Silent Wounds (Whispered Echoes)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Eden

M y fingers squeeze the steering wheel as I navigate the mountain pass, and I find myself bargaining with whatever cosmic force might be listening.

"If I survive this drive, I promise to stop eating ice cream for breakfast. And I'll finally join that gym my sister keeps nagging me about." I pause, reconsidering. "Okay, maybe just the ice cream thing."

The windshield wipers squeak back and forth, fighting a losing battle against the wall of white pelting my car.

The dashboard clock blinks 2:23 PM.

I'm already twenty-three minutes late for my interview at Preston & Associates. Not that my heart was ever in this accounting position, but Dad's voice rings in my ears like it always does when I'm about to make a questionable life choice.

Make something of yourself, kiddo. There's no one else out there like you, just remember that.

My throat tightens as Dad's memory washes over me. Eight years since I watched that flag-draped casket lower into frozen earth, and the wound still feels raw. Fresh. Like it all happened yesterday.

His death changed everything - my goals, my dreams, the very fabric of who I am. Some days I catch myself reaching for the phone to tell him about my day, only to remember he'll never answer again. Never give me that crooked smile or call me his "little spark."

He wanted so much for me. Stability, success, a life that made sense.

But here I am, lost on a mountain pass, chasing a future I'm not even sure I want.

The road narrows, a sheer cliff face rising on my left while dense pines crowd the right. My ancient Toyota Corolla shudders as another gust of wind batters its frame.

"Come on, Betty, don't fail me now." I pat the dashboard encouragingly, but Betty has other plans. The back end fishtails, and my stomach lurches as the tires lose their grip.

"No, no, no!" I wrestle with the wheel, but the higher I climb, the more the road transforms into a sheet of pure ice. Through the curtain of snow, a hairpin turn materializes.

My foot slams the brake pedal. Nothing happens. The cliff edge rushes closer, and the world suddenly tilts sideways.

Snow and dark sky blur into a dizzying white kaleidoscope as my faithful sedan spins like a carnival ride gone wrong. My hands clutch the wheel, but it might as well be a prayer wheel for all the good it does.

The cliff edge rushes past in a streak of gray.

"Shit! Shiiiit !"

My stomach drops as I careen toward the tree line instead. Time stretches, each fraction of a second crystal clear yet somehow too fast to process.

I'm sorry, Dad.

WHACK!

The impact slams me forward. The airbag erupts in my face with the force of a heavyweight's punch, filling my nose with the acrid smell of burning chemicals.

Pain explodes across my chest. My teeth rattle in my jaw and pain shoots through somewhere I can't quiet pinpoint. The car's frame groans and buckles as the front end crumples into what looks like a massive snowdrift.

Then... nothing.

The engine ticks as it cools. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else. I can't tell if the ringing I hear is from the crash or just inside my head.

Snowflakes drift lazily through the cracked windshield, landing on my trembling hands still locked around the steering wheel. The silence weighs on me like a designer coat three sizes too big…

Fuck. If mountains could hold their breath, this one's definitely mid-panic attack right along with me.

But at least I'm alive.

Somehow, impossibly, I'm alive.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat, but I swallow it back down. My whole body shakes as the adrenaline hits, making my fingers tingle and my vision swim.

The interview. Preston & Associates. It all seems so ridiculous now, so far away from this moment where death just brushed past close enough to ruffle my hair.

I twist the key in the ignition, holding my breath. The engine whines, a sound that makes my teeth ache, then dies with a pathetic wheeze. Smoke curls up from under the hood.

That can't be good.

"Come on, come on."

I try again. Nothing. Not even that sad little whimper this time.

My phone's in my purse, buried somewhere under the passenger seat. I fish it out, hands shaking. The screen lights up, but the signal bars mock me with their emptiness. No service. Of course.

Dad's voice echoes in my head, clear as if he were sitting right next to me in his clean-pressed military gear. "First rule of survival, Eden-girl: Don't panic. Second rule: Get moving before the cold sets in."

The temperature's already dropping. I can feel it seeping through my thin blazer—the one I picked for looking professional, not for surviving a mountain winter.

Outside, the mountains rise like ancient guardians, indifferent to my predicament. Snow blankets everything in pristine white, beautiful in that deadly way nature loves to be.

There is one positive.

I know this area, sort of. I'm not exactly… lost.

Dad used to bring me camping near here when I was little. The next town over can't be more than fifteen miles away.

I take a deep breath and gather my bag. My fingers have already gone numb, and the cold bites at my nose and cheeks. The snow's picking up, transforming the world into a blank canvas of white-on-white.

I don't have a choice. I need to walk, find help, or... No. There is no 'or.' Dad didn't raise a quitter.

The car door groans as I push it open, snow immediately rushing into my sensible, professional, flats.

Great.

Nothing says "professional interview ready" like frostbitten toes.

I heave myself out, my muscles protesting. The snow reaches my knees, soaking through my pencil skirt. The wind slices through my thin blazer like it's made of tissue paper.

"This is fine," I mutter, trudging forward. "Totally fine."

My thighs burn with each step. Maybe I should've taken up Melissa's offer to be her gym buddy. My best friend has been on at me since the holidays to clean up my act.

But who was I trying to impress? The spreadsheets at my dead-end job?

Dad's voice whispers through my memories, clear as the mountain air. "Never forget the people who will help when you need it most, Eden."

The thought stops me mid-step. People who help...

Gage Callahan.

The name hits me like an avalanche. Dad's best friend. The man he called his brother. The soldier who disappeared into these mountains after his last deployment, the deployment that Dad never returned home from.

Dad always said Gage lived somewhere up here, though no one's seen him in years. A ghost in the wilderness.

I met him a lot when I was younger, but the last time I saw him was when I was sixteen. He'd filled the doorway of our house, all hard edges and storm-gray eyes. He'd barely spoken two words before disappearing with Dad.

The wind howls, and I squint through the swirling snow.

A dark shape materializes ahead – solid and growing in its imposing nature amongst the mountains. As I get closer, the outline sharpens. Heavy logs stacked into walls. Thick beams supporting a snow-laden roof.

A warm glow flickers behind frosted windows.

My heart kicks against my ribs as I spot the chopping block to the side, an axe buried deep in the wood. Neat stacks of firewood line the wall, protected by the cabin's overhang.

This has to be his place. Has to be.

My boots creak on the porch steps as I climb them, each one bringing me closer to that door. Closer to him.

The scent of fresh-cut pine wraps around me, so strong it's like the cabin was built yesterday. But the weathered logs tell a different story - one of isolation, of a man who chose to vanish from the world.

My hand trembles, not just from the cold. Stories drift through these mountains like snow, whispers about the broken soldier who lives here. How the war changed him. How he came back different.

Dangerous.

An icicle drips steadily above me, the rhythm matching my racing pulse.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

What if they're right? What if the man I remember - the one who used to toss me in the air and catch me, who taught me how to tie knots and start fires alongside my father… what if he's gone?

What if the war took him along with my father?

The wind howls, cutting through my blazer like knives. My teeth chatter so hard I worry they might crack.

I squeeze my eyes shut and lift my hand.

Knock. Knock.

Nothing.

The cold seeps deeper, turning my fingers numb. I can't feel my toes anymore.

"Please," I whisper, pounding harder on the door. The sound echoes through the wilderness behind me.

Still nothing.

Another icicle breaks free, shattering on the porch beside my feet. The crash makes me jump, and suddenly I'm aware of how alone I am. How isolated.

The stories were right about one thing - this place feels untouched by time, like stepping into a forgotten world. No footprints mar the snow. No lights flicker in the windows except that single lantern.

Maybe no one's home. Maybe he's not even here anymore. Maybe-

The door creaks.

Then the fucking door flies open with such force I stumble backward, my heel catching on the edge of the porch.

A blast of heat rolls over me, carrying woodsmoke and cedar and something else - something raw and masculine that makes my breath catch.

And when I finally manage to look up… there he is.

Gage Callahan.

The stories didn't do him justice.

He stands like a predator caught mid-prowl. Broad shoulders filling the frame, a black shirt stretching over a chest carved from stone.

He dominates the doorframe, shoulders spanning the width, height forcing me to tip my head back until I feel unsteady on my legs. His shirt gapes at the throat, revealing bronzed skin and the edge of what looks like a tattoo. A jagged scar cuts down his right side, visible through the thin fabric.

Then those storm-gray eyes lock onto mine, and I see recognition spark in their depths.

His jaw clenches, tendons standing out in his neck. His fingers grip the doorframe so hard his knuckles bleach white.

I can't breathe.

This is him.

This is my father's best friend.

The man who disappeared into these mountains eight years ago.

I expected... I don't know what I expected. Someone older maybe. Someone worn down by war and time and loss.

But Gage?

He looks like he was carved from granite - hard edged and unyielding planes of pure man.

My wet clothes cling to my skin, the snow melting in my hair, sending a slow, icy trickle down my spine.

I should still be freezing, but the longer he looks at me, jaw tight, gaze unrelenting and studying every inch of my soaked skin… the more I feel a different kind of heat pooling low in my stomach.

Oh. That's new.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. Just stares.

His fingers dig deeper into the wooden frame, and I swear I hear the wood crack beneath his grip. Recognition burns in those storm-gray eyes - but it's tinged with something else. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

He remembers me.

Of course he does.

He's currently running through the same memories flashing before my eyes too… Summer barbecues, camping trips, my father's booming laugh echoing across our backyard. Back when Gage knew how to smile. Back before everything changed.

But this man... this isn't the same person who taught me how to pitch a tent or start a fire.

This is someone else entirely.

Someone harder. Darker.

A violent shiver rips through me, my wet clothes offering zero protection against the biting wind. The movement breaks whatever spell held him frozen.

"Gage, I'm Eden Blake... Daniel's—"

"I know who you are."

His voice cuts through mine like a blade and those dangerous eyes lock on my face.

"And you shouldn't be here."