Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
RHYS
Something’s following me.
I feel it before I smell it. Before I hear it.
Up in the pre-dawn dark, rifle slung over my shoulder, I check traps down past the little orchard of apples I discovered two years back. Pioneer planting, no doubt. To the right, a new crop of winter wheat felts the pasture green.
Deer graze there—good for the bow. Trapping and guiding hunts pay the rest.
The forest in the dark is a thing unto itself. Time shifts out here after hours. So do landmarks.
And the calm crispness of early morning before songbirds sing is like nothing else. Intimate, restful, as if the whole damn world sleeps.
For a second, it almost feels like peace. But the dreams never fade for long.
They wake me in a cold sweat—eyes searching, hands gripping—mind replaying battles no one could’ve won. Ones I sure as hell refused to lose anyway.
Which came at a cost. One that still presses its sharp edges into my soul.
The pink-tipped edges of dawn tease the sky as I return from my last traps set on the line. That’s when I notice them.
One at a time, a pack of coyotes, inching closer.
Every time I think they’ve lost interest, moved on, a twig snaps or the thick growth of saplings on either side whispers of an intruder.
Sharp barks break out from one side, then high-pitched yips from another. A couple of howls, eerie and distant.
Testing my perimeter. Testing me.
It doesn’t help that their night vision far outperforms mine. But the glowing eastern horizon evens the playing field until the canines move off at last.
Could’ve been worse. Could’ve crossed paths with a mountain lion or grizzly. Or most dangerous, a bull moose.
Still, as the sky brightens and burns, I’m relieved to have my rifle.
Nature didn’t play fair last night. Traps turned up empty. Nothing to lug home.
Doesn’t matter. It still provides. Just on its own time.
Back home, the Rhode Island Red hens strut around their coop, clucking their morning chorus. Fluffing feathers, squawking, preening, and fighting over roosting bars.
I grab the metal bucket I keep by the front porch and collect their eggs. A dozen beautiful brown ones.
Soon flames lick over cedar in the fire pit where I cook my morning meal. The smoke fills my nostrils, earthy and rustic with warm balsam overtones. I flip my brown Carhartt collar up against the high-elevation chill as I cook.
Salt pork sizzles in the pan, grease crackling and flying, then some of this morning’s eggs with big yellow yolks the color of daffodils. A pot of hot coffee already sits next to me. I drink it black and gritty.
The San Juan Mountains glow red and majestic as the sunlight hits them. An eagle pierces the quiet overhead, broad wingspan blocking out the sun for one breath.
But after daybreak, songbirds rule the airwaves. Warbling, chirping, singing, doing whatever the hell they do. Never been a birder or anything like that. I just like the way nature sounds.
The kind of silence that isn’t really silence once you learn how to listen to it. That helped after the world fell apart.
Following breakfast and cleanup, I chop wood until the Carhartt and gray flannel come off and steam rises from my skin. I like tasks I can measure, complete with my strength and bare hands. That’s what I trust.
The rest—civilization, people, all of it?
Hell no.
Because they don’t take the time to understand. And I don’t feel the need to explain.
Never have.
I pile wood by the fireplace in my one-room cabin. Everything tidy, ordered. The Marines sharpened the worst parts of me—especially the need for control.
Standing in the shadow of the trees, still shirtless, I hear a high-pitched buzz whiz past my head. I slap my hand to my shoulder and pull back a blood streak with a little black body.
Mosquitoes. Never did like them. One of nature’s inventions I may never figure out.
Though, really, there are plenty of those.
The woods go quiet first. Takes me half a cup of coffee to notice.
I don’t like when that happens.
Could be a big predator on the move, something not right. My eyes scan, ears straining, body tuning in to the feeling of something nearby. Maybe watching.
Learned that from hunting and the Marines. When you’re being watched, you can feel the laser-focus, the intent.
But nope. It’s worse.
The soft hum of a car engine. Something colder than annoyance settles under my skin. No one should be heading this way, within hearing range.
My eyes narrow, breath hitching. Before I can think, I run inside, grab my binoculars, and then sprint up the red-dirt peak behind my place for a better vantage.
I see it then: a raised dark gray Jeep Wrangler. Rental. Town issue. Fully loaded. The windshield glints, reflecting the midday sun.
I adjust the focus, hold my breath. Still can’t make out who’s driving.
Crouching by a large stack of granite boulders, I melt into the shadows, waiting.
Who could it be? A turned-around tourist? Someone looking for Animas Forks or one of the other old mining claims?
A woman steps out. She doesn’t look lost or even hesitant.
Just… purposeful.
Then the details land—messy bun, fitted black T-shirt, camera slung over one shoulder, laptop bag. Gear that says she knows exactly where she is.
A reporter.
God.
Seen too many in my day not to recognize her immediately. She’s a problem.
Sure enough, she knocks twice, then starts snooping, snapping photos. She circles the front of the cabin as if she’s looking for something.
Then she does the unthinkable. She steps inside.
Possessive anger hits fast and ugly at the sight of her inside my cabin.
Found.
By someone who won’t stop talking. Or respect what I’ve built here.
I could stop her. Two steps down the ridge, one shout, and she’d turn. But I don’t.
I rub a hand over my beard, hearing the scrape of callused skin over scruffy hair. Haven’t looked in a mirror for too long to recall. Must resemble a grizzly.
Doesn’t matter now. What matters is her going. Now. Before she can cause more trouble.
She flicks her gold aviator sunglasses down, eyes narrowing against the darkened treeline. I wonder for half a second if she saw my binocular glass catching light.
But no, her stare is blank. Curious and cold. And then I see it.
My God.
Those same eyes.
Like Phoenix.
Same strange mix of moss-green and gold threaded through the brown. But skepticism and stress lines don’t frame these eyes. No, they’re surrounded by thick black lashes.
And the face isn’t his, either. Not really. Too soft and round. Cheeks too pink and alive. Same with the lips, more generous, and the nose shorter and more button-shaped than his.
My instinct is still the same as it was overseas, though. Protect first. Ask questions later.
She surveys the expanse of the land surrounding my cabin, and my breath stalls.
It’s like reckoning with him all over again. Like one of those dreams that drags me awake before dawn with my pulse hammering.
She shouldn’t be here.
My heart stutters, adrenaline spiking. Nothing about her actions says she’s leaving.
Neither do the words she sometimes speaks out of nowhere. As if she’s carrying on a conversation with the mountains or the trees.
And the way she says my name. It sounds like a judgment, unyielding, final.
Dark clouds build overhead, the forest silent, waiting. Then, a distant boom, a rippling of webbed light spreads sideways across the horizon.
The storm rolls over me the same way the past always does—sudden, violent, impossible to outrun. Another crash, then the rain starts. Heavy and relentless, like the sky itself finally giving in.
I scramble down the hidden path, shrouded in trees, moving fast. Gravel and dirt billow, my feet sliding down the steep cuts already transforming into muddy waterfalls.
I have to see this. And I have to hear what she says next.
“Sergeant Rhys Ward!”
And just like that, the life I built up here stops feeling untouchable.