Page 5 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

“I don’t guide tourists.”

“Not looking for a tour.”

His jaw tightens. He hasn’t blinked once.

“My brother’s name is Chris Calder. He disappeared up here about a year ago. Yours was the name the sheriff gave me. He said if anyone can help me, it would be you. He said you know these mountains better than anyone.”

“Then the sheriff was wrong,” he says before unceremoniously closing the door in my face.

I narrow my eyes.

I knock again—sharper this time. “Caleb, you don’t have to like me, but you’re going to listen.”

No answer. Not even a shadow moving behind the glass.

I glance at the door, then the window, then back at the knob.

Screw it.

I open the door. He didn’t lock it—either because he’s arrogant or because he didn’t expect anyone stupid enough to walk in uninvited.

Inside, the cabin is dim, but elegantly furnished—restored antiques and hand-crafted furniture. It looks like something out of a magazine. A stone hearth, an antique stove and fridge. Gear stacked neatly near the door. The space’s discipline, utility, and beauty are evident in every detail.

He’s standing at the far side of the room, near the woodstove, the shotgun still held loose but ready in his hands, like he’s daring me to take one more step.

I do.

“You want me gone? Say it to my face. Don’t hide behind a slammed door and a reputation. My brother is missing, and whether or not you like it, you're the only one in this town anyone believes might be able to help.”

He stares and says nothing. He's perfected the whole cold, brooding mountain man act—silent, immovable, and not one ounce of patience for anyone who doesn’t belong here.

“Look, I get it," I say. "You don’t like strangers. You’ve got your hermit routine down cold. But I didn’t come all this way to be dismissed by a walking intimidation tactic in a thermal shirt.”

That gets a reaction. His eyebrow lifts slightly and one corner of his mouth twitches—more surprise than amusement, like he didn’t expect me to bite back. I see the flicker of curiosity before he reins it in.

“Cute,” he mutters. Then finally, finally, the shotgun lowers.

He jerks his chin toward a leather armchair opposite from where he stands near the woodstove. The floor creaks a little—my guess is it's deliberate so he can hear someone coming. He doesn’t move. It's not an invitation—more of a challenge, like he’s waiting to see if I’ve got the guts to cross the room and sit down.

I do.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he says, going and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

But it’s enough to get me inside. I cross the room, drop into the armchair he pointed to, and let the heat from the enormous fireplace seep into my bones. I’m not expecting kindness. Hell, I’m not even expecting cooperation. But I’m done being ignored and dismissed. If there’s anyone in this frozen stretch of nowhere who might lead me to answers, it’s Caleb Knox. And I’m not leaving until I get them.

He takes his coffee, turns his back, and disappears through a doorway off the main room—probably his bedroom, judging by the heavy door and the flicker of firelight inside. Minutes pass. He doesn’t come back. The silence stretches long enough to feel like a dismissal, but I don’t stand up. Not yet.

When the stillness becomes unbearable, I push to my feet and cross the room. I pause at the threshold, palm flat on the wood frame.

“Caleb,” I say, firm but not loud. “You said I had five minutes. You didn’t say you’d spend them hiding.”

He doesn’t respond.

So I step through the doorway. Not because I’m reckless. Not because I’m stupid. But because I’ve come too far to be brushed off like a stray.

And if that means walking into a stranger’s shadowy room to demand answers about my brother—I’ll do it.

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