She pulls her pistol.
Sheriff pounds on the door.
They wait.
-
“Wake up. Hey, you’re alright—”
She blinks—tears, snot, everything—choking on a breath as a cloth swipes across her face, wiping it away. “There you are. Welcome back.”
Sound filters back in pieces. She blinks again, sees Hotch more clearly, kneeling by her thigh.
Her eyes fucking burn—can barely keep them open.
“Hey, FBI. Those kids really kicked your ass, huh?”
“Dickheads,” she spits, memory flashing—some punk’s furious face right before he cracked a bottle against her skull.
“Pepper spray.”
“I know.” Hotch nods, offering his hand. “Come on, you need that cut looked at.”
“Where’s Sheriff?”
“Followed them.”
Emily nods. “Good.” Then immediately groans. “Fuck.” She grabs his hand, hauling herself up.
“Can you walk?”
“What?”
“Can. You. Walk?”
She blinks. “I can.”
A beat. Can she walk? Yes, sure. Not that bad, right? “Can walk fine.”
She takes one step and staggers—no chance to recover before he catches her, hand firm at her waist, arm curling around. Her face hits the flat of his shoulder, and she sags, allows the pepper-spray tears spill. Hotch shifts her just enough to lift her onto her toes. Then off the ground. No effort at all. “That was one hell of a hit—you need a hand, take the hand. No shame in it.”
-
Emily’s not stupid—her forehead’s stitched up, and she’s clocked at least three different nurses rotating through the room, each sneaking glances. Not at her red-rimmed eyes or the dried blood flaking off her face. No, they’re looking at Hotch.
Not exactly shocking. She’s not blind—he’s good-looking. Maybe it’s the voice too, that slight bit of an accent. Maybe it’s the whole cowboy hat. Or maybe it’s the frown—permanent, unwavering. Something about him.
Not that Emily cares. She barely has time to eat, let alone analyze whatever it is that makes the man the hospital heartthrob. But she notices things. And she notices that Hotch sidesteps every single advance—every soft smile, every “How’s your kid?”—with responses so brief they barely qualify as words.
She smirks to herself as the last lingering nurse finally gives up and leaves.
“What?” Hotch steps closer, eyes flicking to the blanket over her lap, where her hands are.
“Nothing.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Well, it’s cold.”
“I’ll have them bring you another—”
“Oh, no, please. With the amount of attention this room’s been getting over a few stitches, it’s getting embarrassing,” she tilts her head, rolling her shoulders. “You’re kind of a celebrity here.”
He flicks his tongue across his lips, eyes scanning her face. “Oh?”
“What does your wife think of that?”
“Mm.” He looks away. “She’s dead.”
And—wow. Fuck. That lands flat and hard. Her face heats, regret numbing her tongue.
“Oh. I— you. I’m so sorry, I—”
“How could you know, right?” He waves it off, then nods toward her bandaged head. “Doc said you should rest for at least forty-eight hours. Think this investigation can be put on hold?”
“It can’t.”
“Then just sit this one out today,” he counters. “Tomorrow, you can start again. I’ve got a room you can stay in—if you want. I’m no doctor, but it can’t be good to be alone with a concussion.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You’re shaking so damn much, are you sure—”
“Super fine,” she reassures quickly.
She’s not. Maybe 60% fine, at best.
“Coffee? Sounds good?” he asks, a blink brushing that little crease between his eyebrows, trying to hide the concern—too subtle, but she sees it anyway. And, honestly? Makes her want to crack a smile. He’s definitely not the cozy-warm type, and maybe she looks worse than she feels, so he’s just throwing her a pity treatment.
“Yeah, sounds okay,” she concedes, because why not. Coffee’s never bad.
He steps out just as the nurse walks in.
-
“Poor thing,” the nurse mutters, waiting until Hotch is probably halfway down the hall before she breathes a word. “I’m surprised he even stepped foot in the hospital. He hasn’t been inside since, well…”
“I—” Emily knows hospital gossip is a thing, but she really, really doesn’t think she should be prying. It feels all kinds of wrong.
“He insisted. I couldn’t walk.”
“He’s a gentleman.”
Emily just nods. “Yes. He… yes.”
“And he must like you a lot,” the nurse points out, eyeing the jacket draped over Emily’s shoulders. “I’ve never seen him without it.”
Emily looks down, touching the thick fabric. “He thinks my non-local ass is going to freeze to death, that’s all,” she offers, half a joke.
And the nurse doesn’t respond right away, too quiet as she adjusts the IV.
“What?” Emily asks, clearing her throat, feeling that quiet linger.
Nurse looks up. “Honey, you don’t know? That’s how his wife died.”