Chapter 4
GIDEON
Irode Daisy hard through the predawn chill, her hooves pounding a steady rhythm on the slick trail. The message burned in my pocket like a live round—Charleston, Dominion Hall. No details, no why. Just orders.
I didn't question. That wasn't my way.
By the time the sun crested the peaks, painting the valleys in pale gold, I'd returned her to Harlan's stable.
The old man took the reins without a word, just a nod that said he understood the urgency in my silence.
I settled the bill in cash, slung my pack over one shoulder, and hit the road in the battered rental truck I'd left at the trailhead.
Bozeman was a two-hour drive north, the highway cutting through pine forests and open ranges that blurred into one another. I kept the radio off, windows cracked to let the cold bite in and keep me sharp. The truck's engine growled low, a familiar companion on the empty stretches.
Montana faded in the rearview—mountains shrinking to hills, then to flat nothing as I approached the airport. I parked in long-term, grabbed my pack, and walked in without looking back.
Airports were neutral ground, places where detachment came easy. I moved through the terminal like smoke—check-in at the kiosk, security a rote dance.
No lines at this hour. The place was half-empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
I boarded last, as always. Didn't care about seats; they assigned me a middle one on the first leg to Detroit.
Fine by me. The aisle guy was a salesman type, already buried in his laptop, and the window was a kid with headphones, staring out at the tarmac.
I wedged in, my frame compressing into the space like a knife into a sheath that didn't quite fit. Knees against the seat in front, shoulders brushing both neighbors. Uncomfortable? Sure. But uncomfortable was my default.
I closed my eyes as the engines revved, the plane lifting off with that familiar lurch. Sleep wasn't the goal. Detachment was.
I let the world recede—the hum of the cabin, the recycled air thick with coffee and pressure.
People chattered around me, snippets of lives I didn't care to join: a couple arguing over vacation plans, a businessman on a call about quarterly projections.
I observed without engaging, eyes slitted just enough to scan angles, habits ingrained from years of watching.
But beneath it all, the real hunt: glimpses of my father.
In every crowd, every reflection—a tall man with broad shoulders striding past a gate, a laugh echoing down the concourse that carried the same timbre.
It was obsession, quiet and constant. A shadow I couldn't outrun.
He'd vanished without a trace, leaving us boys to piece together the why.
I searched faces the way I tracked enemies, hoping for a sign. There were none.
The flight dragged, turbulence jostling us over the plains. I didn't eat, didn't drink. Just breathed steady, mind drifting to the message. Orders were orders.
We touched down in Detroit amid wind gusts, the layover stretching three hours in a terminal that smelled of pretzels and exhaustion. I found a quiet corner gate, away from the clusters of families and suits.
Pulled out my phone, the screen's glow harsh under the lights. No new messages. Good.
I zoomed into a map of the Charleston area, fingers tracing routes. Money wasn't tight—military paychecks stacked up in a plain checking account, no investments, no flair. Modest growth from years of deployments, expenses reimbursed later. Enough for basics.
Inland first: spots west of the city, like Summerville or Moncks Corner. Motels there were cheap, anonymous—chain places with vending machines and ice buckets. Practical.
But my finger hovered, drawn east toward the coast. Water called to me, always had when it was in reach. Remote islands, barriers against the world.
Kiawah Island popped up—secluded, beaches, marshes. Perfect for laying low.
I booked nothing; plans shifted like sand. Just noted a few B I tuned it out.
Watched through lashes: a woman scrolling photos, a man sketching in a notebook.
No threats. No father. Just transit, miles eating away at the distance.
Charleston airport hit with humidity the moment the doors opened—thick, salty air that clung like a second skin. I moved with the flow, pack light on my back: clothes, toiletries. No luggage carousel for me; everything fit in the one bag.
Outside, the cab line snaked under palm trees swaying in the breeze. I took the next yellow sedan, sliding into the back.
The driver was chatty from the jump—local guy, mustache thick, radio murmuring classic rock. "Where to, buddy? Headed to the historic district? Got some great spots downtown—Marriott, Embassy. Clean, central."
I stared out the window as we merged onto the highway, marshes flashing by, water glinting under the late afternoon sun. "Need something cheap. Quiet. Off the beaten path."
He glanced in the rearview, eyes lighting with that salesman gleam. No doubt kickbacks from the big chains. "Cheap and quiet? Plenty of that. There's a Holiday Inn Express just off the interstate—pool, free breakfast. Or the Hampton in Mount Pleasant. You look like a guy who appreciates amenities."
Wrong direction. I could feel him steering me toward commissions. Time to pivot.
I pulled a hundred from my wallet, crisp bill between my fingers. "Take me to the last place you'd suggest. Nothing fancy. And no crack houses. This is yours if we get there."
His eyebrows shot up, grin splitting wide. "Now you're talkin'. Gimme a sec." He thought, tapping the wheel, then nodded. "Got it. There’s a place on Kiawah. Old B&B, run-down but clean enough. Owner passed recently. Quiet as a graveyard out there. You sure?"
Kiawah. The island I'd eyed. Remote. Water. I held up the folded bill. "Drive."
The ride stretched, highway giving way to bridges over intracoastal waterways, then a causeway flanked by marshes. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the reeds. Palms whispered in the wind, the air growing heavier with salt.
Kiawah emerged—gated communities, golf courses, beaches for the wealthy.
But we veered off the main drag, down a narrow road lined with live oaks dripping Spanish moss.
The inn appeared at the end, a faded blue structure with a wide porch and white columns leaning like tired sentinels.
It sagged in places, paint peeling, ivy creeping up one side.
The yard was sand and scrub, the ocean a distant roar beyond the dunes.
The driver grunted as he pulled up. "Told ya—beneath my usual. But hey, your Benjamin." He beamed, palm out.
I almost told him to turn around. The place looked forgotten, shutters askew, roof patched in spots.
But it wasn't the decay that spooked me.
It was the lean—the way the whole building seemed to sag under invisible weight, mirroring the old Dane ranch I'd watched through binoculars not twenty-four hours ago.
Empty pastures, silent barns. Ghosts lingered in structures like this, in the creak of floors and the whisper of wind through cracks.
I paid the man—fare plus the hundred—and stepped out. He peeled away without a backward glance, tires kicking up sand.
I climbed the porch steps, wood groaning under my weight.
The door was unlocked, a small bell above it tinkling as I pushed in.
The foyer smelled of lemon polish and salt, faint but clinging.
Dust motes danced in the slanting light from high windows.
A desk sat to one side, guest ledger closed.
No one in sight. I dinged the bell on the counter—sharp, insistent.
Footsteps echoed from down the hall, quick and uneven.
She appeared in the doorway, and the world narrowed to her.
Petite frame, red hair escaping a messy bun in wild curls, face flushed and dusted with grime.
A T-shirt that clung to her curves, damp with sweat, jeans streaked in dust like she'd been wrestling the house itself.
Harried, yes—eyes wide, breath short—but holy hell, she made an entrance. Stunning in that effortless way, green eyes sharp and assessing, full lips parted in surprise.
My gaze traced her without permission: the swell of her hips, the way the shirt outlined her breasts, the strength in her stance, despite the chaos.
Women were idle time for me—quick releases on leave, no strings, no fixation. But this one hit different. Pulled a yearning from deep, inappropriate and grounding all at once. Like the land recognizing its own after too long away. My body reacted, heat coiling low, pulse kicking up a notch.
"Can I help you?" Her voice was polite, edged with that city efficiency, but surprise flickered in her eyes. She thought I was lost, some tourist who'd taken a wrong turn.
"Hoping for a room."
That floored her. She blinked, then fumbled behind the desk, papers rustling, a pen clattering to the floor. "Oh—right. Of course." She straightened, pulling out a weathered guest log, its pages yellowed and curling. Flipped it open with hands that trembled just a bit. "Name?"
"Gideon Dane."
She wrote it down, handwriting precise as typewriter keys—neat loops, even pressure. No flourish. I watched her pen move, the way her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked up, those green eyes locking on mine, asking something unspoken—payment? ID?
"Credit card? Deposit?" I nudged, voice rougher than intended.
She startled, like I'd snapped her from a trance. "I'm new at this—still figuring it out. My grandmother ... anyway. Can I get payment later? If that's okay."
"Sure." The word slipped out, surprising me. Then, jesting to cut the tension: "Wouldn't skip out on the bill."
An awkward pause hung between us, thick as the humidity outside. I wanted to close the distance, crush her against me, feel those curves yield under my hands. Or bolt upstairs, lock the door, and regain control. The pull was magnetic, unsettling.
She broke it, fishing a key from a drawer—old brass, tagged with a faded number 4. Held it out. Our fingers brushed as I took it, skin on skin for the briefest second. Electric shock jolted from the contact, straight to my gut.
What the hell?
Heat flared, my breath catching. Her eyes widened—did she feel it, too?
"Thanks." I managed, turning toward the stairs before I analyzed it further.
"Welcome to the Bradford Inn," she called after me, voice steadier now. "Dinner's at six."
I nodded over my shoulder, climbing the creaking steps. The key bit into my palm. Body buzzing, mind reeling.
A cold shower. Yeah, that might do it.
Or maybe this place had ghosts of its own, stirring things better left buried.
Dominion Hall tomorrow. Tonight? Survival.
The hallway upstairs was narrow, wallpaper faded with vine patterns that seemed to watch.
Room 4 was at the end, overlooking the marsh.
I unlocked, stepped in—simple bed, dresser, window cracked to let in the sea breeze.
I dropped my pack, then sat on the edge of the mattress.
I stared at my hand, the ghost of her touch lingering.
Charleston had just gotten complicated.