Page 4 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

I blink. “Sheriff MacAllister?”

“Yeah,” she says, pouring a cup of coffee without asking. “Fiancé privileges. He mentioned a Calder might be coming into town asking questions.”

I take the cup and wrap my hands around it, grateful for the warmth. “That obvious?”

Sadie shrugs, then softens. “Your brother was here about a year ago. He left to go backpacking in the mountains and no one's seen him since. I’m sorry. This place... it can swallow people up.”

I nod, throat tight. “Well, I mean to make your mountain give him back.”

“Stubborn determination. Good. You'll need that here. Most of the people are really good, but the environment is inhospitable on its best day,” she says, setting down a plate with a thick sandwich and a side of soup. “Let's get you started with something warm and comforting."

I look to see what she's served me and smile. "Grilled cheese sandwich and tomato bisque soup are kind of a universal thing, aren't they?"

"It is. It's my own go-to. It'll warm you and stick to your ribs. You’re going to need it if you’re going up to Caleb’s place tomorrow.”

“You know him?”

Sadie huffs out a laugh. “I'm not sure anyone really knows Caleb—maybe his sister Wren, but that's about it. Most justknow better than to bother him. Don't get me wrong. He's a good man, and one you want on your side in a fight, but he likes his solitude, so he’s cultivated a whole intimidating, mountain man persona.”

I smile, hoping that it reaches my eyes. “Guess I missed that memo.”

After dinner, I thank Sadie, slip her a twenty for the soup and kindness, and walk back through the crisp night air to the Northern Lights Lodge. The stars are so clear here they look like you could reach out and pluck one straight from the sky. The kind of quiet that wraps around you and reminds you just how far from everything you really are.

Upstairs in my room, I shower quickly, letting the water wash off some of my fear as well as the grit and grime. Then I sit on the bed for a long moment, towel-wrapped hair dripping down my back, staring at the window.

Outside, the mountains crouch like sentries in the moonlight—silent, cold, indifferent.

I cross to the window, press my hand to the cold glass, and whisper, "Where are you, Chris?"

Then I pull on a hoodie, grab my notes, and set an alarm for first light.

Because tomorrow, I’m climbing into the unknown.

The next morning, I follow the list of written directions the sheriff gave me.

I leave just before dawn, boots pressing into the frost-hardened earth, the sky bleeding from navy into the kind of pale gray that promises snow. No markings show the trail up the ridge; it’s just a series of switchbacks carved into stubborn rock and shadow. It’s silent in that way only remote wilderness can be, where every sound echoes louder because there’s nothing to muffle it but trees and time.

My pack shifts on my shoulders as I move, snowshoes clipped to the back just in case. I pass the same tree three times before I realize the trail bends sharper than the map suggests. I follow the directions to the letter, every step bringing me deeper into the wild. For a moment, I wonder if the sheriff gave me the wrong directions on purpose. It takes nearly an hour of trudging through snowdrifts, navigating rutted switchbacks and surviving one unnervingly close encounter with a moose before I finally reach it.

Then the scent of smoke cuts through the pine, thin and sharp. Not forest fire. Woodstove.

There it is—Caleb Knox’s cabin, rising out of the woods like it was carved straight from the mountain.

I barely make it up the last few steps before the cabin door swings open. I don’t even get the chance to knock. The barrel of a shotgun is already aimed squarely at my chest.

The man I’ve come all this way to find isn’t just reclusive—he’s a glacier in flannel. Hard-edged, ancient, and unmoved by time or reason. Not the kind of cold that stings and fades, but the kind that clamps down slow and merciless, creeping into your bones until everything soft inside you freezes solid.

The voice is deep. Cold. Final.

“Get off my land.”

I raise both hands slowly. “Hi. You must be Caleb. I'm Bryn. Sheriff MacAllister sent me.”

He doesn’t lower the gun.

I get my first good look at him—tall, broad, all shadows and scars. He has overgrown dark hair and a thick beard. His eyes are pale, the color of a winter sky, and twice as unforgiving. He looks like the kind of man who hasn’t smiled in years and didn’t enjoy the experience when he did.

I swallow and try again. “I’m Bryn Calder. I’m here about my brother.”

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