Chapter 15
MARA
Three Months Later
Spring comes to Glacier Hollow the way it always does—slowly, stubbornly, fighting winter for every inch of ground. The snow retreats up the mountain, leaving behind mud and the first green shoots pushing through dead grass. The world wakes up, stretches, remembers what warmth feels like.
I stand on the lodge porch with my morning coffee, watching Gabe work on the deck railing. He's been at it since dawn, replacing boards that rotted through last winter. His movements are efficient, practiced—muscle memory from a life he's slowly remembering in pieces.
The FBI interviews took three weeks. Endless questions, depositions, verification of the evidence against the Committee.
In the end, they offered him immunity in exchange for testimony.
Crane and eleven other Committee members are awaiting trial.
The rest scattered, disappeared into whatever holes people like that crawl into when the light finally finds them.
Gabe's memories have been returning, not in a flood but in steady increments.
A face here, a mission there, fragments that he shares with me over dinner or in the quiet moments before sleep.
Some of them are hard—operations that went wrong, orders he wishes he'd refused, the weight of choices made in impossible situations.
Others are gentler—his grandmother's laugh, Sarah's graduation, the house they grew up in.
He's not the same man who I found half-frozen three months ago. But he's not entirely the soldier from before either. He's something in between, building himself from pieces of both.
"You're going to wear a hole in that deck board if you keep staring at it," I call out.
He looks up, squinting against the morning sun. "Just making sure it's level. Don't want you breaking an ankle."
"My ankle survived thirty years before you got here. I think it'll manage."
"Humor me."
I do, because humor costs nothing and he needs to feel useful.
The repairs give him purpose, something to do with his hands while his mind processes everything that's happened.
We've fallen into a rhythm over these months—breakfast together, work on the lodge, evenings by the fire.
Simple routines that feel profound after everything.
The deck repairs have expanded into a full renovation project.
New shingles on the roof where winter revealed weak spots.
The front steps reinforced. The storage shed organized and weatherproofed.
Gabe attacks each task with the same focused intensity he probably brought to military operations, except now he's building instead of destroying.
I've watched him change in small ways. The nightmares still come, but less frequently.
The hyper-vigilance has eased—he no longer checks every window before sleeping, doesn't calculate tactical exits from every room.
Yesterday I caught him humming while fixing the kitchen sink.
I stopped in the doorway and listened until he noticed.
A truck rumbles up the drive. Zeke's patrol vehicle, which means official business or social call. With Zeke, it's usually both.
"Morning," he calls, climbing out. "Got mail for you. Certified letter from Montana."
Gabe sets down his tools, wipes his hands on his jeans. "Sarah?"
"Return address says Echo Ridge." Zeke hands over the envelope. "Figured it was important enough to deliver personally."
Gabe opens it while I pour Zeke a cup of coffee. Inside are legal documents and a handwritten letter. Gabe scans both, his expression unreadable.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Sarah. She says Victoria Cross wants to meet with me. In person." He looks up from the letter. "Apparently she's been following the Committee trials, knows about my testimony. Wants to discuss future opportunities once everything's settled."
My coffee mug stops halfway to my mouth. Victoria Cross—the woman who coordinates Echo Ridge operations, who has resources and connections that span continents. The kind of woman who offers people like Gabe a way back into the world they left behind.
"That's significant," I manage to keep my voice steady.
"It is." He folds the letter carefully. "Sarah says Cross is impressed with how I handled the Committee situation. Thinks my skills and experience could be valuable. No pressure, just wants to talk."
"Talk about what? Montana work?"
"Maybe. Or maybe something else." He meets my eyes. "Sarah says Cross cares about more than just the work. Says she wants operators to have real lives, not just operations."
The hope in his voice—careful, guarded, but there—makes me set down my coffee before I drop it.
"When does she want to meet?"
"Two weeks. In Montana." He pauses. "Sarah says I should bring you. That Cross wants to meet the woman who pulled me out of the blizzard."
"She wants to meet me?"
"Apparently." He sets the letter on the porch rail. "Sarah told her what you did. Cross wants to understand the whole picture before she makes any offers."
Zeke clears his throat. "I'll just drink my coffee over here and admire the view."
Gabe ignores him, crosses to me instead. Takes my coffee mug and sets it beside his letter. Then he takes both my hands in his, callused palms warm against mine.
"Three months ago you pulled me out of a blizzard when you could have left me there. You gave me shelter when I had nothing but trouble to offer. You stood beside me when men with guns tried to kill us. And you've spent the last three months helping me figure out who I am when I'm not running."
"Gabe...”
"Let me finish." His grip tightens. "I don't have much. My bank accounts are still frozen. I've got a sister in Montana, some clothes, and whatever skills the Navy taught me. But I'm alive. I'm free. And I'm standing here because you chose to save me."
"You would have done the same."
"Maybe. But you did it first." He takes a breath. "Cross is offering me a chance at something. I don't know what yet. But none of it matters if it means leaving here. Leaving you."
My throat tightens.
"The lodge needs work," I say finally.
He waits.
"And you're terrible at cooking."
"I know."
The words hang between us, simple but weighted with everything we haven't said yet.
"Yeah," I tell him. "That's what I want."
He kisses me then, gentle and sure, tasting like coffee and sawdust and the promise of something that might actually last. Zeke whoops from his spot by the railing, making us both laugh against each other's mouths.
When we break apart, Gabe's smiling, really smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes him look younger than his years.
"So we go to Montana," I say. "Meet with Cross. See what she's offering."
"And if it's something that requires me to be there full-time?"
"Then we figure it out. But I'm guessing a woman smart enough to build Echo Ridge is smart enough to know that some operators work better with roots than wings."
He pulls me close, rests his chin on top of my head. We stand like that for a long moment, wrapped in morning sun and possibility, while Zeke pretends to be very interested in his coffee.
"You know this won't be easy," I tell him eventually. "The nightmares, the memories, the trial testimony still coming. We're both still figuring things out."
"I know."
"And there's no guarantee this works. We might drive each other crazy."
"Probably will." He links his fingers through mine. "But I'd rather figure it out here than be anywhere else."
Not poetry. Just honest—two damaged people choosing to heal together instead of apart.
That evening, Sadie and Zeke come by with dinner from the café—pot roast and fresh bread that fills the lodge with smells that feel like home.
Nate and Wren show up shortly after with wine and stories about a bear that got into someone's garbage on the north trail.
Zara arrives last, bringing dessert and news that tourists are already making summer reservations.
We crowd around the lodge's big table, passing plates and bottles and conversation. The kind of easy gathering that happens when people genuinely like each other, when friendship isn't obligation but choice.
Gabe's quieter than the others, still learning how to be social again, how to exist in spaces that aren't about survival.
But his hand finds mine under the table, holds on.
When Sadie asks about the Montana trip, he says "we're going" and "Mara and I will drive up" like it's the most natural thing in the world.
My heart skips.
"About time," Sadie says with a knowing smile. "Mrs. Lancaster saw you buying her flowers at the market last week. By noon, everyone knew."
"They were just wildflowers."
"They were wildflowers from a man who fixes her roof at dawn." Zeke grins. "Whole town's been watching, you know. Wondering when you'd both stop pretending this was temporary."
Gabe looks at me, eyebrow raised. "Were we pretending?"
"Apparently."
"Huh." He squeezes my hand. "Guess we should stop then."
Later, after everyone leaves, we clean up together. Him washing, me drying. No discussion needed—we've found our rhythm.
Later still, we stand on the porch watching stars emerge in the clear spring sky.
The air is cold but not bitter, carrying the promise of summer hidden beneath winter's last breath.
Down in the valley, lights from town twinkle like earthbound stars.
Our town. Our mountain. Our life, slowly taking shape from fragments and determination.
"Thank you," Gabe says finally.
"For what?"
"For pulling me out of that blizzard. For not giving up. For giving me a reason to stop running."
I lean into him, his arm coming around my shoulders automatically. "You would have done the same for me."
"Yeah. I would." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "But you did it first. That makes all the difference."
Tomorrow there will be more repairs, more healing, more decisions about Montana and Victoria Cross and what the future might hold. But tonight there's just this—warmth and safety and the beginning of something that feels like it might last.
Three months ago I pulled a stranger from a blizzard. Tonight his hand finds mine in the darkness, and I don't let go.
Simple as that.