Ghost of Hollow Peak (Hollow Peak Mountain Men #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

SLOANE

The first thing I notice is how silent people go when they hear his name.

Eyes slide away and mouths open, then close again without a sound. Brows furrow.

Rhys Ward.

I’ve seen the name enough times to recognize the damage it leaves behind.

The people in Hollow Peak talk about him like he’s a ghost. But ghosts don’t leave scars on the living.

At the Silver Peak Cafe, I ask its interminably happy owner, Marie, about him.

Never seen a smile fade so fast.

She leans forward, resting her hands on the highly polished wooden counter. “You looking for trouble?”

As a former war correspondent, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been asked that.

My eyes narrow, gaze fixed on her face. “No. I’m looking for the truth.”

“Trouble, the truth. Those are the same thing up here.”

I smile thinly. She’s the most talkative person I’ve met today. Middle-aged, sharp-cut black bob with purple streaks, black turtleneck and pants. Like a beatnik who took a wrong turn into this century.

But it’s her eyes I remember—not their color or shape, just the shadow of fear that passes behind them at his name.

Other people are more reticent. Downright rude.

But nobody gossips. Nobody volunteers extra information except for Zeke’s Hardware.

There, I get the coordinates.

Scribbled on the back of a bent business card that’s seen better days. Not even an address, just numbers I can plug into my GPS.

Zeke thinks I’m here for a hunting guide. I let him believe it. People talk more when they think they understand you.

“Careful,” Zeke says, his leathery skin creasing deeply as he speaks. “Roads are steep up there. Not maintained. Maybe even washed out after last winter.”

I nod once. “I’ve got it.”

There won’t be bullets overhead or drones circling above me. And I won’t be hiding behind a press badge pretending it makes me untouchable.

He arches a brow.

“I have a Jeep Wrangler.”

He’s unimpressed, huffing, “Got a winch?”

“Of course. Fully stocked. Prepared for anything.”

“Better be.”

I nod once. Mild annoyance tugs at me. After days spent trying to break through the impenetrable wall that shoots up every time I mention Ward, I’m over it.

But what this man did—what he knows about my brother’s fate—makes the blood roar through my temples.

I’ve chased warlords through remote parts of Afghanistan with steadier hands than this. Anticipation thrums through me. So does fear—the kind that could paralyze me if I let it.

What happens if what I find out… isn’t bearable?

I’ve worked too many investigations to expect otherwise. Things rarely fall apart the way people say they do. Stories change depending on who survives them.

And the closer I get to Hollow Peak, the more I wonder whether I’ve spent years mourning a version of my brother that never truly existed.

In interviews with the surviving members of my brother’s team, I’ve heard things. Questionable things. Maybe even concerning. It’s exactly those things that have brought me here.

To the staff sergeant tied to the events of that day and the sanitized reports that followed.

I pack the Jeep like I’m heading into hostile territory. Food. Warm layers. Sunscreen. Bug repellant. Sleeping bag.

The full drill.

The way I’ve always packed on assignments. I leave nothing to chance, especially when this interview could tilt my entire world off its axis.

Rugged peaks rise around Hollow Peak like ancient teeth, their slopes crowded with wind-bent pines and aspens. Birds call endlessly from the trees where a cold wind threads through the valley mixing with the summer air.

I program the coordinates, then make a call to the Sheriff’s Department to let them know what I’m doing. They redirect me to local rangers, underpaid and understaffed.

It doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy. But I’m not here for safety. I’m here for the truth.

Places like this aren’t so different from war zones. The danger’s just dressed up prettier.

And I’ve walked into too many war zones to turn back now. Just never one where the conflict feels so personal.

I remind myself I’m ready for anything… as much as that’s possible.

Self-defense classes, martial arts, a CCW license, shooting instruction. I learned a long time ago that confidence gets people killed. Preparation keeps them alive.

That said, I’ve been wrong before. Just not about something that mattered this much. There are gaps in the story surrounding my brother’s death, and I haven’t decided what they mean.

I don’t go looking for stories that make people feel better. I go for the ones that explain why they don’t. Pull at threads people would rather leave alone.

It won’t be different this time. And I know enough about Rhys Ward, his psych profile, his diagnoses and issues, to approach this without getting it wrong.

But that’s not what unsettles the locals.

To them, Rhys Ward is something half-buried and better left alone.

But ghosts don’t leave tracks.

He does.