Chapter 12
12
TRAVIS
T he wind bites sharply across the ridge, cutting through my jacket like it’s got a grudge. It’s colder than it should be in late March, the kind of cold that settles deep in your bones and makes the world feel quiet. Still.
I’ve walked this path a hundred times, maybe more. Mapped every tree, memorized every root that juts out just far enough to catch your boot if you’re not paying attention. Even now, with the threat gone and the bastard who brought hell to our doorstep locked in a black-site cell, I can’t stop circling. I check the perimeter without thinking, eyes scanning the tree line, ears tuned to the subtle shifts in wind and brush.
But there’s nothing. No distant rustle of boots on snow. No metallic click of a suppressed rifle bolt being drawn. Just pine needles shifting overhead and the distant caw of a raven perched on the upper tree line.
It’s over. I don’t trust how that feels. Peace doesn’t come easy for men like me. We’re built for storms, forged in noise. But this quiet? I know what it costs.
And now that it’s here, I have to figure out what the hell to do with it.
I head back down the path toward the cabin, boots crunching through the frost. The last of the sunlight cuts through the trees like gold glass, flaring off the iced branches and throwing shadows long and low across the slope. It’s beautiful up here. It always has been. But now it doesn’t feel empty.
Because she’s in it.
By the time I push open the cabin door, the scent of cedar and smoke wraps around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed. The fire’s going strong in the hearth, flames snapping against the iron grate. Abby’s curled up on the rug in front of it, laptop open on her thighs, her bare feet tucked under one of my old wool blankets.
She doesn’t look up right away. Her brow’s furrowed, mouth twitching with some internal monologue I wish I could hear. She bites the edge of her lip, then starts typing again, fast and sure.
I take a second and just watch her. She doesn’t know how still she gets when she’s thinking, how all the chaos in her calms down until she’s nothing but focus and firelight. She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts again—probably stolen off the back of the armchair. It hangs loose on her, sleeves rolled halfway up, buttons mismatched like she got distracted halfway through getting dressed.
Christ, she’s beautiful. And completely unaware of it.
I shut the door behind me and drop my gloves onto the counter. “You planning to sit there typing forever, or should I start dinner?”
Abby looks up, blinking like I yanked her out of a different world. “I was on a roll,” she says, eyes sparkling. “But I guess food is a good enough excuse to pause genius in progress.”
“Genius, huh?” I quirk an eyebrow and move toward the kitchen. “Must be modesty week.”
“Nope.” She grins, slapping the laptop closed and stretching her arms overhead with a theatrical groan. “I got an email from the acquisitions editor at Liberty Quill Press.”
That makes me pause mid-reach for the skillet. I turn back toward her, leaning a hip against the counter. “The one you submitted the manuscript to under the pseudonym?”
She nods, bouncing a little where she sits. “They want it. Formal offer. Multi-book deal if I want it. They think I’m some ex-military guy writing suspense fiction under a pen name. Apparently, the gritty realism really sold it.”
I stare at her for a beat, then shake my head with a low laugh. “They think a six-foot former sniper named ‘Jacob Steele’ is the one writing smartass heroines and trauma-savvy mountain men?”
“Oh, yeah.” She bites back a laugh. “They said the intimacy scenes were ‘surprisingly nuanced.’ Their words, not mine.”
I cross the room in a few strides, crouch beside her, and take her face in my hand. She sobers immediately, blinking up at me as I slide my thumb across her cheek.
“I’m proud of you, Abs,” I say, voice quiet. “Not for the deal. That’s good, but not it. I’m proud you didn’t let fear keep you from putting your words out there. That you’re doing it your way.”
She bites her bottom lip, and this time, I don’t let it slide. I lean in and kiss her—slow, firm, the kind of kiss that says I see you. I’m not going anywhere.
When I pull back, her eyes are softer. “You’re going to make me cry,” she murmurs.
I brush her hair back behind her ear. “Go ahead. I’ll still feed you.”
She lets out a watery laugh, pressing her forehead to mine. “I don’t know what this world is, Travis. All I know is, when you walk into a room, it stops spinning.”
“Good,” I growl. “Because I plan on staying in it.”
We sit there for a long moment, heat from the fire brushing over our skin, the cabin wrapped in a silence that feels earned. Safe.
She shifts then, tugging the blanket around her shoulders. “They don’t know it’s me,” she says after a beat. “The publishing house. They think the author is a man. I used the alias for a reason.”
I nod. “Because the work should speak for itself. Not your name.”
Her smile fades into something more thoughtful. “And because if the wrong people knew what I wrote, what I had access to... it wouldn’t be safe. Not yet.”
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her into my side. “We’ve got time to figure that out. No one’s coming for you anymore.”
She leans her head against my shoulder. “Feels like I should be doing something.”
“You are,” I say, kissing the top of her hair. “You’re breathing. You’re healing. You’re writing, and you’re loving me.”
She tilts her head to look up at me, eyebrows raised. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re trying to be emotionally supportive.”
“Don’t spread it around,” I deadpan. “It’ll ruin my image.”
“Too late.” She grins. “All of Misty Mountain knows you’re basically a marshmallow in plaid now.”
I roll my eyes and stand, dragging her up with me. “Come on. You make the salad, I’ll cook the meat.”
She makes a face. “Ugh. Greens?”
“Fiber,” I say firmly.
“Bossy,” she shoots back, already moving toward the kitchen with a bounce in her step.
“Damn right.”
And for the first time in years—maybe ever—I let myself believe this could be it. Not just survival. Not just keeping ahead of the dark. But living.
I fire up the skillet and grab the venison steaks from the fridge. Abby rifles through the produce bin, muttering to herself about what qualifies as ‘edible leaves.’ I watch her from the corner of my eye, already cataloging the way she moves, the way she hums off-key when she thinks I’m not listening.
This woman stormed into my life like she belonged here—and now I can’t picture it without her.
She spins on her heel suddenly, a handful of arugula clutched in one hand. “So what happens now?”
I flip the steaks, the sizzle loud in the small space. “Now?” I glance over my shoulder at her. “Now we build something that lasts. Quiet. Wild. Ours.”
She walks over, barefoot and brave, and wraps her arms around my waist from behind.
“I like the sound of that,” she murmurs into my back.
Good. Because I plan to give her every damn thing she’s ever been too scared to ask for.
She’s curled into my side like she was made to fit there. One hand pressed against my ribs, her cheek tucked under my jaw. Dinner’s long gone. Dishes washed. Lights low. The cabin’s quiet except for the pop and crackle of the fire still going strong in the hearth. I keep it burning because I like the glow on her skin, the way it paints her in gold and amber like something you don’t find twice.
She’s reading again. I can feel her lips move against my chest as she silently mouths the lines in the dog-eared paperback she found tucked on the shelf earlier. She has said nothing for the past twenty minutes, but I know she’s awake. I can feel her fingers tracing idle shapes against my stomach through the worn cotton of my shirt. Every now and then, they pause like she’s considering something—then keep going.
“Say it,” I tell her without opening my eyes.
She goes still, breath catching just a little. “Say what?”
“Whatever’s been bouncing around in that brilliant head of yours since dinner. You’ve been chewing on something.”
She sighs, a soft sound that’s half frustration, half affection. “You always know.”
“Always will,” I murmur. “Now spit it out, Westwood.”
She rolls onto her side, propping herself on one elbow to look down at me. Her hair falls forward, brushing my chest. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
I open my eyes and meet hers. No hesitation. No doubt. “You.”
She swallows. “I mean all of it. Not just the firelight and the quiet and the sex that probably violates local noise ordinances. I mean... this. Me. Staying. Building something.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
She nods, but I can tell she’s still bracing for the catch. For the door to slam shut. That’s what happens when the world trains you to wait for people to leave.
I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the couch, and pull her into my lap before she can wriggle away. Her knees straddle my thighs, her hands on my shoulders, and I grip her hips—firm, grounding.
“Abby,” I say, voice low. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.” She searches my face like she doesn’t quite believe it yet. So I give her more. “If you’ll have me.”
Her mouth curves. “That sounds suspiciously like a marriage proposal dressed up in a flannel shirt.” She laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest I didn’t even know was knotted. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Travis Holt,” she says, looping her arms around my neck.
“Good,” I tell her. “Because I don’t plan on ever letting go.”
We don’t talk for a while after that. We just sit there, wrapped up in each other like we’re trying to memorize what peace feels like.
Later, when the fire’s burned low and the moon’s riding high over the pines, I tug a sweatshirt over my head and grab the thick throw blanket from the back of the couch.
“Come on,” I say.
Abby raises an eyebrow from where she’s pulling on her boots. “Where are we going?”
“Outside.”
“It’s freezing.”
“You trust me?”
She snorts. “With my life. Less so with my body temperature.”
I hold out a hand. “I’ll keep you warm.”
She takes it without another word. We step out onto the porch, the cold hitting hard at first before the stillness sets in. Snow’s falling again, soft and slow. Not heavy, but steady, like the mountain’s reminding us winter’s not done yet. The porch creaks under our feet as we settle on the bench swing I built last summer.
Abby curls into my side without hesitation, and I wrap the blanket around both of us. My arm settles around her shoulders, and her head finds that familiar spot against my chest.
Glacier Hollow, Alaska
Three Months Later
We watch the snow fall in silence.
Here in Alaska, it comes down in wide, slow drifts—thick enough to hush the world. The trees are taller out here, older maybe. Wilder. Everything feels untouched. Clean. Like the towering peaks are giving us a second chance.
“You ever think this would be your life?” Abby asks quietly. Her voice barely rises above the wind threading through the eaves.
“No,” I say, eyes tracking the flakes as they settle on the railing. “Not even close.”
“Me either.” She pulls the blanket tighter around us. “But I’m glad it is.”
“Miss it?” I ask. “The noise? The chase?”
She pauses. I hear the thought working its way through her before she answers. “Sometimes. I miss the rhythm. The puzzles. The feeling of chasing down something that matters. But I don’t miss what it cost.”
I glance down at her, already knowing the answer. “You pretending back there?”
“Every damn day,” she murmurs. “But not here.”
I slide my arm around her shoulder, pull her closer. “You don’t have to pretend ever again.”
She tilts her face up, the firelight from inside catching on her lashes. “That’s why I said yes when you asked.”
I press a kiss to her hair, slow and deliberate. “You sure you’re up for it?” I ask. “Alaska. Glacier Hollow. Whole new life off the grid.”
“Are you?” she counters, her brow arching like she already knows the answer.
I smile. “Talon Mountain doesn’t scare me. You do.”
“Good,” she says, settling back against my chest. “Then we’ll fit right in.”
Outside, the wind picks up, and the swing creaks beneath us. But we don’t move. Not yet.
“Think we’ll get bored?” she asks. “Just… being.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘just’ being with you.”
She laughs, quiet and warm. “God, that was corny.”
“Doesn’t make it untrue.”
We sit like that for a while longer. Snow falling. Heartbeats slowing. The last edges of war and loss and grief finally bleeding away into the quiet.
“Travis?” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“You ever think maybe this is what Nick wanted all along? Not just for me to survive—but to find someone who made it mean something?”
I tighten my arm around her. “I think he knew exactly what he was doing when he sent you to me.”
She reaches under the blanket and laces her fingers with mine. “I still miss him.”
“I know.”
We don’t say more. We don’t have to. The silence is full of everything we can’t speak out loud.
But she’s right.
This isn’t the end of something.
It’s the beginning.
And we’re going to build something here in this stretch of Alaskan wilderness. Something nobody can take from us. Something worth every scar it took to get here.