Chapter 2
2
TRAVIS
I know the second she steps onto my land.
The wind carries sound different out here—subtle changes in rhythm and footfall that no one who hasn’t spent years listening for ambush would ever notice. Her steps are light but purposeful, hesitating just once before committing to the incline. She’s either bold, stupid, or desperate. Probably some combination of all three.
I track her through the trees from the loft window. Small frame. Hood pulled low. Boots that weren’t made for this kind of terrain. She’s probably soaked through, moving slower than she wants to, like her body’s close to calling it quits. But she doesn’t stop.
She reaches the porch. Raises her hand.
I open the door before she knocks.
And there she is. Abby Westwood. I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
Golden curls sticking out from under a knit hat tucked under the hood of her parka, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes wide and too bright. She’s smaller than I remember from the one time Nick showed me a photo—softer maybe—but her gaze is steady. Direct. She looks me square in the face, even though I know I’ve got to look like something out of a survivalist’s nightmare. Broad frame, flannel and combat boots. My beard is rough enough to catch snowflakes.
Her chin lifts half an inch. Brave. Or pretending to be.
“Hi. Um. My name is Abby Westwood.”
The name hits like a fist to the sternum.
I don’t blink.
“You knew my brother. Nick. Nick Westwood.”
I step forward and grab her arm. Not hard. Just enough to haul her inside and slam the door shut behind her. The temperature shift alone will knock her flat if she stands there too long, and I’m not about to have someone collapse on my damn porch, especially not Nick’s little sister.
She stiffens under my hand but doesn’t pull away. Smart girl.
I release her and walk past, already assessing. Her boots are soaking wet. Pants drenched from the climb. Her coat’s zipped all the way to the top, but I can tell she’s shivering. She smells like snow, pine, and just beneath it—something warm. Clean. Feminine.
I tell myself to ignore that part.
“You come up here alone?” I ask without looking back.
“Yes.”
“You always throw yourself into danger without a plan?”
I hear the hesitation before she answers. “No, but then I didn’t plan on someone trying to murder me in my sleep.”
That gets my full attention.
I turn and face her. “Start talking.”
She sways on her feet. I step forward instinctively, and she straightens like I’ve challenged her. Her chin goes up again.
“Your name came across my desk a few days ago. I work for Liberty Quill Press, you know, your publisher…”
“They don’t have my real name, just my pen name…”
“And a link to your Swiss bank account…”
“That’s supposed to be anonymous…”
She laughs. “Nothing is anonymous if you know your way around the web. But that’s not really important. My boss asked me to dig into Jack Stratton’s file?—
I hold up a hand, sharp. “Don’t say that name in my house again.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts. She nods. Good.
She swallows. “Fine. Your name. I traced the contract. The wire account. Zurich. I figured it out… took some doing, but once I got onto the dark web, it didn’t take much.”
“That’s a problem.”
Her eyebrows lift. “No shit. Someone else figured out I was looking. Suddenly, the screen went black and then a warning flashed up. Someone else knows about you, too. Because later that night, someone broke into my apartment in Philly. Tactical gear, mask, and a very nasty-looking blade. When he told someone over his comms unit that he would take care of me—the problem—I got out of there.”
Her voice falters. Not from fear. From fury. I know that feeling. The rage that comes after the fear has burned itself out.
“Nick left me a note,” she continues, voice lower. “Told me if anything happened to him—or to me—I was to grab the go bag he made me prepare and then find you.”
“And what exactly do you think I’m going to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “But I didn’t have a lot of options. My brother is the only person I ever truly trusted, and you were the only name he ever gave me.”
That right there is what makes me pause.
I remember Nick. Sniper. Smarter than the rest. He always had my back, supporting me even when I gave orders he disliked. And now his sister is standing in my cabin, looking like she might fall over—but refusing to ask for anything.
I run a hand across my beard. She’s trouble. No doubt about it. But she’s Nick’s little sister. I walk past her, grab a folded blanket from the chair by the fire, and toss it at her.
“Get out of those wet clothes and wrap yourself in that blanket. Then sit down in front of the fire and warm up. Don’t speak unless I ask. I need to think.”
She starts to open her mouth.
“Unless,” I add, “you want to go back out there and try your luck in the snow and with whoever tried to kill you.”
She closes her mouth and pulls off her wet things until all that’s left is a lacy set of lingerie. Somehow, I don’t think Nick had thought to include a matching bra and panties. She doesn’t quibble and doesn’t seem to think about modesty. Just does what I tell her and sits on the chesterfield couch in front of the fire. Good girl.
I give her a nod and turn toward the kitchen. There’s stew left over from last night and a loaf of bread I pulled from the oven this morning. I rarely bother with company meals, but I keep enough on hand just in case.
Just in case turns out to be five-foot-five and tracking slush into my living room.
I hand her the bowl and make her a cup of tea, setting it down on the table beside her.
“Eat.”
She obeys, surprisingly fast. She dips the spoon in the stew, lifts it to her lips, and takes a bite. I watch her eyes flutter closed. I turn away before I watch anything else. Back at the counter, I brace my palms against the edge and breathe deep.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I buried the past. I killed it. One mile of forest at a time. One lie of omission, one silence, one cut tie. I walked away so no one else would get caught in the crossfire. And now it’s found me again in the form of Nick’s little sister, shivering in my flannel blanket and eating stew like it’s the first thing she’s tasted in days.
I don’t ask if she brought anyone else with her. I’ll sweep the perimeter myself when the storm lets up. I don’t ask what else she knows. Not yet, but I know I’m not sending her back out there.
Nick’s voice is in my head. ‘ She’s smart, Holt. Fierce. And stubborn as hell. You’d like her.’
I already do. That’s a problem.
She pushes the bowl away and leans back. “That was amazing.”
“You’ll sleep in the loft,” I say. “The stairs are steep. Don’t fall.”
She raises both eyebrows. “You’re very charming, you know that?”
I step closer. Watch her eyes widen just a fraction. “I’m not here to charm you, Abby. I’m here to figure out why the hell someone’s targeting the sister of a dead SEAL and dragging me back into a fight I didn’t start.”
“You think I wanted to be here?”
“You showed up on my porch.”
She stands, fire sparking in her gaze. “Because I had nowhere else to go.”
I tower over her. Let the silence sit there. Her breathing’s quick now. Not fear. Something else. Something we both feel but neither of us intends to act on.
“You get one night,” I say. “Then we talk. No lies. No games.”
She nods slowly. “Fair.”
I walk past her, climb the stairs to the loft and yank a spare set of blankets from the chest. I don’t look back. If I do, I might say something I can’t take back… and I’ve made enough mistakes to know better. I come back down.
She doesn’t go upstairs—not at first.
I hear her behind me, hovering at the edge of the main room like she’s debating whether to let me disappear or press her luck. I keep my back to her, pretending to double-check the locks on the front door, even though I’ve already done it twice. She’s not making a sound, but I can feel her eyes on me—curious, sharp, unyielding.
She's like Nick that way. She doesn’t rattle easily. That should make her easier to deal with. It doesn’t. It makes her dangerous. She doesn’t know when to stop.
“You knew him better than anyone,” she says quietly. “My brother.”
I don’t answer.
She keeps going, walking deeper into the cabin, each word gaining steam. “He described you as if you were made of stone.” Untouchable. Deadly. But he trusted you. Swore you’d protect me if anything ever happened to him.”
I turn slowly. Meet her gaze head-on. She’s close now, standing by the fireplace, arms clutching the blanket, and crossed over her chest. Not defensive. Not scared. Like she’s holding herself in place so she doesn’t grab me by the collar and shake answers out of me.
“What happened to him, Travis?” she asks.
Her voice wobbles at the edges—not enough to break, but enough to let me know this matters more than anything else in the world to her. It’s not a performance. It’s personal. Deep.
I walk past her to the hearth, throw another log on the fire, and stir the coals with the iron poker. Sparks leap, crackling loud in the space between us.
“I deserve the truth,” she says. “He was my brother.”
“And he was my man,” I growl, turning back. “He was under my command. My responsibility. I buried five men that day, and none of them should’ve died. If you think I sleep at night without seeing their faces, you couldn’t be more wrong.”
Her mouth parts. She doesn’t speak.
“Whatever story you think you’re owed, Abby,” I say, voice hard, “the truth won’t bring him back. And it sure as hell won’t keep you alive if you keep asking the wrong questions.”
“You think I haven’t figured that out?” She steps forward now, chin raised. “I had some guy with a knife standing not far from my bed two nights ago. I haven’t slept since. The only thing I did differently that day was stumble on your name. I’m not here for closure, Travis. I’m here because somebody thinks I know something. And if I’m going to stay alive long enough to figure out why, I need to know what really happened to Nick.”
I cross the room in two strides. She stiffens but doesn’t back away.
“Let me be clear, I don’t owe you a damn thing,” I say, voice low, controlled. “But I gave your brother my word. If anything ever happened to him and you needed me, I’d protect you.”
She lifts her chin another inch. “Protection doesn’t mean silence.”
“No, but survival does.”
That hits. She blinks, faltering for just a second.
I take the opportunity and back off a few steps, because if I stay this close, I’m going to forget every reason why keeping her at arm’s length is necessary. Her scent, her voice, the heat rolling off her body in waves—all of it is messing with my head.
She shouldn’t be here. She definitely shouldn’t be under my roof, and yet, I let her in.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re hiding something.”
“I’m hiding everything,” I snap. “For good reason.”
She folds her arms tighter. “So that’s it? You’re going to hide here, pretend this never happened, and then what—let me die in a ditch because knowing what happened and/or who Jack Stratton really is put me on a list?”
“You’re not going to die,” I say. “Not on my watch. Not if you do what I tell you.”
“Then give me something.”
I drag a hand over my beard. My mind races through the options. I could tell her a version of the truth. I could soften it. Feed her something she’d accept. But lies are just gasoline on an already smoldering fire.
And the truth? The real truth? That’s a bullet with her name on it.
“I can’t,” I finally say. “Not yet.”
Her face goes still. She steps back, a little of the fire fading from her eyes. “You think I can’t handle it.”
“I think people who get too close to the truth end up dead.”
She stares at me. For a second, neither of us speaks.
Then she turns away. “Coward.”
I stalk forward, grab her arm, and spin her back around. “Say that again.”
Her eyes blaze up at me, her voice steady. “You heard me.”
We’re toe-to-toe again, and this time, I don’t move. I don’t let go of her arm. She doesn’t pull away.
“You think this is about fear?” I ask. “You have no idea what I’ve done to stay off the radar. What I’ve sacrificed to make sure no one else dies.”
“I don’t care about your past,” she fires back. “I care about the people who are still breathing. Me, Travis. I’m still breathing. And I want to stay that way.”
That gets through. Not all the way, but enough to crack the armor I’ve spent years reinforcing.
I release her and take a long step back. She doesn’t look away.
“You’re just like him… stubborn as hell,” I mutter.
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
I allow myself the smallest curve of my mouth. It’s not a smile. Not quite.
“You can stay tonight,” I say. “But you follow my rules. You touch nothing. You don’t leave this cabin without telling me—not even the porch. And you don’t go digging through things that don’t belong to you.”
“I’m not some reckless idiot.”
I cock my eyebrow at her. “Really? You come halfway across the country, drive up a mountain in a snowstorm to confront a man you know nothing about? I don’t care what you think you are,” I say, locking eyes with her. “You’re in my house now, and you follow my rules.”
Something in her eyes flashes. Not fear. Challenge. We’re going to butt heads. Repeatedly. I can feel it already.
The real problem is, damn it, I don’t hate the idea as much as I should.
I turn to head back to my bedroom, and she calls after me, “You really think silence is safer than truth?”
I stop halfway, then I look back down at her, standing there by the fire, framed by it, fury and the ghosts of people we both lost. “Silence,” I say, “is the only reason I’m still alive.”
I leave her standing there, because if I don’t put distance between us, I’m going to do something reckless—like pull her close and forget every damn rule I’ve ever made.