Page 3 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
Nate Barrett. Former SEAL turned Wildlife Protection officer. Keen eyes, steady hands, and a code that runs deeper than most people’s convictions. We’ve only worked one op together, but it told me enough—he doesn’t flinch under pressure, and he doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t need answered. Glacier Hollow was supposed to be a one-time assist. I didn’t expect to see him again. I sure as hell didn’t expect to need him.
He has eyes that see too much and a cottage that’s a hell of a lot closer than my cabin or the long, exposed trip to town. I don’twant to go to him, but the choices are slim: get picked off in the open, or trust the one man who might be able to turn the tables.
He moves like weather—contained, certain, not in a hurry because storms never are. I’ve watched him twice from the tree line—once when he found a poacher’s ATV track on rotten snow at dusk, once when he freed a fawn from wire with hands careful enough to make me reevaluate my bias against badges. Attraction isn’t the word. Useful is. Dangerous is. Unavoidable might be. Somewhere under all that danger is a steadiness that pulls at me in ways I don’t trust when bullets aren’t flying.
I angle south, weaving through a cut of old-growth spruce that leads into a narrow draw. My breath clouds, ragged, but my pace never falters. Halfway through, I find the little snare line I set last month—still empty, still holding. I smile despite the adrenaline. Nate once busted a poacher up here after finding traps just like these. Silent rescue. He never knew it was me who left the sign for him to find.
The birch-peel arrow I tucked three inches under the bark is exactly where I left it—old-school marker my grandmother taught me. Nate followed two just like it last winter and walked three frightened deer out of a kill lane, no victory lap, no press. He didn’t need to know who flagged the route. I didn’t need thanks. I needed those deer alive. Same language today. Different stakes.
The snow deepens as I push higher, crossing over the shoulder of the ridge before dropping into his valley. The trees break, and I catch sight of smoke curling from his chimney. He’s home.
Great. Worst-case scenario meets least-bad option. I roll my shoulders, try to knock loose the tremor I don’t intend to let him see. I want his scope, his angle, and maybe the steadiness I pretended I didn’t miss when the op ended. I want the kind of backup that doesn’t require me to be soft to be safe.
My thighs are burning by the time I reach the clearing close to Nate’s cottage, and the whole way in I argue with myself. This is a mistake. He’ll ask questions. He'll tell Caleb. He’s my big brother, but he’s one of Nate’s closest friends. Caleb will want details I don’t plan on giving. But the echo of that first shot still hums in my bones, and I’m not stupid enough to face a pro shooter alone.
Town is more than an hour exposed on foot, more if the wind sours. Nate is four minutes and a pride tax. I pay the tax.
I step out of the tree line into open view, my hands where he can see them. The cottage door swings open before I can knock.
“What the hell happened to you?” Nate’s voice is a low growl, his gaze cutting over me like he’s already cataloguing threats.
“Good to see you too,” I shoot back, my tone dry. “Mind if I come in before someone takes another shot at me?”
His eyes sharpen as he looks past me. “Inside. Now.” It’s the same tone he used when we cornered that outfitter last winter. Same steel under the calm. Back then, it pissed me off. Tonight, it steadies me more than I want to admit.
He fills the doorway, broad frame, knit cap pulled low, carrying the faint bite of cold air and earth clinging to him. His hand lands at my elbow for a heartbeat, firm, directing, then gone like he knows exactly how much touch I’ll tolerate.
“Inside,” he repeats, stepping aside. “Track your boots.”
“Your floor, your rules,” I say, stepping past. “You might want to add, deflect incoming fire to your chore list.”
I pass him, the heat from the stove hitting me like a wall. The door shuts with a final-sounding thud. For the first time since that bullet hit, I let myself breathe.
My goggles fog. The room is pine and iron and a kind of order I recognize: everything placed in a precise place, everything placed. Same calm chaos I remember from his gear station during the poaching op—field packs lined up like soldiers,weapons in half-assembly, and that quiet precision like he was always one move ahead of the threat. A spotting scope waits at the front window, lens capped but pointed at the ridge line. A rifle case sits open on the bench, magazines lined like patient teeth. He was cleaning or expecting trouble. Maybe both.
He steps closer, crowding my space just enough to make it clear he’s not buying any casual act. “Start talking, Wren.”
“Somebody, a pro is my guess, took two shots from across the basin,” I say, stripping my gloves. My fingers are red and stupid with cold; I flex them in front of his fire until sensation burns back.“The first kissed snow; the second trimmed a spruce at my shoulder.”
“Suppressor?” He moves to the window, pops the scope cap.
“Maybe, but it could have been that the snow ate the sound. Could be a can, could be distance. Could be both.”
“Angle?”
“High ridge east of the old survey cairn.” I nod toward the map tube in the corner. “If they’re smart, they’re gone.”
His mouth goes thin. “Smart enough to miss?”
“I don’t believe in warning shots,” I say. “I believe in bracketing.”
His eyes flick to my left cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
“Tree is worse.” I touch the stinging cut and wince. “I’ll live.”
“Sit.” He nods toward a chair. “You’re dripping on my floor.”
“You going to mop while someone uses your valley as a shooting range?”
