Page 14 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

“Didn’t feel like hiking.”

He eyes me up and down, then slowly grabs a receipt pad and pen. ““Whatcha needing?”

“Couple quarts of oil. Jerky. Coffee. Two bags of dog food.”

Jack scribbles the list like he doesn’t already know I don’t own a dog.

“You expecting company?”

I meet his gaze. “Not the friendly kind.”

His jaw works, slow and deliberate, and I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Jack’s not nosy, but he pays attention. Always has.

“Something’s off,” he says. “I feel it in the air.”

“Storm just passed.”

“I don’t mean the snow.”

He sets the pad down and leans both elbows on the counter. “Strangers bring trouble. Always have.”

I don’t answer.

“Someone new come knocking?” he adds.

This is how Jack asks without asking. If I lie, he’ll know. If I dodge, he’ll dig. I settle for the only version of the truth I can afford.

“Old connection.”

His eyes narrow. “Military?”

“Something like that.”

He nods slowly, the weight of the moment stretching long and taut between us.

“If you need help,” he says, “you know where to find me.”

“I always do.”

He rings me up and bags everything without another word. I slide cash across the counter, and he tucks it into the drawer like it's not worth counting.

“You watch your back, Shadow.”

It’s not a nickname anyone’s used around here in years. Hearing it now practically turns my spine to stone. I nod once, then leave.

The ride back is faster. I stick to the trail closest to the river, using the narrow pass between the trees where the wind never quite reaches. My goggles fog once, but I don’t stop. Every mile I put between myself and Jack’s question feels like another piece of armor sliding back into place.

But the moment I cut the engine in front of the cabin, it all starts to crumble again. I know what’s waiting inside. Not danger. Not death. Abby, and somehow, she’s more disruptive than either.

I kill the ignition, grab the bags, and climb the steps two at a time. The door creaks as I push it open, and before I’ve even kicked off my boots, she’s sitting on the couch with a mug in her hand and firelight glinting in her hair like a damn halo.

The scent hits me first.

Not the firewood or the stew she must have put on sometime this afternoon to simmer, but something warmer, sweeter. Feminine. A hint of lavender and clean skin and something deeper that hits like a punch to the gut.

She’s sitting with one bare leg tucked beneath her, a paperback from my shelf in one hand and a mug of something in the other. But it’s not just that she’s here. It’s what she’s wearing.

My flannel shirt. The one I tossed on the back of the armchair last night. Blue and black, sleeves rolled up, collar popped. It swamps her frame, but somehow she still makes it look like it belongs to her. She doesn’t even glance up when I step inside.

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