Chapter 11 Beck
ELEVEN
BECK
Silas James’s truck crawls up the drive just after noon, chains clanking on the half-melted snow, red-and-blue lights cutting weak pulses through the thinning gray.
I watch from the porch, rifle slung low across my body—not pointed, not yet. Sabrina stands behind me, close enough that I feel her trembling against my back. Her hand is fisted in the hem of my coat like she’s afraid the wind might snatch her away if she lets go.
Sheriff James steps out—big, intimidating in the best of ways. He tips his hat, eyes flicking from me to Sabrina, then to the rifle.
“Beck Ironwood,” he drawls. “Heard you had company.”
“Had,” I say. “Still have.”
He nods slowly, and looks past me at Sabrina. “Miss Hart?”
She steps forward—just one half-step. Her voice is steady when she speaks, but I hear the crack beneath it. “Yes.”
“Got your message. Said you had evidence of financial fraud. Said someone was following you. Said it might get ugly.”
“It already is ugly,” she says.
Silas exhales through his nose. “You got that evidence on you?”
She nods toward the small waterproof pouch tucked inside her borrowed coat—the USB drive, still sealed, still the only thing standing between her and whatever Ethan’s willing to do to bury it.
Silas holds out a gloved hand. “I’ll take it now. Chain of custody. You know how it works.”
Sabrina hesitates.
I feel it—the sudden hitch in her breathing, the way her fingers tighten on my coat. I turn my head just enough to catch her eye.
She looks at me like she’s asking permission to jump off a cliff.
I nod once.
She pulls the pouch free, and hands it over.
Silas pockets it without opening it. “Good. I’ll get this to the DA in Missoula by end of day. They’ll want your statement. Formal. Recorded.”
“Now?” she asks.
“Soon as we can get you down the mountain safely.” He glances at the sky—clearing, but still heavy with the promise of another front. “Maybe in the next day or two.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
He turns to go. Then stops, and turns back. “Got a BOLO out on a black Escalade. Washington plates. Driver matches the description you gave, Miss Hart. Male. Mid-thirties. Scar over the left eye.”
Sabrina goes rigid beside me.
I already know what’s coming.
Silas’s voice drops lower. “Last pinged cell data puts him sixty miles south of here. Moving north. Fast. If he’s headed this way, he’ll hit the pass in the next hour.”
The air turns to ice in my lungs.
Sabrina makes a small, choked sound.
Silas’s eyes flick between us. “You two stay put till I radio clear. Doors locked. Lights low. You see anything—anything—you call it in. Don’t play hero.” He climbs back into his truck. Engine growls to life. Tires crunch snow as he reverses, then heads down the narrow track.
We watch him disappear around the first bend. Then silence. Thick. Suffocating.
I turn to her.
She’s pale—ghost pale—but her eyes are dry. Fierce. “He’s coming,” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
“For me.”
“For the drive.” I step closer, cupping her face. “But he’s not getting either.”
Her hands come up—cold fingers curling around my wrists. “Beck… if he gets past you—”
“He won’t.”
“If he does—” Her voice breaks. “Promise me you’ll run. Take the truck. Get out. Live.”
The words hit like a blade between the ribs.
I stare at her. Hard. “No.”
“Beck—”
“No.” I pull her against me—hard, sudden—until she’s flush to my chest. “I don’t run. Not from this. Not from him. Not from you. You think I’d leave you here alone? You think I could live with that?”
She shakes her head against my coat. “I can’t live with you dying for me.”
“Then don’t make me.” I tilt her chin up, and force her to meet my eyes. “We end this. Together. Like we promised. And then we come home. To our life. To the mornings. To the stupid coffee fights. To forever.”
Tears spill over now—silent, fast. I kiss them away. One by one. Then I kiss her mouth—deep, desperate, tasting salt and fear and the fierce, unbreakable thing between us.
When I pull back, my voice is rough. “Go inside. Lock the door. Stay away from the windows. I’ll be right behind you.”
She doesn’t move at first. Then she nods. Small. Brave.
I watch her walk inside—slow, deliberate—door closing with a soft click. I wait until I hear the deadbolt slide home.
Then I shoulder the rifle. Check the magazine. Check the spare. Check the perimeter—tracks in the snow, fresh breaks in the tree line, the faint glint of something black moving through the pines half a mile down.
He’s here. Early. My pulse slows. Steadies. I step off the porch. Snow crunches under my boots. Wind carries the distant growl of an engine climbing the pass.
I move toward the tree line—quiet, deliberate—every sense tuned to the mountain I’ve called home for eight years.
This is my ground. My rules. My woman inside that cabin. And the man coming up the road? He’s about to learn what happens when you hunt what’s mine.
I disappear into the pines.
Heart steady.
Hands steady.
Love steady.
And the tension coils tighter with every step—because the next hour will decide everything.
Whether we walk away together. Or whether the snow turns red.
Either way—
I’m not blinking first.