Chapter 7
RAVEN
The sun is just starting to rise, a tiny trickle of light coming through the trees to the east as Connor finally steps out from the thick, dense woods we’ve been hiking through for hours into what appears to be a clearing.
Please God…let this be it…
It has to be.
Because I can’t keep going.
My feet, knees, thighs, back, and just about every other part of me, is screaming in agony after hiking all night up steep inclines, through sheer darkness, and across parts of the mountain clearly never seen by man before.
Aside from a few five-minute breaks I demanded when I complained that I couldn’t go any farther and threatened collapse, it has been non-stop moving.
And having to watch how effortlessly Connor did it in front of me the entire time was almost as agonizing as the hike itself.
I barely manage to stagger through the last couple of steps now, and just as I’m about to break through the treeline, the toe of my boot catches on a fallen log and I’m falling face-first toward the forest floor.
The scream starts in my throat, but a strong arm wraps around my waist, keeping me from becoming intimately acquainted with the dirt, leaves, and twigs beneath me.
Connor holds me steady long enough for me to regain my feet, and once they’re squarely under me again, I force myself to meet his gaze despite my sheer embarrassment.
He’s far too close. His scowl only inches from my face. Those hard, almost black eyes of his search mine silently for a few seconds, almost as if he’s checking to ensure I’m okay when he can clearly see and feel that I am with his grip on me.
Abruptly, he releases me with a grunt and turns to stalk away.
It takes me a few seconds to find my breath and to stop my heart from thundering so wildly against my ribs, but when I finally trust myself to move again, I follow him into the clearing.
The morning mist that always clings to the mountain coats everything in sight, giving it an almost ethereal, dreamlike quality. But what I can see peeking through it is more like something out of a nightmare.
A tiny building I can only describe as a shack, stands to the far right of the small open glen. It looks old. And not old in the way that Killian and Willow’s cabin is. The kind of old that suggests this has been here for a very long time without anyone touching or maintaining it.
My gaze travels over the rest of the cleared land, finally falling on the far side where stacks and stacks of massive felled trees peek out of the mist beside what appears to be some sort of foundation for a larger structure.
What is this place?
Connor continues to walk toward the shack at the same breakneck pace he’s maintained our entire hike up here and doesn’t even glance back at me to ensure I’m following.
Where the hell else would I go?
I need somewhere to drop that won’t expose me to the elements.
Somewhere my body can give in to the collapse I’ve been bordering on for hours.
He reaches the dilapidated building, grabs the handle, and pushes the door in like he belongs here, like it’s familiar territory.
I struggle to draw in a breath, both from the exertion and from the altitude and lack of oxygen my body isn’t used to. But he seems completely unaffected.
Because Connor has been here before…
This is by far the highest I’ve ever been on the mountain, and it’s by far the most exercise I’ve ever done in my entire life, so my body is revolting and ensuring I know it doesn’t like it one fucking bit.
Almost as much as I don’t like the man who forced me up here for some reason only he understands.
The fact that he just rescued me from falling on my face after I told him not to touch me again only pisses me off more. Having to rely on Connor for anything stings like a slap across the face, and something tells me that up here, I’m going to be doing a lot of that.
I slowly trudge across the clearing toward the shack that looks like somewhere a serial killer would hole up, still glancing over my shoulder at the mysterious structure going up on the other side of the small open patch of land.
A stack of tools partially covered by a blue tarp lies near the logs, and it’s those modern items that makes me confident Connor has spent time here. Maybe a lot of it.
Which is horrifying when I finally reach the shack and step inside it, letting my bags that feel like they weigh a thousand pounds slide to the floor…
A twin bed stands pushed into one far corner, while a small, wood-fire stove occupies the other. Aside from that, the only other furniture inside is a single chair tucked under a tiny table.
Some old wooden crates stacked beside the stove hold dozens of cans and jars of food, and a couple cast-iron pots and pans hang from hooks along the wall.
This shabby cabin isn’t abandoned at all, despite how it appears from the outside.
“What is this place, Connor?”
He glances over his shoulder at me as he squats in front of the stove, shoving in kindling.
With a grunt, he returns his focus to his task, strikes a match against the metal, and tosses it in.
Almost instantly, it catches, the flames shedding more light on the space that I almost wish it hadn’t before he closes the grate in front of it and contains it.
“It’s an old hunting cabin Killian’s grandfather and father used.”
Damn.
I examine it again, taking in all the details now visible in the glow from the fire that weren’t before—a small window above the bed that lets in some of the growing early dawn light, a few old books stacked on the floor beside the bed, even a bear roughly scratched into the wooden wall, clearly by a child’s hand…
It definitely looks old enough to have been used and built by someone a century ago like Killian’s grandfather. But there are far too many modern things, too.
A solar-powered, rechargeable lantern sitting on the table.
The pillow and blanket on the bed.
The utensils in an old can on top of the stacked crates.
The new cans of food.
Oh, God…
“Is this…where you’ve been coming?”
All those times he disappeared for days at a time without a word…
Connor’s back stiffens, and he doesn’t turn to face me, just digs through one of the crates and pulls out a can of something. He pops off the lid and dumps the contents into one of the cast iron pans before setting it on top of the stove.
He starts to push past me in the tight space to make it for the door, but I grab his arm, forcing him to stop.
We both know he could easily shove off my hold. I’m no match for his size and strength. But he stands stock still, staring out the still open door into the mist and morning light of the mountain.
“Connor, is this where you’ve been?”
His body vibrates, the tense muscles beneath my palm flexing as he shifts and slowly turns his head to meet my gaze. The steely darkness in his eyes almost makes me recoil. “No one would ever look for me up here…”
I release a shaky breath and my hold on him.
We’re so far up that I know he’s right.
His brothers might not even think of this place if they haven’t been using it over the years.
“What about”—I motion toward the piles of wood and materials outside—“that?”
His jaw hardens, and instead of answering, he just stalks outside, snagging an axe from beside the door that I hadn’t even noticed. I follow him out and watch him storm across the clearing toward a stack of logs protected under a hastily built awning.
He grabs one, sets it on a stump, and swings down on it hard, sending pieces flying off each direction.
I’ve seen the McBride brothers do this work before, but never like this. Never up here where it’s so wild. Never when so pent up with whatever it is that’s eating at him. Not when so angry.
The part of me that loves to poke and prod Connor McBride and get him riled up so badly wants to cross the space between us to do just that, to demand answers.
But a warning echoes in the back of my head, the same one I gave the people of McBride Mountain in my story that got him so riled up the other day—that they should leave him alone and steer clear.
Take your own advice.
I retreat a step, then another, making my way back into the small cabin. Once inside, I shift my bags up against the wall, freeing up a few square feet of floor space to move around.
A delicious smell permeates the air, something rich that reminds me of Grandma’s Sunday stew, and my stomach rumbles. Other than a few granola bars and some beef jerky during the hike, I haven’t had a real meal since dinner two nights ago.
All the pain permeating my body momentarily overwhelms my hunger, and I almost drop onto the bed and allow sleep to take me. But whatever he threw on the stove smells so good that it makes my mouth water.
I force my feet to move to the stove and find some kind of thick soup beginning to bubble away in the pan. It certainly isn’t the delicious food Elaine and Matt serve at the diner, but it’s honestly about the same level of cooking skills as I possess. So, I can’t really complain.
And I’m so hungry at this point that I’d eat just about anything.
I scan the sparse items around the space and find a wooden spoon in the can filled with utensils. My stomach rumbles again as I stir what’s on the stove and continue to take in the place where Connor has been staying.
He’s been living like this?
There isn’t any way up to this remote location other than on foot, which means he brought everything up in a backpack or otherwise carrying it.
All the food.
All the tools outside.
He’s probably been coming up here with more and more stuff each time…
For some reason I absolutely don’t want to explore, my chest aches.
He would rather be here, living like this, than down with his brothers, Willow, Niall, and Lucky. He would rather live this life than the one he has there on the homestead with the people who love him.
“What is going on inside that head of yours, Connor McBride?”
My question goes unanswered in the silence of the tiny cabin.