Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Rhett
The elk’s bleeding heavier now.
I crouch beside the disturbed patch of snow and mud, dragging two fingers through the fresh crimson streak cutting across the trail. Not arterial. Shoulder wound, maybe higher. Still moving fast, though. Too fast for an animal carrying that much blood loss.
“Stubborn bastard,” I mutter, straightening slowly.
My knee protests immediately.
Old injury.
Old war.
Old reminder.
The ache settles deep in the joint as I start moving again through the trees, rifle hanging loose at my side while morning fog curls low across the mountain.
Spring’s finally pushing winter out of Devil’s Peak, but the higher elevations still hold snow in shaded pockets beneath the pines.
The air smells like wet earth and cedar, sharp enough to wake a man up properly.
Usually this part settles me.
Tracking.
Quiet.
The mountain breathing around me instead of people talking at me.
Since coming home, it’s the only thing that shuts my head up for a while.
Not therapy.
Not booze.
Not sleep.
Definitely not sleep.
I step over a fallen log, my limp more noticeable this morning thanks to the cold. The scars stretching across both hands pull slightly as I tighten my grip on the rifle, pale and jagged against weathered skin.
IED.
Three seconds.
That’s all it took.
Three seconds and the entire convoy disappeared in fire.
Miller.
Santos.
Walker.
Gone before I even hit the ground.
Sometimes I still hear the screaming when it storms hard enough.
Sometimes I still wake up reaching for men already dead.
The military called me lucky because I survived.
I’ve never agreed with them.
Movement flashes ahead through the trees.
Not the elk.
Too upright.
Too controlled.
I stop immediately, crouching slightly as my focus sharpens.
Woman.
Alone.
City boots.
Camera.
Well, that’s interesting.
I stay back, watching her through the brush while she moves carefully through the woods about fifty yards ahead. She pauses every few seconds to photograph survey stakes hammered into the ground near the restricted ridge line.
The developers’ markers.
My jaw tightens.
She doesn’t belong up here.
That much is obvious immediately.
Not because she looks weak.
She doesn’t.
Everything about her says sharp edges and defensive posture, from the way she scans her surroundings to the way she plants her feet like she expects confrontation before conversation.
But she moves wrong for this terrain. Too focused on what’s in front of her. Not enough attention behind.
And she’s alone.
That’s the bigger problem.
I circle wider through the trees, moving silently downhill while I track her path from a distance. She doesn’t notice me once.
Good.
But somebody else already has.
I spot the second set of tracks almost immediately.
Larger boot print.
Male.
Following her trail but keeping distance.
My expression hardens.
Fresh too.
Maybe thirty minutes ahead of me.
The woman crouches beside another marker, muttering something under her breath while snapping photographs. Wind pushes strands of dark hair loose around her face, and for one brief second she glances up toward the mountain ridge.
Pretty.
That’s unfortunate.
Because pretty women alone in isolated places usually mean trouble eventually follows.
And judging by those tracks?
Trouble already found her.
I move closer without thinking about it, stepping around the trees until I’m close enough to hear her camera shutter clicking softly in the quiet.
She’s wearing a fitted thermal shirt beneath a weatherproof jacket, jeans tight enough that I notice the shape of her legs immediately.
Also unfortunate.
“You planning on trespassing all day?” I ask.
She spins so fast her boots slip slightly in the mud, camera jerking upward defensively before her eyes lock onto me.
Fear flashes first.
Then irritation.
Then something hotter once she gets a good look at me.
Yeah.
I know that look.
“You always sneak up on women in the woods?” she asks sharply.
My mouth almost curves.
Almost.
“You always wander onto restricted land without checking who owns it?”
Her chin lifts immediately. Defensive. “I’m not trespassing.”
“You crossed three warning signs.”
“I crossed survey markers.”
“Same thing.”
She studies me openly now, gaze dragging across my chest, my beard, the rifle hanging at my side before returning to my face.
Not subtle.
I like that more than I should.
“You work for the developers?” she asks.
The disgust in her voice is immediate.
Interesting again.
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Doin’ what I always do. Officially, I’m on the search and rescue team. You got the town buzzin’ already.”
“Is that so? So what’s Devil’s Peak saying about me?”
“That depends who you ask.”
“And you?”
I glance deliberately at the tracks behind her before meeting her eyes again. “I think you’re alone on a mountain you don’t understand.”
Her expression hardens immediately. “I can handle myself.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t notice someone tracking you.”
Silence.
Her shoulders tighten just slightly, but she recovers fast. “What are you talking about?”
I move past her before she can stop me, crouching near the disturbed earth behind her trail.
“Size eleven boot,” I say. “Heavy stride. Male. Following you for at least half a mile.”
She steps closer immediately. Too close.
Close enough that I catch the faint scent of her shampoo beneath the cold mountain air.
Fuck.
“You’re serious,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
Her gaze flicks toward the trees now, sharper than before.
Good.
Fear keeps people alive.
Usually.
“You know whose tracks those are?”
“No.”
“Helpful.”
“You’d already be dead if they wanted you hurt.”
Her eyes snap back to mine. “Wow. You really know how to comfort a woman.”
“I’m not trying to comfort you.”
Something flashes across her face then. Irritation mixed with something more aware.
More interested.
“You always this charming?” she asks.
“Only when people ignore warning signs.”
She folds her arms. “You don’t know me well enough to lecture me.”
“Don’t need to.”
Her eyes narrow. “That supposed to impress me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But it still does.”
That shuts her up for exactly two seconds.
Then she huffs out a breath and shakes her head slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re still standing here.”
The tension shifts instantly.
Not softer.
Worse.
Because now she’s aware of it too.
The attraction.
The challenge.
The fact that neither of us has stepped back.
“You always stare at women like that?” she asks quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to decide whether to throw them out of the woods or bend them over a tree.”
Jesus Christ.
My grip tightens slightly on the rifle.
“That depends on the woman.”
Her breath catches.
“Cocky,” she mutters.
“Observant.”
I step closer before I can stop myself, watching her hold her ground even while tension tightens through her shoulders.
Brave.
Or reckless.
Probably both.
“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” I say quietly.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“That bossy mountain-man thing.”
“You say that like you don’t like it.”
Her lips part slightly.
Then she catches herself and steps back, creating distance again. “I didn’t come here looking for a babysitter.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m not patient enough for that.”
Something almost looks like a smile pulls at her mouth before she fights it down.
“You always flirt this aggressively?”
“I’m not flirting.”
“Right.”
“I’m warning you.”
“About what?”
My gaze drags slowly over her face before settling back on her eyes.
“Everything.”
The air between us tightens hard enough to feel.
Then a branch cracks somewhere deeper in the woods.
Both of us turn instantly.
I see the exact second she realizes I wasn’t exaggerating.
Her pulse jumps visibly in her throat.
And suddenly I’m done pretending I’m not involved.
“Where are you staying?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow immediately. “Why?”
“Because whoever’s tracking you already knows.”
Silence.
Then slowly, reluctantly, she gives me the cabin location.
I escort her back down the ridge without asking permission, staying slightly behind while my eyes scan the tree line constantly.
She notices.
“Do you always hover?”
“Yeah.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s kept me alive.”
She glances back at me over her shoulder then, and something in her expression shifts slightly at the scars on my hands.
At the limp.
At whatever she sees there.
“You were military,” she says quietly.
“Was.”
“What happened?”
IED.
Fire.
Screaming.
Blood.
I shrug instead. “Wrong place. Wrong time.”
Her gaze lingers a second too long.
Not pity.
Curiosity.
That’s better.
We reach her rental cabin just before dusk settles fully across the mountain.
And that’s when I see it.
A photograph tucked beneath her windshield wiper.
My entire body goes cold.
I yank it free immediately before she can stop me.
Then I look down.
It’s her.
Sleeping inside the cabin.
Taken through the damn window.
Nora goes silent beside me.
For the first time since I met her, she looks genuinely shaken.
Slowly, I lift my gaze toward the dark tree line surrounding the property.
Somebody’s watching us right now.
I can feel it.