Page 52 of Death Valley

Old habits die hard.

By the time I’ve used the toilet, rekindled the fire, and put coffee on to boil, the sound of movement from above tells me the others are waking. I brace myself for the day ahead, for navigating not just the dangerous terrain outside, but the shifting dynamics within our small group.

The door opens, bringing a blast of cold air and the sharp scent of pine. Jensen steps inside, stamping snow from his boots on the threshold. His eyes find mine immediately, something unreadable passing through them before his expression closes off.

“Morning,” he says, voice gruff. “Storm’s passed. Left about eight inches of fresh snow. You’re going to need a better jacket today.”

“Got one. Good tracking conditions?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral, professional.

“Nothing better than fresh snow for recent tracks,” he says. “Can’t say the same for old tracks. But it will do.”

The moment stretches between us, loaded with everything we’re not saying, not just about the sex, but also the idea of fresh tracks in general. Then footsteps on the stairs break the spell as Eli descends, followed closely by Cole and Hank.

“Coffee?” Eli asks hopefully, sniffing the air.

“Almost ready,” I reply, grateful for the distraction from the awkwardness between Jensen and I. “Won’t be as good as yours, though.”

Red is the last to appear, his gaze moving between Jensen and me with calculating interest. There’s something in his expression that sets my teeth on edge—the look of a man who knows more than he’s letting on. The kind of man that covets.

“Beautiful day for a hunt,” he drawls, dropping into a chair at the table. “So what’s the plan, boss?”

The question is directed at Jensen, but Red’s eyes remain fixed on me, assessing, almost predatory. It takes considerable effort not to shift under his scrutiny, not to reveal the discomfort his attention triggers. He seems the type that thrives on making women uncomfortable and I have more than my fair share of experience with men like that.

Jensen moves to the woodstove, pouring coffee into tin mugs before answering. “We’ll head northwest from here, toward Cedar Creek. It’s about a couple miles as the crow flies, but slower going with the fresh snow. Look around, search for clues, come back. Should take most of the day.”

“Why Cedar Creek?” I ask, accepting the mug he offers without letting our fingers touch. “What’s there?”

“Just a hunch,” he replies, not quite meeting my eyes.

Breakfast is a quick affair—instant oatmeal and a few strips of jerky, washed down with more coffee. The cabin gradually warms as the fire establishes itself, but a certain chill remains inthe air between us all, as if we’ve been unable to shake the trials of yesterday’s ride.

As if we’re mentally preparing for something to get worse.

Eli does the dishes with quiet efficiency, occasionally glancing at Jensen with a question in his eyes that goes unanswered. The rest prepare the packs. I make sure my duffel is always in my sight. It feels like the longer I’m here, in a small space with Jensen and his crew, the more chance I’ll slip up. I know I can blame the firearm on just being an American woman, but I don’t want them to question me at all.

Jensen is back to being all business, the man from last night—vulnerable, tender, rough, almost desperate in his need—is nowhere to be found. In his place stands the hard-eyed guide, focused solely on the task ahead. Guess I should appreciate his commitment to Lainey, even if he’s doing it because I’m paying him all my inheritance.

“Make sure you dress warm,” he instructs as we prepare to leave. “Basin’s exposed, wind cuts like a knife up there.”

Outside, the world has been transformed. A blanket of pristine white covers everything—the trees, the cabin roof, the horses in their lean-to who snort their hellos. The sky above is a hard, brilliant blue, the sun reflecting off the snow with blinding intensity. The mountains rise around us, majestic and indifferent to the human drama playing out in their shadow.

It’s absolutely beautiful, the fresh sharp air filling my lungs, and yet there’s something menacing in the beauty. Like it’s all an illusion, darkness and depravity waiting just underneath the icy skin.

The horses are skittish as we saddle them, tossing their heads and rolling their eyes at shadows, as if they too know the dangers that lurk out of sight. Duke seems particularly unsettled, dancing sideways when I approach with the saddle blanket.

“Easy,” I murmur, stroking his neck the way Jensen does. “What’s got you spooked, boy?”

“Animals sense things we don’t,” Eli says, appearing beside me with Duke’s bridle. “Horses especially. Their systems are extra sensitive to energies.”

“Energies?”

He gives me a look I can’t quite interpret—part warning, part appraisal. “Among other things. Did you know that your horse can synch their heartbeat with yours? It’s one reason why they can supposedly smell fear—they can sense the energy change. It’s also why equine therapy works. I’d reckon Duke has been good for you and you for him. Perhaps you’ll be able to reassure him that everything is fine.”

Yeah, except I know deep down it isn’t.

The ride to Cedar Creek takes us through terrain that grows increasingly wild with each mile. The trail, barely visible beneath the fresh snow, winds through stands of pine before opening onto exposed ridgelines where the wind has sculpted the snow into fantastic shapes. In places, the drifts are deep enough that the horses struggle, plunging through to their knees.

We crest a ridge around mid-morning, the ground falling away before us to reveal a natural basin cupped between mountain slopes. A frozen creek cuts through its center, its course marked by scrub brush poking through the snow.

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