Page 18 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

A flash of white teeth—wolfish and unexpectedly fond. “That probably wouldn't help, but what I was thinking, Dr. Calder, was I could just tie you to the bed to wait for me to check it out and return."

I start to protest and he waves me off.

"Or if you think you can do as you're told, I'll link us together with climbing rope for the hike up to the marker.”

Heat rolls through me that has nothing to do with his dirty threat and everything to do with the way he says my name—equal parts tease and reverence.

But the urgency creeps back in. “There’s more.” My fingers hesitate for a breath, hovering over the notebook's worn edge. Caleb’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t rush me. I turn to the pocket at the back of the notebook and slide out a folded topography map. A small plastic evidence bag sits taped to the corner. Inside: a jagged shard of black composite. “I pried this out of a tree half a mile from your cabin. It’s not camera casing—wrong polymer.”

Caleb holds it up, brow furrowing. “Looks aerospace. Carbon-fiber laminate?”

“Maybe. Chris wrote about drone fragments near a high saddle to the south."

Caleb’s jaw tightens slightly, eyes narrowing as he turns the fragment over in his hand. A muscle jumps in his cheek—a tell I’ve started to recognize. Something about this hits a nerve, though he doesn’t say it aloud. “Whoever’s scouting isn’t messing around. The money spent on that tech could buy this cabin outright.”

His jaw sets, that forbidding line I’ve learned means action. “Which means whoever’s up there has deep pockets and no intention of stopping or leaving witnesses.”

The words drop between us like fresh snow—silent and heavy. My breath catches, heartbeat loud in my ears, like the mountain itself is holding its breath. My chest tightens with the weight of them, the truth too sharp to ignore now. I glance up at Caleb, but his expression is unreadable, carved in stone. There’s a beat of silence, thick and bracing, before I speak again—my voice low, almost reverent.

“Then we’re already in it, aren’t we?”

He shifts, sliding me off his lap and under the quilt. My breath catches, pulse ticking faster at the sudden distance, wondering what’s coming next. Then he braces one forearm beside my head. Dominance radiates off him, but his voice softens. “Sleep while the storm still hides us. Come dawn, I’ll need you sharp.” A faint grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “And riding behind me on a snowmobile with that ankle will be punishment enough.”

“I could always drive,” I mutter.

“My bike weighs six hundred pounds and answers only to me.” He kisses my forehead—unexpected and disarming. “Eyes closed, Bryn.”

I obey—mostly because exhaustion snaps my lids shut. His weight leaves the mattress; the stove door squeaks, metal clangs as he gets dressed. Boots scuff. He’s checking perimeter locks, sliding shells into the pump shotgun. Good.

I drift. Snow gusts shake the windows, but inside is warm, cedar-smoke sweet. My brother’s grin flits behind my eyes, morphing into the jagged half-smile Caleb just wore. Different men, same brand of reckless courage. My heart squeezes. I hadn't realized that until now. Maybe that's why I feel so comfortable with Caleb.

Floorboards creak. The mattress dips; his big body curves behind mine, spooning, protective. The quilt tucks under my chin, his breath sifts through my hair. Almost safe.

Almost; because through the wail of wind, a second sound threads the night—metallic, distant, but deliberate.Clink.Like chain against steel, muffled by snow but carried on the gale.

Caleb’s entire frame goes rigid. “Bryn,” he whispers, voice low as the dark. “You heard that?”

My pulse rockets. “Yeah.”

He slips from the bed, muscles rippling, shotgun already in hand. He strides to the window, parts the curtain an inch.

Outside, a single pinprick of red light flickers among the pines. Then blinks out. Gone. Like it was never there at all.

Caleb turns, jaw granite. “That wasn’t the storm.” He chambers a round with a quiet, lethal chick-chick. “Stay down. We’re not alone on this mountain tonight.”

The wind surges, rattling the shutters, and somewhere in the dark, the red light sparks to life again—closer.

8

CALEB

There it is again—thin, predatory, pulsing between the spruces like a vein of fire in all that black.

Red light.

Closer this time. Snow ghosting sideways across its glow makes it look alive.

I keep the curtain open only an inch, enough to sight over the barrel of my shotgun. Safety off. Bryn sits behind the bedframe, quilt up to her chin, wide-eyed but silent. Good girl. I tilt my head, listening. Wind, roof creak, stove pop… and a faint whir. Motorized. Too small for a snowmobile, too steady for the trees.

---