Page 5 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

I wrap my hands around the mug like it’s a lifeline. “You always this nice to strangers?”

“Nope. You just look like someone who hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten, and maybe ran here from something worse than an awkward Tinder date.” She tilts her head. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

I don’t answer right away.

She doesn’t press. Just tops off my coffee and adds softly, “You want to tell me why you’re in Misty Mountain? I’ve got time. You don’t? That’s fine too. But just so you know, people around here notice when fresh faces roll in looking like aLifetimemovie heroine on the run.”

I can’t help but grin as I take a sip, slow, and finally say, “I’m looking for someone.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “And?”

“I don’t know if he’s even here. I just… have to try.”

“Name?”

I hesitate, then say it. “Travis Holt.”

The air shifts, just slightly. She leans her hip against the counter, watching me like I’ve said the name of a ghost.

“Well, damn,” she murmurs. “You don’t do things halfway, do you?”

“Do you know him?”

“Everyone around here knows of him. Very few, if anyone, actually know him. He isn’t easy. He doesn’t exactly do pancake breakfasts, dart nights or town fairs, but people respect him. Fear him, a little. He lives up the ridge in the old Holt familycabin, but no one really visits unless they’ve got a death wish or a snowmobile with a full tank.”

I laugh, but it’s short-lived. “I have my Jeep outside with half a tank and tires that look like they gave up on life three towns ago.”

Clara snorts. “Then God help you.”

I drop my voice. “He knew my brother. Nick Westwood.”

Her eyes soften instantly. “I think I remember that name. He was one of the ones who didn’t come back, right?”

I nod. “I was told it was a training accident. But Nick didn’t believe in accidents—neither do I. He left me a note. Said if something ever happened to him or me, I should find Holt.”

“Then you’re doing the right thing,” she says, voice low. “But fair warning—Travis doesn’t like visitors. Especially surprise ones.”

“I don’t like assassins breaking into my apartment either, but here we are.”

She blinks. “Wait. Assassins?”

“I’m not being metaphorical, although assassins might be a bit exaggerated. Someone broke into my apartment two nights ago. Mask. Blade. No warning. I barely got out.”

Clara whistles and leans in. “Okay, now you’re definitely inLifetimemovie territory. Maybe even premium cable. You sure you don’t want me to call the sheriff?”

“No. Philadelphia is a long way from Misty Mountain, and I need to find Travis first.” I stand, tossing a few bills onto the counter. “Thanks for the coffee. And the honesty.”

She watches me go with that same curious glint in her eye. “If you survive the mountain man, come back and tell me how it ends.”

The drive up to the ridge is worse than I expect. The road narrows fast, lined with jagged trees and banks of snow that creep higher the farther I climb. My Jeep groans like it’s secondsfrom giving up. No cell phone signal. No street signs. Just a vague, gut-deep feeling that I’m either headed toward safety… or something a lot darker.

When the road finally ends, it’s at a gate made of thick timber and chain, dusted with snow and flanked by silence. A hand-painted sign reads:Private Property. No Trespassing. No Kidding.

I kill the engine, heart pounding. There’s a narrow footpath winding up past the gate, nearly invisible beneath the snowfall. I get out of my Jeep, grab my backpack and begin to hike it on foot, boots slipping on the incline, the wind slicing through my coat like a hot knife through butter.

The cabin appears like it was born from the mountain itself—stone and timber, wide and solid, smoke curling from the chimney. It’s not just a home. It’s a fortress.

I make it to the porch and lift my hand to knock, but the door opens before I touch it. And there he is… Travis Holt.

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