Page 40 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
And when I imagine that future, Sierra's in it.
Her hand is still on my jaw, thumb tracing the scar that disappears into my beard. The touch is gentle, grounding. For a moment we just stand there, breathing the same air, existing in the same space without words or promises or plans beyond this moment.
Then she steps back, practical as always. "We should finish the preparations. If Shepherd's people are coming?—"
"They are."
"Then we need to be ready."
She's right. But I'm reluctant to let the moment end, to return to the reality of what's waiting for us. Still, survival demandsfocus. Romance is a luxury we can't afford until we're not being hunted.
I pull the radio from my pack. The old handheld I've kept but rarely used. It's tuned to the frequency Bryn uses for her survey work. I've listened to her voice for months, never responding, never letting her know I'm alive.
Static crackles. Then her voice cuts through, clear and familiar.
"Nate, this is Bryn. I'm at checkpoint seven. Elk herd moving south, looks like about thirty head. No signs of poaching activity. Over."
My chest tightens. She sounds tired. Worn down. I wonder if she's still searching for me, or if she's finally accepted that I'm gone.
Nate's response follows. "Copy that, Bryn. Weather's turning. Get back home before the storm hits. Over."
"Roger. Heading back now. Over and out."
The radio goes silent. I stare at it, thumb hovering over the transmit button. Just one word. A single phrase. That's all it would take to let her know I'm alive.
But the words stick in my throat. Too much time has passed. Too much hurt. I don't even know where to start. What do you say to someone you let believe you were dead? How do you explain eleven months of silence, of letting them grieve?
Sierra's eyes are on me. Reading the war on my face.
"When this is over," she says quietly, "you're going to talk to her. Promise me."
I meet her eyes. See the determination there, the absolute certainty that I can do this. That I should do this.
Maybe she's right. Maybe I owe Bryn more than silence and absence. Maybe I owe her the truth, even if it hurts. Even if she hates me for it.
"Promise," I say.
Something shifts between us. An understanding that goes deeper than attraction or convenience. We're in this together now. No more lone wolves. No more fighting alone in the dark.
Sierra returns to her laptop, pulling up files and cross-referencing patterns. I should be checking perimeter defenses, setting up fallback positions. But instead I study her while she works.
She's got her bottom lip caught between her teeth, that unconscious tell when she's deep in analysis. Her fingers fly across the keyboard with the same precision she showed field-stripping her Glock yesterday. Everything she does has purpose, economy of motion. No wasted effort.
It's the cop training. The years undercover where one mistake could blow your cover and get you killed. She moves through the world like someone who's learned that survival depends on reading every situation, every person, every threat.
Like me. Except she hasn't let it harden her. Not the way it did me.
I've spent eleven months treating every sound as a threat, every shadow as an enemy. Existing in a state of constant vigilance that grinds you down to nothing but instinct and paranoia. It's kept me alive, but it's also kept me from being human.
Sierra's different. She's been shot at, nearly killed, wounded on my watch—and she still makes jokes about being nuts. Still challenges me. Still looks at me like I'm a person instead of a ghost.
"What?" she asks without looking up. Caught me staring.
"Nothing."
"Liar." But she's smiling slightly. "You've been hovering for five minutes. Either help or get out of my way."
I move closer, look at her screen. She's building a communications profile, mimicking Shepherd's linguisticpatterns with frightening accuracy. Creating a false trail that will look authentic enough to trigger a response.
