Page 6 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

CALEB

She’s still standing in the doorway to my bedroom. Uninvited, unmoved, and undeniably unbothered by my silence. She’s harder to shake than most—and I’ve shaken off a hell of a lot in my time. She’s not small, not fragile, and definitely not quiet. All sunlit curls, bright blue eyes, and curves meant to distract. And damn if my body doesn’t notice. It’s been a long time since someone like her has crossed my threshold—and even longer since I let anyone stay.

I watched her through my windows while I sip coffee that’s gone lukewarm. She's determined. When I see the bull moose cross her track, I pick up my rifle, ready to take him down. He's been on this mountain longer than I have, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let him kill somebody. The fact is that moose kill more people in Alaska than bears and wolves combined.

Instead of running or screaming, I watch as she quietly backed off the trail and put a large sturdy tree between herself and the moose, and then tosses what looks like one of the commercial moose feeds down the trail, as well as what looks like a handful of apple chunks. Smart—both her and the big bull. He meanders down the trail, giving her only a passing glance.She waits until he's well past her before getting back on the trail and determinedly continuing on her way towards my cabin.

When I slammed the door in her face, I expected her to back off and go away. She didn't. Instead, she opened the door and walked inside. Ignoring her didn't work, so I gestured to the chair by the fire. I expected her to fidget or flinch. She did neither. Just planted herself in the chair with stubborn resolve. All fire and no fallback plan rooted her in the spot. That kind of stubborn either gets you killed or makes you a legend up here.

Bryn Calder. I know the name. Everyone in town does.

Chris Calder. Her brother’s face was on flyers for months. Word was he went into the mountains solo and never came back. People don’t last long out there on their own, especially if they think knowing how to pitch a tent qualifies them for bush survival. Or he might have just disappeared on purpose and be living in the Caribbean. I played darts one night with the guy. He talked about her. I can't see him just up and leaving her without a word.

I didn’t expect her to come. Hell, most people who lose someone to these mountains never make it past questions and quiet grief. But she showed up—boots on the ground, fire in her eyes—and walked into my cabin like the cold didn’t bite and the silence didn’t scare her. Like she had every right to demand answers in a place built to hold them back.

She’s city soft. Not helpless—she carries herself like someone who knows her body and trusts her instincts—but she stands out in all the wrong ways here. Too bright, too confident, too sharp-edged for a place that thrives on silence and shadow. Her presence feels like a flame held too close to kindling—unnatural, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

Her jacket’s the wrong color for camouflage, her voice too sharp and sure for a place that demands quiet. She doesn’t blend in, and she doesn’t try to. Her smooth skin, untouchedby a harsh winter, contrasts sharply with the fiery intensity of her voice, untempered by silence. She thinks she’s ready for this mountain, but this mountain eats people like her for breakfast and spits out their remains.

Still, when she said her brother’s name, something in her eyes landed hard in my gut. Not fear. Not grief. Conviction—pure, sharp, and impossible to ignore. The kind of conviction that would’ve made Wren pack a bag and charge headfirst into the snow if it had been me who went missing. I know that look because I’ve seen it in my mirror after the war—when you’ve already lost too much and made peace with whatever comes next.

I meant to shut the door and let that be the end of it. Let the wilderness do what it does best—swallow noise, spit out bone, erase the names of those who wander too far with too much hope and not enough sense. But I let her in. Because something in her voice cracked through the cold. And for reasons I haven’t begun to understand, I needed to hear what came next.

I was just going to ignore her until she got mad and stomped her way back down the mountain. That hasn't worked, and now she’s following me into the bedroom. That's not good. Having her in the same room as my antique iron bed puts all kinds of ideas in my brain. My fingers twitch around the coffee mug, grip tightening for half a second before I force them to relax. I shift my stance, jaw locking as I drag my gaze away from the curve of her hips and the fire in her eyes. Christ. She shouldn’t be here—not in my space, not near that bed, not setting off sparks in places I thought had gone cold.

I lean against the far wall, arms crossed loosely, the rim of my mug warm against my palm. Her silhouette fills the doorway, backlit by the softer light from the main room. She’s hesitant for the first time since she got here—one hand on the doorframe, shoulders taut, like she’s weighing the risk of crossing aninvisible line. But she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t blink. She just stands there, still and steady, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch first.

“I don’t hide,” I say flatly from the gloom.

“Really? Could have fooled me. First you put a gun in my face, then you come in here where it's dark and just stand there,” she shoots back.

I sigh through my nose and take another sip of coffee. “I saw your brother. Once. Early spring last year. Came through town looking like a man with something to prove. He was asking questions about abandoned trails up the ridge—places even the locals pretend don’t exist. The kind of places you don’t go unless you’re chasing something you shouldn't be.”

She steps into the room, slow and deliberate, as if testing the air for lies. Her boots barely make a sound against the worn floorboards, but the weight behind her question could flatten a grown man. “And?”

“And I told him the same thing I’m going to tell you—there are places up there even the animals avoid. Old traplines remain unchecked for decades, rocks are so unstable that they shift with the wind, and sinkholes silently swallow men. Things that don’t show up on maps and never will. The stories that don’t get written. Locals steer clear because they’ve learned better. Smart ones do, anyway.”

Her chin lifts. “Did you guide him?” Her voice is steady, but there's an edge to it now—a dare, maybe, or the last tether holding back her temper. She already knows the answer. She just wants to hear me say it.

“No.”

“Did you warn him?”

My gaze cuts to hers. “I gave him what I give everyone—truth, not comfort. People who think they’ve already got it figured out don’t listen, anyway. Your brother had that look in his eyes—thekind that says he wouldn’t have turned back even if I’d spelled the danger in blood.”

She doesn’t flinch. Just crosses her arms and looks at me like I’m a puzzle she’s already halfway through solving. “You could’ve stopped him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t strike me as someone who wanted to be stopped. There was a fire in him, something untamed and fixed on whatever goal he carried into those woods. I recognized it—the same edge I saw in soldiers who’d already decided their fate. And maybe part of me respected that too much to stand in his way. Besides, it wasn't my job to stop him. His eyes had that far-off gleam, the kind you see in people who’ve already decided the risk is worth it—no matter the cost.”

She closes her eyes for a second, then opens them and stares straight into mine. “Where exactly did he say he was going?”

I set the mug down on the edge of the dresser. “Off the ridgeline, toward the glacier pass. Said he was trying to follow markers from a survey team that went dark years ago. Thought he saw something others missed.”

Bryn pulls a notebook out of her bag and flips to a page marked with a red tab. Her fingers move with practiced precision, like she’s done this a hundred times before—cataloguing clues, chasing ghosts one ink stroke at a time. She scribbles something down, eyes scanning quickly, already connecting dots I can’t see. She’s determined. She’s methodical. Dangerous in a quiet, calculating kind of way.

“Did he mention any names?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Didn’t give much. Just asked if I’d ever seen anyone come down from that side of the mountain alive.”

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