Page 3 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

Glacier Hollow swallowed my brother whole, but it hasn’t met me yet. I’m not leaving until I find out why—even if it means tearing this place apart with my bare hands.

1

BRYN

Welcome to Glacier Hollow. Population: grizzlies, secrets, and one too-stubborn biologist with a chip on her shoulder, a duffel full of gear, and a head full of questions no one wants to answer. This isn’t just another dot on the map. This is where my brother was last seen alive, and I’m here to ensure they don’t forget he’s missing and could still be alive. Either way, I need to know what happened to him. The not-knowing chews at my nerves, leaves a dull ache behind my ribs. Every time I close my eyes, I see his grin, the way he’d tilt his head when teasing me. I just want the truth. No matter what it is.

I drive through the town’s main drag with the windows cracked, the smell of pine and wood smoke curling in like an invitation. The buildings are all rustic charm and weathered shingles, a mix of handmade signs and faded paint, like the town gave up trying to impress anyone and decided to just be itself. I respect that.

Still, my grip tightens on the steering wheel. I remember Chris laughing as he showed me how to adjust a bear canister on a pack, swearing up and down that I’d never out-hike him, not in a million years. His laugh is permanently etched in my memory;now it is silent. But silence isn’t enough. My knuckles pale, heart ticking faster, a silent dare rising in my chest. I'm not here to back down. Not this time. This isn’t a research trip. Not really. The grant says it is. The permits say it is. But the real reason that my brother disappeared up here, and if no one else is going to take that seriously, I will.

I pull into a gravel lot beside the sheriff’s station and kill the engine. The building is squat and gray, with a dented metal door and a faded wooden sign that looks like it’s seen better winters. Altitude makes the air crisp and thin, scrubbing your lungs raw and making your skin prickle as if sanded clean. I sit for a second, just breathing, letting the quiet press in around me. Then I square my shoulders, slap on a smile that fools exactly no one, and head inside, boots crunching over gravel like a warning drumbeat.

Sheriff Zeke MacAllister is big, broad-shouldered, and has the kind of weariness etched into his face that doesn’t come from one bad night’s sleep—it comes from years of carrying other people’s burdens. He looks like a man who’s seen too many search parties come back empty. His eyes flick over my boots and cargo vest with the quiet assessment of someone who doesn’t miss much, then he nods once and asks, "Can I help you with something, miss? You here on official business or... something else?"

I step forward and offer a hand. "Bryn Calder. Wildlife biologist. Temporarily attached to the conservation survey in the Talon Mountain region."

He looks at me skeptically, his eyebrow lifting slightly. "Calder... as in Chris Calder?"

I nod. "He’s my brother. He disappeared up here about a year ago. I’m trying to find out what happened."

The sheriff studies me for a beat longer. "No one has seen your brother since he hiked out of here. You sure he wants to be found?"

"Look, Sheriff, I'm not trying to make trouble for you, for Chris, for the town, for anybody. I just want to find my brother or find out what happened to him. If he's alive and wants me to go, I won't like it, but I'll leave him, you and this sleepy little town in peace. But if he's dead, I want to know what happened."

He watches me for another minute, then walks around the counter and jerks his chin toward the back. “Come on. You don't know these mountains. Neither did your brother. If he's dead, that might be what got him killed. But if he's alive, he might be here or he might be nowhere in the area. Alaska's a big place. Either way, you can't go looking for him on your own. You'll need help. Best man for the job would be Caleb Knox.”

We stop in front of a wall map of the area, tacked with thumbprints and colored pins. Zeke taps a rough quadrant on the northeast ridge.

“You want someone who knows the mountains, that’s where you go. Caleb Knox. Best tracker I’ve ever worked with. Lives up there like a hermit. Doesn’t like visitors.”

“Perfect,” I mutter. “Grumpy mountain men with boundary issues are my specialty.” I roll my eyes as I say it, but my pulse gives a traitorous little kick. Sarcasm’s easier than letting the nerves show.

The sheriff grins like he doesn’t believe me, then gives me a handwritten set of directions and warns me twice not to approach after dark. "Caleb doesn’t take kindly to surprises," he adds, tone half amused, half serious. "He’s more likely to meet you with a rifle than a handshake if you show up unannounced after sundown. But you're a woman, so he'll probably ask questions first, and only shoot if he doesn't like the answers."

"Thanks for your help, Sheriff."

I turn and leave and don’t bother to tell him I’ve faced down half-tranquilized grizzlies and sleep-deprived bureaucrats. I can handle a surly survivalist.

The air outside hits colder now, sharper somehow after that conversation. I tug my jacket tighter and cross the street to the Northern Lights Lodge, the only place in town with a vacancy that doesn’t require signing a waiver or sleeping with a shotgun.

The woman behind the counter—Mara, according to the hand-stitched name tag on her cardigan—gives me a look that lands somewhere between sympathy and curiosity. I sign the guest book, accept a brass room key, and trudge upstairs without explaining why I’m here.

My room smells like cedar and lemon polish. I set my duffel down at the foot of the bed and stare out the window; the mountains looming in the distance like silent judges. The ridge the sheriff had pointed to is out there somewhere, and so is Caleb Knox.

I decide to go looking for him first thing in the morning. Let him growl at me with his shotgun down. Right now, I need a shower, a decent meal, and a few hours of sleep before I hike into the domain of a man who’d rather shoot than speak.

Tomorrow, I’ll start the real search.

First, though, I need food. Real food. The kind that isn’t vacuum-sealed or protein-packed. I head two blocks over to The Hollow Hearth café, the warm glow of its windows promising something a little softer than the rest of this town’s hard edges.

Inside, the scent of cinnamon, strong coffee, and something buttery and fresh-baked wraps around me like a wool blanket. The space is all worn wood and mismatched chairs, cozy in a way that feels earned, not curated. A few locals look up when I walk in, then return to their conversations with that small-town nonchalance that somehow still makes note of every outsider within ten seconds.

Behind the counter, a curvy brunette in a navy blue apron and messy bun on top of her head greets me with a smile that’s both welcoming and wary. “You new in town or just hungry?”

“Bit of both,” I say. “Bryn Calder. I’m staying at the Northern Lights Lodge.”

“Sadie,” she replies, offering her hand. “Owner, cook, and sometimes therapist. Let me guess—Zeke sent you?”

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