Page 7 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

“And had you?”

I meet her eyes. “No.”

The silence that follows settles like a second skin—heavy, raw, and sharp enough to cut between us. The quiet hangs heavy—a hollow stillness pressing in like a storm that hasn’t broken yet.

I move past her, back into the main room, needing space. Needing air. And not only because of the conversation. She’s distracting as hell. The scent of her—clean, like rain on hot stone—lingers behind me. It winds through the quiet cabin, coils low in my gut, and sets off an ache I haven’t felt in too damn long. My body’s reacting, sharp and aware, and I hate how fast it happens. I hear her footsteps follow a second later, steady and sure, and it doesn’t help.

“You planning to go up there alone?” I ask, not bothering to mask the disbelief in my voice.

Her voice is cool and even. “Yes.”

I turn. “Don’t.”

“Is that advice or a warning?”

“Both.”

She’s back in the armchair, one leg crossing over the other with quiet precision. The notebook rests in her lap, perfectly placed, like it’s always been there. She’s composed, unshakable—already claiming the space as hers. She taps her pen once against the page, eyes flicking up with a gleam that tells me she’s not simply recording facts—she’s assessing, calculating her next move. And the worst part? She makes it look effortless. Worse still? She’ll probably win.

“Why?” she asks. “What’s really up there?”

I don’t answer right away. There are things about this mountain I don’t even say out loud. Not because I’m scared of them, but because speaking them gives them weight. And sometimes, in the stillness, I swear the trees remember. Something, almost a voice you can’t quite make out, whispers unheard things on the low humming wind. Not because I’m afraid—but because I respect it. And because I’ve learned that truth doesn’t always sound sane until it’s too damn late.

“You want to find him?” I say finally. “Fine. But stay off the west trail. Stick to the lower ridgeline and don’t go past where the pine starts thinning. If you hear anything you can’t explain, turn around. Don’t keep going. Don’t assume you’re imagining it.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “What kind of anything?”

“You’ll know it when you hear it.”

She lets out a breath, sharp and skeptical. “Well, that’s not ominous at all.”

I walk to the door and swing it open. Cold air hits me like a slap, crisp and biting, the kind that sinks into your bones and stays. The sky’s gone steel gray, layered with clouds that look ready to crack open. Snow hovers just above the tree line, swirling in lazy spirals like it’s deciding whether to fall or hold back a little longer. The mountain feels different today—restless. Watching.

“I’m serious, Bryn. If you ignore what I’m telling you, I’ll be the one the sheriff sends to drag your frozen body off that mountain.”

"Would that be a problem for you?" she challenges as she stands slowly, meets me at the threshold.

"Sweetheart, the only place I have any interest in dragging you to is my bed."

Her eyes register shock, but only for a second. “Thanks for the offer,” she says, “but I think I'll pass.”

"Too bad, I can guarantee I'd keep you a lot warmer and my bed is far more comfortable..."

"You're insufferable," she says, trying to laugh it off, but there’s some trepidation in her tone.

Good. Maybe that'll make her keep her distance. I watch her leave, snowshoes breaking over frost-hardened snow, her red scarf the only bright thing in the gray. She doesn’t look back.

I glance over my shoulder. Something shifts above the tree line—a flicker of motion too precise to be wind, too wrong to be ignored. A faint crack of branches, low and deliberate, rides the air a half-second later. The scent of pine sharpens unnaturally, threaded with something faintly metallic, like blood on snow. My breath fogs—not from the cold, but from the sudden instinct that something out there just locked onto me. A shiver crawls down my spine from instinct honed over too many missions gone sideways. I turn back to watch her, that blonde hair bouncing from beneath her wool cap like a defiant streak of light moving through the gray.

The mountain isn’t the only one tracking her movements. I am too, pulled by something I can’t explain—something far from suspicion. There’s a sharp twist low in my gut, a pull I haven’t felt in years. Something raw. Possessive. Dangerous. She moves with grit and determination, but I can see the recklessness riding just beneath her stride—like she’s chasing ghosts with a match and a can of gasoline, and doesn’t care if she burns in the process. I’ve seen how that ends. Hell, I’ve lived it.

She thinks I’ll let her march off into that stretch of cursed wilderness alone, like she’s got something to prove. Hell no. I’ve seen what that mountain does to the unprepared—and to the brave. Whatever ghosts she’s chasing, they won’t keep her warm when the sun drops and the wind whispers things best left unheard.

I gear up and grab my rifle on the way out the door.

If she’s going up there, I’m going with her. Whether or not she likes it.

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