Epilogue
FINN
January's got Crystal Creek locked down tight under snow.
Inside the lodge, the fire's cranking, fighting off the cold that wants to creep through every crack.
Mags sits by the hearth sketching something, drinking coffee from that fancy espresso machine I got her for Christmas.
Six months since she turned that plane around, and she's still here. It still feels like I got lucky.
The partnership's working—both the business side and the personal side. We've found our rhythm. It's good.
Reid's snow machine whines up the track from Port Promise, cutting through the quiet afternoon. I glance out the window, watching his headlight bounce as he climbs toward the lodge.
“The researcher?” Mags asks without looking up.
“Should be.” The university booked winter transport and support months ago. Specifically wanted access to Black Creek basin in January. Not many outfits will take that on, but Nash has the equipment and the money was decent.
Reid pulls up near the porch and kills the engine. A bundled figure climbs off the back, hauling gear that looks expensive and scientific. Reid starts unloading equipment cases while his passenger shoulders a heavy pack.
Reid comes in first, stomping snow off his boots. “Brought your scientist,” he announces. “Dr. Thorne. Float plane was only a few minutes late.”
Dr. Aris Thorne follows him in, pushing back her parka hood. Younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with sharp green eyes that immediately start cataloging the room. Her face is red from the cold, but she moves like someone who doesn't let weather slow her down.
“Thank you for the ride,” she tells Reid, then turns to us. “I'm Dr. Aris Thorne, University of Alaska. I arranged logistics support with Nash Hollister?”
“Welcome to Crystal Creek,” I say, standing up. “I'm Finn, Nash's brother. This is Mags. Nash is out checking equipment, but he'll be back soon. Coffee while you wait?”
She heads straight for the fire, holding her gloved hands to the flames. “Yes, coffee. Black.”
Mags sets down her pencil. “Cold flight up from Anchorage. You're here about caribou?”
“Winter migration patterns,” Dr. Thorne says, taking the mug I hand her. “Six-week study in Black Creek basin. The university arranged comprehensive support.”
“That's remote country in winter,” I tell her. “Nash is your best bet for getting equipment in there safely. He's got the vehicles and knows the terrain.”
Dr. Thorne's eyes move around the room—the mounted moose head, hunting photos on the walls, the general look of a place built by hunters. Something changes in her expression.
“The university called this a 'wilderness logistics company,'” she says carefully. “What exactly do you do?”
I glance at Mags. There's something in the doctor's tone I don't like.
“Transport, equipment hauling, route planning,” I explain. “Nash gets people and gear to places they couldn't reach otherwise, especially in winter.”
“And?”
She's looking at one of Nash's hunting photos now—him and a client with a big bull moose. Her mouth gets tight.
“I see,” she says quietly.
The room feels colder despite the fire. Mags clears her throat.
“We could show you to your cabin while you wait,” Mags offers. “Get you settled and warmed up properly.”
Dr. Thorne barely glances toward the cabin. “I'd rather discuss protocols with Mr. Hollister first.”
The sound of Nash's ATV grows louder, then cuts off as he parks. A few minutes later he comes through the door, stomping snow and pulling off gloves.
“Equipment's all set, weather's holding,” he tells me, then notices our guest. His easy smile appears. “Dr. Thorne, I'm guessing?”
She turns to face him. “Mr. Hollister.”
“Nash,” he says, offering his hand. “Hope the flight wasn't too rough.”
“It was fine, thank you.” She shakes his hand briefly.
Nash heads for the coffee pot, clearly in a good mood. “Great. Been looking forward to this. Don't often get to support real research in the basin. Most of our winter clients are trophy hunters.”
The words hang in the air like a lit fuse.
Dr. Thorne goes still. “Trophy hunters?”
Nash pours coffee, missing the warning signs.
“That's right. We run one of the best hunting guide services in the region. Moose, caribou, bear. We have high success rates and access to remote territory.” He turns back with professional pride.
“We also do photography trips, research support, whatever people need to access the backcountry. ”
“I see.” Her voice has gone flat. “The university booked me with a hunting operation.”
Now Nash picks up on the tension. His confidence wavers as he looks between Dr. Thorne's rigid posture and my neutral expression.
“Problem?” he asks.
Dr. Thorne sets her coffee down like she's handling explosives. “Mr. Hollister, I study wildlife conservation and human impact on caribou migration. The university told me you provided 'wilderness logistics.' They didn't mention your main business is killing the animals I'm trying to protect.”
Nash's jaw tightens. His easy manner disappears. “My business is legal and ethical, Doctor. We follow all regulations and fund conservation through license fees. We also provide the only winter access to places like Black Creek basin.”
“Access for what? Researchers or hunters looking for trophies?”
“Both,” Nash says coolly, leaning against the mantel. “Like it or not, hunting is part of wildlife management in Alaska. And my operation pays for the vehicles and equipment you need to get your research done.”
Mags squeezes my hand. She's enjoying this more than she should. I have to admit, watching Nash and this scientist square off is entertaining.
Dr. Thorne looks trapped but angry. Winter doesn't offer many options for remote research access, and she knows it.
“My research requires minimal ecosystem disturbance,” she says stiffly. “Your hunting activities won't interfere?”
“My activities follow legal seasons and permitted areas,” Nash replies. “They also pay for the vehicle sitting outside, ready to haul your equipment through ten miles of snow in subzero weather. Want to discuss payload capacity?”
Long pause. Dr. Thorne stares at Nash, clearly fighting with herself. Nash stares back, his reputation on the line.
Finally, she nods curtly. “Fine. Let's plan this expedition, Mr. Hollister. Daylight's limited.”
“Excellent,” Nash says, though his smile has an edge. “Let's talk logistics.”
They head back outside into the cold, already sounding more like they're negotiating a ceasefire than planning a research trip.
Mags picks up her pencil. “She seems friendly.”
I pull her closer, kissing her temple. “Friendly as a cornered wolverine with opinions about everything.”
Mags laughs. “Think Nash met his match?”
“Maybe.” I watch them through the window, examining Nash's equipment while clearly still arguing. “Nash told me something else. She's not after just any caribou. She's specifically tracking one bull the university calls 'Waldo.'”
Mags looks up. “Waldo?”
“Apparently, he's famous for giving researchers the slip. Been doing it for years, always in the worst possible terrain. Reid says Dr. Thorne's been trying to collar him for three years.”
Mags raises her eyebrows. “Three years?”
“Smart caribou. Makes a game of leading scientists on wild chases through impossible country, then vanishing when they think they've got him cornered.”
A smile spreads across Mags's face. “So she's not only doing research. This is personal.”
“Exactly. Nash thinks he's signed up for standard wildlife support.” I shake my head, watching my brother and the determined scientist load equipment while still clearly negotiating terms. “Poor bastard's about to get caught between a woman on a mission and one very clever caribou.”
Outside, wind picks up, swirling snow around the two figures bent over maps and gear lists. Whatever happens with this expedition, it won't be boring .
“Poor Nash,” Mags says, though she sounds more amused than sympathetic.
“Poor Nash,” I agree. “And poor Waldo. He's got no idea what's coming for him.”
Thank you for reading Crystal Creek . Did you enjoy Port Promise, and the story of Lena and Finn? Discover what happens between Aris and Nash next.
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Be sure to check out One Hundred Moments , the free prequel to Aspen Cove, and find out about Bea Bennett and her love of pink stationery.
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WANT A SNEAK PEAK AT A TASTE OF TEMPTATION FROM MY RECIPE FOR LOVE SERIES?
DANIELLE
Gathering her nerves, Danielle Morgan paused before stepping out of her car.
Today was not a one-breath kind of day but rather one requiring two.
What could lurk behind her best friend Trish’s front door this time?
Was it another surprise blind date like the one with Gene Horowitz last weekend?
Or perhaps an encore of Trish and Rob’s sultry kitchen escapade.
Two weeks ago, she unexpectedly encountered Trish and her husband, Rob, in a passionate encounter on their newly installed granite kitchen island.
From that moment on, she promised not to accept any invitations to eat at Trish’s house unless she brought the meal.
With a gulp, Danielle exited her car and approached the door.
Before Danielle could raise her fist to knock, the door swung open, and Trish greeted her with an exuberant “Dani” and an I’ve-got-something-up-my-sleeve look.
“Please don’t tell me you invited another of Rob’s cousins over.” Danielle spun around, hoping to make her escape before it was too late. But Trish grabbed her arm and yanked her through the doorway.
“Nope. Just Rob.”
“Is he decent?” She cleared her throat. “I mean, is he wearing clothes?”
Trish chuckled. “Decent … nope. Dressed … absolutely.”