Chapter 10
TEN
The road climbed steadily as they approached Berthoud Pass, and Ben watched the landscape transform through the windshield.
Ponderosa pine gave way to spruce and fir, the trees growing shorter and more gnarled until they surrendered entirely to the alpine zone.
The morning sun hit the mountains at an angle that made the distant peaks glow, and Ben felt the familiar pull of this place—the quiet, the vastness, the sense of being close to something ancient and indifferent and beautiful. He loved these mountains. Always had.
Memories filled his head—like the summer he was sixteen and Shane piled everyone into his pickup with all their camping gear.
One minute the sky had been blue; the next, freezing rain had hammered Gabe, Waylon, and Elias in the truck bed while Ben, Shane, and Bear laughed like idiots.
Waylon’s face plastered to the back window still made him grin.
He didn’t have a care in the world back then.
The mountains had been his playground as a kid, his classroom as a soldier, his refuge when he needed to think. Shane used to joke that Ben was part mountain goat, the way he could navigate terrain that made other people nervous. He'd driven this route hundreds of times.
Today, Charlie sat eighteen inches to his left, her hands steady on the wheel, her attention focused on the winding road ahead. She handled the wheel like she handled everything else—precise, economical, no wasted motion. The SUV hummed steadily as she navigated the grade.
He was much too aware of her beside him.
The faint scent of her shampoo. The way her shoulders squared when she checked the mirrors.
Ben stole a glance at Charlie every time she picked up the coffee.
The way her expression softened just slightly each time she took a sip.
How she'd looked at him when he'd handed it to her—that's my exact order—like he'd done something more significant than remembering she took it with a splash of cream, no sugar after April had teased her about it.
Same thing with the chorizo burritos. He'd heard her mention them once at a Watchdog party months ago, talking to Shane about their SWCC days and the breakfast burritos at some dive near Coronado. Ben had filed it away automatically. But the way that she’d looked so grateful when he’d said he’d gotten extras, you would have thought he’d just bought her a house.
It told him she wasn’t used to having someone pay basic attention to her. That sat heavy in his chest. He felt lonely on her behalf.
Then there was the way she occupied space. On duty, she moved like she owned every inch of it—confident, capable, unshakeable. Off-hours, she folded inward just slightly, like someone who’d learned early not to ask for too much.
Only girl in a house full of brothers, she’d mentioned once. Judging by the way she acted sometimes, he doubted they’d been the protective kind.
Maybe that was why she was always on her guard.
Well, not always. He thought about the way she smiled when she thought no one was watching. Not the professional bodyguard smile she gave clients or the easy camaraderie she shared with Shane and the other guys. But the real one, rare and unguarded, that made something in Ben's chest pull tight.
He'd seen that smile Saturday at the Faire, after they'd gotten Viv and Rowan to safety.
On their way back to the forge, she'd caught sight of the ring with the elephant rides and her smile was a mix of surprise and pure delight. He wished she’d had a reason to smile like that all the time—unguarded.
“Ben?”
He blinked, realizing Charlie had said his name twice.
“Sorry, what?”
“The turnoff. Is it coming up?”
“Yeah, just ahead.” He pointed. “The summit parking lot. You'll see the warming hut.”
She nodded, already adjusting her approach, scanning the road ahead with the same tactical precision she brought to everything.
Behind them, Viv and Maddie were talking about sight lines and camera placement, Rowan chiming in occasionally.
Ben let their voices fade. He was thinking about how excited he was to share his mountains with Charlie.
He wanted her to see what he saw. The way snow moved across the tundra, how wind shaped the landscape.
Charlie eased the SUV into the Berthoud Pass Summit parking lot, gravel crunching under the tires. From here, the switchbacks below were clearly visible, etched into the mountainside like a sidewinder.
Ben stepped out as soon as the vehicle had fully stopped, his body already adjusting to the elevation, the thinner air, the relentless wind at eleven thousand feet.
He stuffed down the urge to go around the SUV and open Charlie’s door for her.
It wasn’t his place right now, but he was determined that as long as she wasn’t working, he’d make sure she felt taken care of in all the tiny ways she deserved.
Instead, he opened the back door for Viv and Maddie, while Rowan got out on Charlie’s side.
The wind tugged at their jackets and carried the faint scent of stone and sun-warmed trees.
Ben scanned the slopes automatically—old habits from Range training, from too many missions where terrain meant the difference between success and catastrophe.
Charlie opened the back and Flo jumped down, immediately at her side. After she snapped Flo’s leash into place, Ben watched as she took in the landscape. Her posture shifted—still alert, still professional, but something in her expression opened. Appreciation, he hoped.
“This is a good example of readable terrain,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You can see where snow would move. Where it would stop. Nothing's hidden.”
“It has potential,” Viv said, already moving toward the edge of the parking area. “Maddie, can you bring up some winter photos?”
“One sec.” Maddie handed her tablet to Viv, who was all-director now, quiet and serious as she looked from the screen to the landscape in front of her, and back again. Rowan went to Viv’s other side and studied the photos.
Flo sniffed the wind, her tail wagging slowly, and Ben crouched to scratch behind her ears.
“She likes you,” Charlie said.
Ben looked up. Charlie was watching him, something soft in her expression that made his heart speed up inconveniently.
“I like her too,” he said. Then, because he couldn't quite help himself, he added, “Good judge of character, dogs.”
Charlie's mouth quirked. Almost a smile. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” He stood, brushing gravel off his knees. “They know who's safe. Who's steady.”
“And who brings them treats tied with pink bows?”
There it was. The real smile. The one that made his pulse kick.
“That too,” Ben admitted, grinning back at her.
For a moment, they just stood there, the wind pulling at their hair, the mountains spread out before them like an invitation.
Ben wanted to tell her things he had no business saying—that she looked beautiful with her hair whipping around her face, that he'd been thinking about her since Saturday, that he'd bring her a hundred cups of coffee the way she liked it made if it meant she'd look at him like this again.
Instead, he cleared his throat and pointed toward the slope in front of them.
“See those paths?” he said. “The ones that look like wide chutes running down? Those are called the Eighties and Nineties. Old ski runs from when this was still a resort. Now they're just avalanche terrain. CDOT monitors them pretty closely.”
Charlie followed his gesture, her tactical mind already working. “How often do they slide?”
Viv had wandered over, Rowan and Maddie trailing behind. Ben had everyone’s attention now.
“Depends on the winter. Heavy snow year? Multiple times. They've got Gazex systems on some of the paths—remote-controlled explosives that trigger slides before they get dangerous.”
“Gazex,” Charlie repeated, filing it away.
“That’s where we’d film the controlled avalanche,” Viv said.
“Exactly.” He pointed further south. “Path Five—Stanley—has five Gazex units. That's probably your best bet for filming. Safe, predictable, still dramatic.”
“Which one would look best on camera?” Rowan asked Viv.
She considered. “Stanley's got good sight lines. We could set up on the road below, get the full path in frame.”
“If you want something more exposed, more dangerous-looking?” Ben gestured toward the eastern peaks. “The Mines paths are bigger. Steeper. More... consequential.”
“Consequential,” Viv echoed, her eyes lighting up. “I like that word.”
Ben felt Charlie's gaze on him again. When he glanced over, she was studying him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Curious, maybe. Or impressed.
He'd take either one.
“Can we get closer?” Viv asked, already moving toward the edge of the parking area where a viewing platform overlooked the western slopes.
Ben led the way, Charlie and Flo falling in beside him.
The group spread out along the platform, and Ben pointed out the features of the terrain—the natural chutes carved by decades of avalanches, the rocky outcroppings that would catch and hold snow, the wind-loaded cornices that would form along the ridgelines come winter.
Maddie took notes on her tablet while Viv asked practical questions about access roads and talked about filming permits. She was already framing shots with her hands, muttering about camera placement and lighting angles.
“The Continental Divide Trail runs right through here,” Ben said, gesturing to the trail marker near the warming hut. “In winter, this whole area becomes backcountry skiing terrain. You'd have people hiking up and skiing down all day. Might complicate your filming schedule.”
“We’re coordinating with CDOT and the Forest Service anyway,” Viv said. “They close the road for a few hours, control the avalanche, we’ll get our shots.”