Page 57 of Death Valley

“I know,” he replies, and there’s a grimness to his voice that chills me more than the cold. “That’s why we keep moving.”

We continue in silence, each step taking us closer to the relative safety of the open basin. Yet with every yard gained, the sensation of being observed only intensifies, as if whatever watches us is growing bolder, more certain of its advantage.

When we finally emerge from the tree line, I nearly sag with relief. The others are where we left them, horses saddled and ready, faces anxious as they spot us approaching.

“Found her wandering in the woods,” Jensen announces, his voice carrying an edge that makes me wince. “Had a close encounter with a mountain lion.”

“Lord,” Cole mutters. “You’ve got a death wish, lady.”

“Are all city folk this dumb, or just you?” Red adds with a smirk.

“Shut the fuck up, Red,” Jensen growls.

But I ignore them, too focused on the forest behind us. I turn to look again, one last time, scanning the shadows between the trees.

Nothing moves. No tawny shape, no amber eyes reflecting the sunlight. Just still, silent forest.

Yet the certainty remains—we’re being hunted.

But by what, I’m no longer sure.

“We’re heading back,” Jensen announces, handing Duke’s reins to me. “Now.”

To my surprise, no one argues, though they exchange confused glances and shrugs. I check Duke over carefully for any sign of injury before mounting. He seems calmer now, though his ears still flick nervously toward the trees.

As we ride back across the basin, I can’t stop myself from glancing repeatedly behind us. The forest stands silent andwatchful under the afternoon sun, revealing nothing of what it conceals.

But I can feel it watching us go. Waiting.

And something tells me, deep down, it isn’t a giant cat.

17

JENSEN

The wind rips through the cabin, slinking through the thin panes and rattling the shutters like it’s trying to get in. I’ve been sitting by the window on watch for the past two hours, rifle across my knees, unable to shake the feeling of eyes on us. After what happened at Cedar Creek, I’m not taking any chances.

Hank is on watch outside, keeping an eye on the horses in the lean-to and checking the perimeter. I told him to stay close to the cabin, to come back inside if the weather turns. From the look of things, it’s gotten a hell of a lot worse in the last hour, and once again I find myself swearing at the weather service for leading us astray. I should have known better, but sometimes I’m an optimist.

It always bites me in the ass.

I check my watch—2:17 a.m. Hank should have checked in fifteen minutes ago. The rules are simple: every hour, the person on watch outside makes contact. No exceptions. This far up in the mountains, you don’t take risks. Especially after today. I told the others we can’t afford a mountain lion to swoop in and killone of the horses, even though the big cat is the last thing on my mind.

I rise from my chair, muscles stiff from sitting motionless in the cold. Across the room, Aubrey sleeps on the bearskin rug by the hearth, her sleeping bag pulled tight around her shoulders. The fire burns low, casting dancing shadows across her face. Everyone else is upstairs in the loft—Cole, Red, and Eli, all dead to the world after the day’s events and a hearty dinner of pasta and what was left of the rye whiskey.

Moving silently to the door, I grab my coat and pull it on, checking my gun before slipping outside. The cold hits me like a physical blow, wind-driven snow stinging my face. Visibility is near zero, the world beyond the porch lost in swirling white.

“Hank?” I call, my voice swallowed by the storm. “Hank!”

No answer.

I make my way toward the lean-to, following the guide rope we’d strung earlier between the cabin and the outbuilding. The horses are restless when I enter, Jeopardy nickering a welcome while Duke shifts nervously in his stall. All six horses and mule accounted for—so wherever Hank is, he didn’t take off riding.

Back outside, I scan the area around the cabin, looking for tracks. Fresh snow has already filled in any footprints, leaving the surface unbroken except for my own trail from the porch. I circle the perimeter of the immediate area, calling Hank’s name, fighting growing unease.

He wouldn’t have gone far. Not in these conditions. Not without telling me.

Unless something took him.

---