Page 21 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

“We’re not under your roof.”

He shakes his head. “I see smartass is part of the Westwood DNA. Let me put it another way, as long as you’re here or until I know the threat to you has been neutralized, I will keep you safe, even from your own choices. You don’t like it, tough shit.”

I stare up at him, anger and heat flaring in equal measure. “That sounds an awful lot like ownership.”

“Call it what you will,” he says with a shrug.

And with that, he turns, straddles the snowmobile, and jerks his head toward the second seat.

I climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and feel the rumble of the engine start under us. We shoot forward out of the tunnel; the lights vanishing behind us, the cave falling away as we bounce through the snow. Even in the cold, even with danger snapping at our heels, all I can think is: God help me, I believe him.

6

TRAVIS

The engine roars beneath us, eating snow like a beast with something to prove. Abby holds tight around my waist, her body pressed flush to my back, legs bracketing mine as we race through the trees and over frozen terrain that would tear the undercarriage off anything with wheels.

The tunnel let us out a half-mile east of the cabin, just beyond the ridgeline. The path I’m taking now isn’t a trail—it’s a memory. Years spent mapping this mountain, like most people memorize highways, has burned every twist, every rise and drop into my muscle memory.

Behind me, Abby doesn’t complain. Doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t even flinch when the back treads of the snowmobile catch a patch of ice and throw us sideways before I correct. She just holds on like she trusts me with her life, which is exactly what she’s doing.

Damn it, Nick, why did you have to die? Why did you send her to me?

The wind bites harder the farther we go, and I duck lower over the handlebars. We hit the valley cut and then climb again, a sharp curve that almost always takes newcomers by surprise.Not me. I throttle down just enough to keep us steady and lean into the turn with her weight behind mine.

When the lights of Misty Mountain finally come into view, it feels like surfacing from deep water.

I cut across the frozen parking lot behind The Rusty Elk and kill the engine. The sudden silence rings louder than the ride. Abby climbs off first, boots crunching into the snow, and I follow with the pack over one shoulder and my rifle still slung across my back.

She looks up at the worn wooden sign, then at me. “A bar?”

“Safer than it looks,” I say.

“And warmer than a cave full of knives?”

“Debatable.”

I push open the back door. Inside, the smell of smoke, fried food, and whiskey hits like an old friend. It’s dim, lit mostly by the strings of amber lights overhead and the fireplace throwing heat into the center of the room. Mid-afternoon means it’s quiet—just a few locals nursing mugs and keeping to themselves.

Until Hank spots me. He’s behind the bar, cleaning a glass that probably hasn’t been clean in years. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy beard and graying dark hair. His gaze sweeps over us with piercing blue eyes that miss nothing.

He freezes for half a second, then straightens slowly and sets the glass down. “Shit,” he mutters. “What’s happened?”

“I need a room,” I say. “Back one. The one with the reinforced lock.”

His eyes flick to Abby. Then to the rifle at my back. Then back to me. “Travis…”

“Now, Hank.”

He nods once, grabs the key off the wall, and tosses it underhand. I catch it without breaking eye contact.

Abby follows me down the hallway past the kitchen, not saying a word until I unlock the last door and step aside to lether in. It’s small—bed, table, a chair near the woodstove—but it’s safe. More importantly, it’s out of the way and not tied to me on paper.

She sets the borrowed pack down. “This is cozy.”

“It’s fortified.”

“Don’t I get to pretend it’s cozy while you go stomping around in taciturn hero mode?”

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