Chapter 6
6
TRAVIS
T he engine roars beneath us, eating snow like a beast with something to prove. Abby holds tight around my waist, her body pressed flush to my back, legs bracketing mine as we race through the trees and over frozen terrain that would tear the undercarriage off anything with wheels.
The tunnel let us out a half-mile east of the cabin, just beyond the ridgeline. The path I’m taking now isn’t a trail—it’s a memory. Years spent mapping this mountain, like most people memorize highways, has burned every twist, every rise and drop into my muscle memory.
Behind me, Abby doesn’t complain. Doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t even flinch when the back treads of the snowmobile catch a patch of ice and throw us sideways before I correct. She just holds on like she trusts me with her life, which is exactly what she’s doing.
Damn it, Nick, why did you have to die? Why did you send her to me?
The wind bites harder the farther we go, and I duck lower over the handlebars. We hit the valley cut and then climb again, a sharp curve that almost always takes newcomers by surprise. Not me. I throttle down just enough to keep us steady and lean into the turn with her weight behind mine.
When the lights of Misty Mountain finally come into view, it feels like surfacing from deep water.
I cut across the frozen parking lot behind The Rusty Elk and kill the engine. The sudden silence rings louder than the ride. Abby climbs off first, boots crunching into the snow, and I follow with the pack over one shoulder and my rifle still slung across my back.
She looks up at the worn wooden sign, then at me. “A bar?”
“Safer than it looks,” I say.
“And warmer than a cave full of knives?”
“Debatable.”
I push open the back door. Inside, the smell of smoke, fried food, and whiskey hits like an old friend. It’s dim, lit mostly by the strings of amber lights overhead and the fireplace throwing heat into the center of the room. Mid-afternoon means it’s quiet—just a few locals nursing mugs and keeping to themselves.
Until Hank spots me. He’s behind the bar, cleaning a glass that probably hasn’t been clean in years. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy beard and graying dark hair. His gaze sweeps over us with piercing blue eyes that miss nothing.
He freezes for half a second, then straightens slowly and sets the glass down. “Shit,” he mutters. “What’s happened?”
“I need a room,” I say. “Back one. The one with the reinforced lock.”
His eyes flick to Abby. Then to the rifle at my back. Then back to me. “Travis…”
“Now, Hank.”
He nods once, grabs the key off the wall, and tosses it underhand. I catch it without breaking eye contact.
Abby follows me down the hallway past the kitchen, not saying a word until I unlock the last door and step aside to let her in. It’s small—bed, table, a chair near the woodstove—but it’s safe. More importantly, it’s out of the way and not tied to me on paper.
She sets the borrowed pack down. “This is cozy.”
“It’s fortified.”
“Don’t I get to pretend it’s cozy while you go stomping around in taciturn hero mode?”
I turn to her. “You stay here. Don’t open the door unless it’s me. I’ll be back when it’s clear.”
She crosses her arms, mouth tightening. “You think I’m just going to sit here doing nothing?”
“I think you’re smart enough to know we’re not debating this.”
She takes a step closer. “And what if they come here?”
“They won’t.”
“Because you’re so sure?”
“Because they don’t know this place exists, and I’ve got Hank keeping watch on the floor.”
Her jaw flexes, and I see it—the part of her that wants to fight me, scream, demand answers and control. But instead, she nods… barely.
“Fine,” she says. “But if someone puts a bullet through this door, I’m going to haunt you.”
I crack half a grin. “Noted.”
I turn to leave, one hand already brushing the doorframe, but I don’t get far. Abby’s hand snaps out and grabs my wrist, her fingers wrapping tight around my skin like she can anchor me to her with touch alone.
“Don’t go yet,” she says, voice low, just for me.
I stop. Not because I should. Not because it’s smart. But because it’s her.
Her fingers stay where they are, and I feel her pulse thudding against mine, a steady rhythm I shouldn’t be paying attention to. But I do. I feel everything. The heat of her grip. The hitch in her breath. The way her eyes lift to mine, challenging and afraid and something else too—something I can’t name without crossing a line I’ve spent years carving in stone.
“You’re walking out there like you don’t care if you come back.”
“I always come back,” I tell her.
“That’s not what I said.”
The look in her eyes—damn, it cuts. It’s not pity. It’s not panic. It’s personal. She moves, just a step closer than she should be, and grabs the front of my shirt with her other hand.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she says. “Shoving me away when you’re scared. You don’t get to protect me without letting me in.”
“I’m not scared.”
She huffs a breath, and I realize I’ve said the one thing she won’t let me lie about.
“You’re not scared of them,” she says, eyes flashing. “You fear this . Us . ”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. She drags me down by the front of my shirt, rising on her toes and crashing her mouth against mine. It’s not gentle. Not sweet. It’s fire. Frustration. A goddamn storm breaking wide open.
Her lips are warm and full, demanding answers I haven’t been willing to give. I taste anger, and longing, and something dangerously close to hope.
My hands clamp down on her hips. I grip her like I don’t know how to let go. I kiss her back, hard, deep, like it’s the only way to stop the avalanche inside me.
One second. Two. Five. Then I tear myself away.
“Don’t,” I rasp, breath burning in my chest. “Not unless you mean it.”
Her eyes blaze. “I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t.”
I want her. I’ve never denied it. But right now, it’s not about want. It’s about keeping her alive.
I press my forehead to hers for the briefest second. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
I slip out the door before I do something even dumber. I shut the door behind me, lock it from the outside, and move back toward the bar.
Hank is waiting. He doesn’t ask if Abby’s okay. He doesn’t ask what kind of mess I’m dragging behind me. He just pours a bourbon, neat, and sets it down at the end of the bar.
“You look like someone kicked in your walls,” he says.
“They tried.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Don’t know yet. But someone with long-range skills and bad timing.”
He wipes a hand down his beard, thoughtful. “I was going to call you earlier. There was a man in here this morning. Didn't match the touristy types. Wore a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Asked about the mountain, about your name.”
My grip tightens around the glass.
“He give a name?”
“Didn’t offer one. Paid in cash, drank black coffee. Had one of those watches that cost more than my truck. Looked like he belonged in D.C., not Colorado.”
“Which way did he go?”
“Didn’t see. Could be he’s gone. Could be he’s watching from the trees.” Hank pauses, lowers his voice. “You need help?”
“Not yet.”
“You will.”
I drain the bourbon in one swallow, set the glass down, and scan the room. No signs of an ambush. No extra boots at the bar. Just locals and shadows.
“Keep an eye out,” I say. “If anyone else starts sniffing around, you let me know.”
“You thinking of running?”
I look toward the hallway, where Abby waits behind a locked door with no idea how deep this goes.
“No,” I say. “Not this time.”
Hank nods. He doesn’t press. He’s known me long enough to hear what I’m not saying.
I step back out into the snow, eyes scanning the rooftops, the tree line beyond. Every nerve is lit. Every instinct humming. Someone knew where to find me or knew how to follow Abby, and that same somebody wanted Abby silenced. That someone is about to find out what happens when you aim at what’s mine.
The snow’s falling again, soft and steady, muting sound and slowing movement. I make for the edge of town on foot this time, circling wide past the diner and down through the service alley that cuts between the shops and the post office.
I grab a snowmobile from behind the general store, hot wire it and head back to the cabin. It doesn’t take long before I’ve got eyes on the cabin from the tree line.
From here, the front door is still intact. The shattered bedroom window will need to be boarded up hastily from the inside. I’d put the shooter down fairly easily, which tells me a few things. They weren’t local and didn’t know the terrain. They weren’t expecting me. But they’ll come back.
I crouch low in the snow, scanning for anything out of place. Footprints, drag marks, broken branches. I move around the perimeter, slow and methodical, instincts locked in.
To the untrained eye, the forest is clean. To me, it’s loud. Broken pine needles are where they shouldn’t be. A cigarette butt buried under fresh powder. The faint shift in the snow where someone laid prone for too long.
The shooter staked out the ridge behind the cabin—sniper position. Good view. Clean angle through the bedroom window, which means he knew Abby would be in there. Which means someone knew too much.
I pull my scarf up higher around my neck, then grab the bag I buried under the porch weeks ago. Emergency supplies—trip wire, traps, game meat, and a fifty-pound sack of high-protein dog food.
They wanted to send men after me? Fine.
Let’s see how they deal with the other apex predators.
I hike the perimeter and scatter the bait. Thick handfuls of kibble tossed near the tree line, under the cabin, across the far edge of the ridge. I dig into the pack and coat a few pieces of jerky with the scent of blood, smearing it against the base of a tree just inside the fence.
The predators out here aren’t picky.
Wolves. Coyotes. If we’re lucky, a mountain lion or two. I’ve seen what a mother wolf does when she’s hungry enough. I double-check the snares I laid last season, tightening where I need to, camouflaging the lines.
By the time I circle back to the side of the cabin, the sun’s dipped below the horizon. I climb into the loft window I left cracked open and check my traps inside too—no signs of forced entry beyond the ones I left. Still, I sweep every room. Every shadow. Every inch of floorboard.
Only when I’m sure it’s clear do I take a long breath and crouch beside the photo Abby left on the nightstand—me and Nick taken the last day we ever stood side by side.
My hand clenches around the edge of the nightstand. Whoever gave the kill order made a mistake. They should’ve buried me with my team because I’m done hiding. Now, they’ll be the ones who are hunted.