Chapter 6
Silas
The cabin feels too quiet without her in it.
I pace the living room, boots thumping against the hardwood, coffee gone cold in the mug I haven't touched since breakfast. It's been fourteen days since I dropped Hannah at her car by the airstrip, watching her drive away with that forced smile, and every hour since has twisted something tighter in my gut.
She said she was fine. Said she'd handle it.
But the way her eyes darted, the tremble in her fingers when she took my number, it all screams trouble deeper than a bad breakup.
I tried giving her space. Told myself she needs room to breathe after the crash, after whatever she's carrying.
Respect her privacy, Silas. Don't be the overbearing sheriff who bulldozes in.
But the worry won't quit. It's a slow burn, constant, making sleep impossible.
I sit in the armchair by the window, staring at the dark pines outside, replaying every moment: her collapsing into my arms on the tarmac, the haunted look when she whispered about an ex, the way she relaxed against me in the truck like I was the only safe place left.
Something's wrong. More than wrong. And I'm done pretending otherwise.
I grab my keys and head to the lodge. The men are there most evenings, gathered around the fire or the long table in the kitchen, swapping stories or planning the next week's work.
Tonight the air smells like pine resin and stew.
Rafe's at the head, stirring a pot. Harper stands next to him.
Gavin leans against the counter, arms crossed with Kayley by his side.
Eli's nursing a beer, Harlan’s flipping cards in a half-hearted solitaire game.
Wyatt and Chase sit near the fire, Boyd and Rhett on the couch, talking low about fence repairs.
Emma and Fiona sit with both the babies (Aidan and Poppy) on a blanket near the fire.
They look up when I walk in. No need to explain; they read faces better than most.
"Silas," Rafe says, voice even. "Coffee's fresh."
I wave it off. "Need to talk about Hannah."
Chairs shift. Attention sharpens. I drop into the empty spot at the table, elbows on the wood.
"She left fourteen days ago. Said she had to handle things in town. Mentioned an ex before she passed out that first night. Claimed that's why she's running. But it doesn't sit right."
Gavin nods slowly. "She seemed scared. Not just plane-scared. Deeper."
Eli sets his beer bottle down. "Physically she's fine. No injuries from the crash. But shock lingers. And that guarded look? That's trauma with history."
Harlan stacks his cards. "You think the ex is real?"
"I don't know." I rub my jaw. "She clammed up when I pressed. I want to respect that. But if she's in real danger..."
Wyatt leans forward. "Background check wouldn't hurt. Quiet one. See if the story holds."
Boyd grunts his agreement. "We already ran surface stuff that first night. No red flags on warrants or missing persons. But we didn't dig deep. Socials were thin. Almost like she scrubbed them."
Chase speaks up, quieter than the rest. "If she's hiding from someone abusive, pushing too hard could spook her worse. But if it's something else..."
Rhett finishes for him. "We protect our own. She's been here. That counts."
Rafe meets my eyes. "Do what you need to. Just keep it clean. No official channels yet. We don't want to tip anyone off if she's running from trouble."
I exhale. "Yeah. A little digging. Nothing more."
They nod, one by one. No judgment. Just the quiet support that's kept this place running for years.
I head back to my cabin, and fire up the laptop in the kitchen. It's basic stuff at first: public records, name search on Hannah Monroe with any variations I can think of. Nothing flashy. No subpoenas. Just what any concerned citizen could pull with a few clicks and some cross-referencing.
No ex-boyfriend shows up. No divorce filings, no restraining orders, no social media posts about a breakup.
Her profiles are sparse, last activity months old.
But the hospital records in Seattle pull up easy enough.
Public billing summaries, charity care applications.
Her father, listed as primary contact. John Monroe.
Advanced lung cancer. Chemo rounds paid in full over the last six months by anonymous donors.
Payments started right around when she moved to Timber Creek.
My stomach drops. Blackmail. Coercion. Someone's holding the old man's treatment over her head. That explains the guarded no when I asked about family. The careful way she spoke. The flying lessons with Rick. Not hobby. Not escape.
She's being forced into something.
I close the laptop, and pace again. The fire crackles low. I should call her. Tell her I know. Offer help without strings. But if I scare her off, she disappears for good.
The phone rings before I decide. The airstrip controller, Mike, voice tight.
"Sheriff James? It's Mike at Timber Creek Field. You know that woman you saved up here a few days back? Hannah?"
My grip tightens on the receiver. "Yeah. What about her?"
"She just took off. Solo. In the Cessna 172 we keep for rentals.
Filed a flight plan north. Said short hop, but the route crosses into Canada.
Low altitude, visual flight rules. No customs notification I can see.
And there's a crate loaded in the cargo hold.
Unmarked. She wheeled it out herself from behind the hangar.
Looked heavy. She was nervous as hell, checking over her shoulder the whole time. "
I feel the blood drain from my face. "When?"
"Twenty minutes ago. Wheels up at 1400 hours. I tried calling her on the radio after she cleared the pattern. No response. Something's off, Silas. Real off."
I grab my keys, already moving for the door. "I'm on my way. Keep the tower frequency open. And Mike? Don't call anyone else yet."
I hang up, heart slamming. Smuggling. That's what this is. Small plane, remote border crossings, low and slow to avoid radar. Drugs, contraband, something illegal enough to pay medical bills and keep her quiet. Her father's life on the line.
I burst out of the cabin, my truck roaring to life. The mountain road blurs as I gun it down toward town. The men at Haven 7 will back me if I need them, but right now it's just me and the clock.
Hannah's out there, alone in a cockpit, doing something she never wanted. Terrified. Cornered.
I have to find her before whatever's waiting on the other side does.
Before she crosses that line and can't come back.