Chapter 4
4
TRAVIS
T he next day she’s still asleep when I head out… or at least pretending to be.
Either way, I need space. Actual space. The kind that comes with wind in my face and a few miles between me and the woman upstairs who’s tearing holes in the quiet life I’d built.
Abby Westwood is a problem I didn’t plan for. She's loud in ways that have nothing to do with volume. She doesn’t shrink, doesn’t obey, doesn’t care that this cabin is my world, and I don’t let people in it.
She just walked right in, wrapped in fear, grief, stubbornness and a pair of eyes that see too damn much.
And now she’s here, sleeping in Nick’s blanket, eating my food, reading my damn books, and challenging every line I’ve drawn since the day I left the world behind.
I close the cabin door behind me, key the lock, and check the perimeter one more time. The snow stopped before dawn, but the wind left drifts waist-high in places. It’s not impassable, but it’s enough to make town a half-day endeavor unless I take the fast way down.
I walk to the shed, unchain the snowmobile, and tug the tarp off. The machine’s solid. Fueled, oiled, ready. I check it top-to- bottom anyway—habit. By the time I fire it up, I’ve mapped three alternate routes in my head, flagged every blind turn and tree hazard from here to Main Street.
The truth is, I don’t really need supplies. What I do need is time, space and movement. I need to stop hearing her voice in my head every time I close my eyes.
‘You’re scared too.’
She’s not wrong, and that’s the worst part.
The General Store hasn’t changed since I was a kid and spent my summers here. It still smells like cedar and tobacco and a hint of wood polish. Shelves stocked to the brim with everything from canned soup to ammo. The place is half necessity, half sanctuary, and it doesn’t matter how long I’ve been gone—folks around here remember me. Some nod. Some don’t. Most know better than to ask questions.
Jack Gregory stands behind the counter, old-school as they come. Plaid shirt, sleeves rolled, sandy blond hair, long beard and calloused hands. He’s a native, and we knew each other as kids. He kept an eye on my grandfather, who taught us both how to shoot before we hit puberty. He sees me walk in and raises one eyebrow like I’ve just risen from the dead.
“Snowmobile?” he asks.
“Didn’t feel like hiking.”
He eyes me up and down, then slowly grabs a receipt pad and pen. ““Whatcha needing?”
“Couple quarts of oil. Jerky. Coffee. Two bags of dog food.”
Jack scribbles the list like he doesn’t already know I don’t own a dog.
“You expecting company?”
I meet his gaze. “Not the friendly kind.”
His jaw works, slow and deliberate, and I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Jack’s not nosy, but he pays attention. Always has.
“Something’s off,” he says. “I feel it in the air.”
“Storm just passed.”
“I don’t mean the snow.”
He sets the pad down and leans both elbows on the counter. “Strangers bring trouble. Always have.”
I don’t answer.
“Someone new come knocking?” he adds.
This is how Jack asks without asking. If I lie, he’ll know. If I dodge, he’ll dig. I settle for the only version of the truth I can afford.
“Old connection.”
His eyes narrow. “Military?”
“Something like that.”
He nods slowly, the weight of the moment stretching long and taut between us.
“If you need help,” he says, “you know where to find me.”
“I always do.”
He rings me up and bags everything without another word. I slide cash across the counter, and he tucks it into the drawer like it's not worth counting.
“You watch your back, Shadow.”
It’s not a nickname anyone’s used around here in years. Hearing it now practically turns my spine to stone. I nod once, then leave.
The ride back is faster. I stick to the trail closest to the river, using the narrow pass between the trees where the wind never quite reaches. My goggles fog once, but I don’t stop. Every mile I put between myself and Jack’s question feels like another piece of armor sliding back into place.
But the moment I cut the engine in front of the cabin, it all starts to crumble again. I know what’s waiting inside. Not danger. Not death. Abby, and somehow, she’s more disruptive than either.
I kill the ignition, grab the bags, and climb the steps two at a time. The door creaks as I push it open, and before I’ve even kicked off my boots, she’s sitting on the couch with a mug in her hand and firelight glinting in her hair like a damn halo.
The scent hits me first.
Not the firewood or the stew she must have put on sometime this afternoon to simmer, but something warmer, sweeter. Feminine. A hint of lavender and clean skin and something deeper that hits like a punch to the gut.
She’s sitting with one bare leg tucked beneath her, a paperback from my shelf in one hand and a mug of something in the other. But it’s not just that she’s here. It’s what she’s wearing.
My flannel shirt. The one I tossed on the back of the armchair last night. Blue and black, sleeves rolled up, collar popped. It swamps her frame, but somehow she still makes it look like it belongs to her. She doesn’t even glance up when I step inside.
“Evening,” she says, like we didn’t nearly come to verbal blows last night.
I grunt in return. She takes a sip, then sets the mug down. “I was wondering if you’d left for good. You know, abandoned me to the wilderness. Saved by the Bears. We have a couple of paranormal romance authors that could have had a field day with that.”
I drop the bags on the floor. “And who would have told them? You wouldn’t have lasted a day.”
“Wow. Flattering.”
“You’d have walked in circles until something ate you.”
“I’ll have you know I got a B in orienteering.”
“And what? An ‘A’ in sarcasm?”
“Valedictorian,” she says with a quick grin. “But seriously, thanks for not leaving me up here to freeze and die alone. I know I’m a pain in the ass, but I do have survival instincts. And apparently a dream-powered brother ghost who thinks you’re trustworthy.”
I straighten, eyes locking with hers. “You still dreaming about him?”
She nods slowly. “Yeah. Last night. Again.”
“Details?”
She shrugs. “Same as before. Wreckage. Chaos. Nick standing in the middle of it all like he’s holding the line against the end of the world.”
I grip the edge of the counter to keep from reaching for her. “You believe it’s more than just your subconscious?”
“I think he’s trying to tell me something.”
“You’re not wrong.”
She watches me carefully. “You’re going to tell me, aren’t you? Eventually.”
I don’t answer. Not yet. Instead, I turn and unpack the bags, setting each item on the counter with quiet precision. She doesn’t speak again, but I feel her eyes on me—watching, weighing, waiting.
And I know it’s only a matter of time before I stop pretending she’s not already inside my defenses, because she is, and it’s starting to feel like she’s not going anywhere… at least not anytime soon.
Her head lifts slowly, eyes meeting mine with a look that’s too easy, too casual. Like she’s settling in .
“Hope you don’t mind,” she says, nodding toward the shirt. “I made myself at home and took a shower. Interesting choice in body soaps…”
“Yeah, someone at the market thought it would be funny.”
“I don’t know about that, but I did like the way it smelled. Everything else I have is either soaking wet or looks like I crawled here from a bunker. This was the only thing within arm’s reach that didn’t smell like diesel.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because all I can think about is how she looks sitting there, wrapped in my scent, the hem of my shirt falling down past her thighs, her mouth parted like she’s waiting for something I’m one bad decision away from giving her.
She shifts on the couch, and the shirt slips a little lower on one shoulder. My hands curl into fists before I can stop them. This is a problem. A full-scale, threat-to-mission, breach-of-discipline problem.
“You shouldn’t wear things that don’t belong to you,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She raises an eyebrow, flipping the page like she didn’t hear the warning.
“You said not to touch anything,” she says, “but you said nothing about wearing.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Besides, you seem like a ‘what’s mine stays mine’ kind of guy. You could’ve burned it if you were that protective.”
I take a slow step closer. She watches me the way you watch an approaching fire. Curious, cautious, fascinated.
“You think this is a game?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow, amused and bold all at once. “No. But I think you’re used to scaring people off, and I’m not one of them.”
“I could make you leave.”
She sets the book down carefully on the arm of the couch, lifts her mug, and takes a sip before answering.
“You could try.”
And that does it. I’m across the room in three strides, standing over her, the air between us hot enough to blister. She tips her head back to meet my gaze, her body still, but her pulse visible in her throat.
I lean down, one hand braced on the couch back behind her, the other hovering just a breath away from her cheek. Close enough to touch, but I don’t. Not yet.
Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“You think I won’t?” I ask, low.
She tilts her head, the corner of her mouth curling into something that dares me to act.
“I think you’re fighting yourself harder than you’d ever fight me.”
She’s not wrong. Nick said his little sister was smart as a whip and read people like the back of her hand. He wasn’t wrong. Every instinct I have screams at me to back off. To keep the line between us solid. I’ve lived by rules—mine, the team’s, the ones that keep people alive. You don’t cross lines when lives are at stake.
But this woman... She’s not a mission. She’s not even an asset to protect. She’s herself. She’s Nick’s sister. She’s fierce and impossible, and standing in the middle of my world like she belongs there.
I drag in a breath, sharp and full of her scent, then back off, because if I touch her, I won’t stop.
Not this time. Not with her wearing my shirt like a damn invitation.
“You hungry?” I say, voice flat.
She blinks. That quick. That subtle. But I see the way her chest lifts, the breath she takes like she was bracing for something else.
“Depends. Are you cooking or threatening? I heated that stew. Left it simmering in case you were hungry when you got back.”
“You didn’t know I was coming back.”
She grins. “Yes, I did.”
I move to the kitchen without answering, grabbing a pan, eggs, bacon, and not looking back.
“You know,” she calls from behind me, “for a man who wants me gone, you sure feed me a lot.”
“Feeding you keeps you alive,” I mutter.
“Oh. So it’s survival. Good to know,” she says with a deliciously feminine chuckle.
I hear her feet hit the floor, then the soft pad of her steps crossing the room.
“You’ve got an entire system in place,” she says. “I’m messing it up, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
She’s quiet for a beat. And then, softly, “I won’t apologize for being here. I can’t.”
I crack the eggs. Toss bacon into the pan. The sizzle fills the silence.
“You shouldn’t,” I say.
She leans against the counter, too close, sipping from that damn mug like we didn’t just have a silent standoff that nearly melted the floorboards.
Her voice is quieter now. “You really don’t sleep much, do you?”
“I sleep enough.”
“Liar.”
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She doesn’t flinch.
“I heard you last night,” she says. “You pace. You check the locks. You check them again.”
“I have habits.”
“You have scars.”
That hits way too close to home. I set the spatula down with a little more force than necessary and turn to face her fully. Her arms cross, mug tucked close, like she’s bracing for impact—but she doesn’t back down.
“You don’t know me,” I say.
“No,” she agrees. “But I want to.”
And damn it, if that doesn’t cut straight through everything I’ve built. The pan pops. Bacon snaps against the skillet. I turn back to it before I forget how to keep my hands to myself.
I serve her first. A full plate. She mutters a thank you and sits down at the table.
We eat in silence, the kind that buzzes with every word we aren’t saying. Every glance that lingers just too long. When we’re finished, I take her plate, wash it, and turn to find her watching me from across the counter again.
“I’m not leaving, Travis,” she says. “You can threaten, growl, intimidate all you want. But I’m not going anywhere until I get answers. And whether or not you like it, you need me here just as much as I need to be here.”
Her words echo in the silence like a lit match in a gas-soaked room, and I know she’s right. It’s exactly the reason I know why she’s dangerous—too damn dangerous. And it’s not just because of who she is or what she’s after.
It’s because, no matter how far I’ve run, how deep I’ve buried myself in these mountains—Abby Westwood is the first person who’s ever made me want to stop.
And that? That could change everything.