Page 40 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
“You think keeping me out makes you a hero?”
“I think not having your stubborn ass up here is what kept Wren alive.”
“She’s my sister.”
“I know exactly who she is.”
“Do you?”
That does it. Nate steps in fast, all shoulders and warning. Caleb doesn’t back off, and now they’re chest to chest, voices climbing, two alpha males ready to tear into each other.
I hit the ignition on the snowblower.The roar should shred through the argument. It doesn't.
I yank the chute lever hard, and the machine coughs before blasting a stream of icy slush like a firehose straight between them. The muck splatters up their boots, spatters their jeans, and paints a filthy stripe across the snow.
Both men stumble back, blinking and sputtering as the cold spray soaks through denim. Caleb glares at me like I’ve just insulted our mother. Nate wipes a hunk of ice off his jacket with deliberate calm, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s two seconds from laughing.
The two lethal, battle-ready alpha males now stand dripping like scarecrows in a thaw, and the sight is so absurd I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
“Unless you two want me to do it again,” I say over the motor, “you’re going to shake hands, shut the fuck up, and come inside for breakfast.”
Caleb drips on the mat and will not look at me at first. When he does, his eyes are raw. “You scared me,” he says. No bark, no badge, just my brother. “Next time I get the call with your name on it, I come running. You tell me before you tell him.” He jerks his chin toward Nate without heat.
Nate growls.
“Not happening. How about I call you right after or I don’t tell Nate he can’t call you?”
Caleb looks between Nate and I. "I suppose I could live with that.” He turns to Nate. “She's not cooking, is she?" he asks.
"If I wanted you dead, I'd have shot you."
They stare at me. Then at each other. Then—because they’re both too stubborn to stand down—they take a step forward in unison. I slam the throttle again, blasting them a second time, harder, the chute spewing slush straight into their chests. The spray knocks them back a pace, dripping, furious, and united now in one purpose: me.
The snowblower sputters as I drop the handle, heart pounding, and I bolt for the cottage door just as they charge in tandem, cursing and soaked to the bone.
After breakfast, I level Caleb with a look. “You need to be nice. I'm going to need help moving my crap out here before the next snow squall.”
A few days later, Nate’s stone cottage is quiet and solid, the kind of place that feels like it’s been standing against winter storms for a hundred years. It probably has.
The bed’s unmade. My duffel sits by the front door with my hiking boots stacked on top. I drop the last box onto the bench by the window. “That’s it. All of my worldly possessions.”
I touch the duffel handle and almost lift it again. Habit tightens my grip, the old reflex that says leave first and you will not be left. I set it down and keep my hand there until the urge passes.
“Leave it, I do the heavy lifting,” Nate says behind me.
“It’s not that heavy, I travel light.”
“Impressive,” Nate chuckles.
I glance over my shoulder. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is. Means you won’t bring a bunch of clutter into my space.”
I raise a brow. “Our space.”
His smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I stand corrected. Our space.”
He walks over, takes the duffel and box in one hand and sets them aside. Then he closes the distance between us, hands braced on either side of my hips.
