Page 26 of Protector of Talon Mountain

He might not have meant those words to stick. But they have. They echo now in the silence of my cottage, in the way my skin still feels too aware of his presence—even hours later.

I sit up slowly, stretch, and glance toward the front windows. The bay is still a blur of darkness and ice, but something else catches my eye. A shape, maybe. A shift. I freeze, breath held. Nothing moves.

I throw on a flannel shirt, thick socks, and a heavy cardigan, then step quietly into the kitchen. I don’t flip on the light. I don’t want to disturb whatever calm I’ve managed to hold onto. But I go straight to the back window—the one near the kitchen sink. The one that creaked the night before last.

I didn’t imagine it. I know I didn’t.

It takes me a few seconds to unbolt the door. The wind cuts sharply the second I crack it open. It bites into my skin and steals the warmth from under my sleeves, but I step out onto the back stoop, anyway.

At first, all I see is frost. The ground is a patchwork of grass and snow, crusted with ice that glints under the porch light. I scan slowly, careful not to miss anything. And then I see them… boot prints.

Faint, but there. A shallow arc in the patch of earth between my porch and the trees at the edge of my yard. Someone must have stepped there before the snow fell; the snow softened the edges but didn’t erase the pattern completely.

My pulse kicks up. Not a rush. Not a scream. Just that heavy thud in my chest, slow and loud and real. Someone was here. Last night. After Zeke left.

I grip the railing, my knuckles white against the wood. Part of me wants to run back inside, bolt the door, and pretend I didn’t see it. Pretend it was an animal. A trick of the light. But I know better. These aren’t paw prints or wind patterns. These are boots. Heavy. Male.

And I know what it means. Whoever left that note? They’re not done. They’re circling again. I square my shoulders, shake the cold from my arms, and head back inside.

There’s a part of me that wants to call Zeke immediately. But I don’t. Not yet. I’m not ready to hand this over. Not until I feel like I’m standing on my own two feet. I need to move. I need routine. Life for me here in Glacier Hollow has been relatively easy—Maggie’s death notwithstanding. I don’t want to fold at the first sign of trouble. If I do, I worry I will never be able to truly stand on my own.

I pull on my warmest, fur-lined boots, pull on my heavy coat and begin the walk down to the café. Once there, I enter the kitchen as silently as I can and turn on the lights, tie my apron around my waist, and pull the flour from the pantry. If I’m going to fall apart, it’s not going to be while I’m standing still.

I remind myself when the going gets tough, the tough bake.

I move like it matters—like the measuring and stirring and rolling of dough is going to keep me together. Butter melts into sugar. Dough turns to silk under my palms. The scent of cinnamon blooms through the kitchen. It’s too early for customers, too early for Jenny, but not too early for this.

I’m elbow-deep in scone dough when I hear footsteps above me. I freeze for half a breath, but then the creak of the floor tells me exactly who it is. Heavy. Controlled. Nothing frantic about it.

Zeke. The knot in my chest pulls tighter before it loosens.

He steps into the kitchen like he owns the air in it. Big frame filling the space at the bottom of the stairs. His hair is still damp from the shower, a black T-shirt stretched across his chest like a second skin. He doesn’t speak at first—just scans the space with those sharp, assessing eyes.

“I heard movement,” he says simply. His voice is low. Rasped with sleep, but already alert.

“I warned you. I need to start early,” I reply, hands still in the dough. “Besides, I couldn’t sleep.”

He watches me for a second longer than necessary, and I know he doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t press—yet. I glance up at him. “I... heard something the last couple of nights. Near the window. I checked this morning and found prints.”

Zeke doesn’t move right away. His whole body goes still in that way he does when his brain goes tactical. Then he steps into the room, past the counter, past me, toward the back door.

“You should have called me,” he says. Not angry. Just matter-of-fact.

“I know.”

He turns, arms crossed over his chest. “Show me.”

“I don’t have time…”

He hands me my coat. “Make time.”

Realizing I have little choice in the matter, I wipe my hands, follow him out the door and allow him to help me into his official SUV and we drive back to the cottage. We get out and walk to the space beyond the back door, and I gesture toward the patch of ground. He steps closer, eyes scanning fast, dropping into a crouch like it’s second nature. He doesn’t say a word for a long moment.

Then he stands, helps me back into the SUV and climbs in behind the wheel. “Same tread as the alley last week. Same direction.”

My breath catches. “So it’s not random.”

“No.” He walks toward me again. “It’s targeted. Someone’s testing the perimeter. Watching patterns.”

---