Chapter 15
SIERRA
The aftermath is bureaucracy, debriefings, and a media circus I want no part of, but none of it matters because he's alive and he's staying.
Chris's hand finds mine in the back of Barrett's SUV as we wind down the mountain toward Glacier Hollow. The adrenaline has worn off, leaving us both exhausted and aching. My shoulder throbs. His ribs are taped so tight I can see him wince with each breath.
But we're alive, and we won--for the most part.
"She's probably already there," Chris says quietly, staring out the window at the darkening forest.
"Bryn?"
"She said she was leaving immediately. That was three hours ago." His jaw works. "I don't know what to say to her."
"Start with 'I'm sorry' and go from there."
"What if she can't forgive me?"
I squeeze his hand. "She will. She's your sister. She loves you."
Barrett glances in the rearview mirror. "For what it's worth, Calder, Bryn never stopped looking for you. Even after the official search was called off. She'd go out on her days off, just... searching."
Chris closes his eyes. "God."
"She'll forgive you," I repeat. "Just give her time to be angry first."
When we pull up to the sheriff's office in Glacier Hollow, there's already a truck parked out front. Lights on inside. Someone pacing past the windows.
Bryn.
Chris goes very still. "I can't—what if—"
"Chris." I turn to face him. "You survived eleven months in the wilderness, took down a corrupt federal operation, and fought your way through two firefights in one day. You can handle seeing your sister."
He takes a shaky breath, nods. Barrett kills the engine.
We all get out. Chris moves slowly toward the office door like he's walking to his own execution. I hang back with Barrett, giving them space.
The door opens before Chris reaches it. Bryn stands in the doorway, backlit by the office lights. She's smaller than I expected—maybe five-four, but curvy and strong, with light hair pulled back in a ponytail and blue eyes that blaze with fury even from here.
"Bryn," Chris starts. "I—"
She punches him in the chest. Hard enough that he staggers back a step, hand flying to his taped ribs with a grunt of pain.
Then she's grabbing him, pulling him into a crushing hug, sobbing against his shoulder. "You bastard. You let me mourn you. You let me think you were dead for eleven months—"
"I'm sorry." Chris wraps his arms around her, holding on just as tight. "God, Bryn, I'm so sorry. I thought I was protecting you. If they knew I was alive, they would have used you to find me. I couldn't risk—"
"Don't you ever do that again." She pulls back, hitting his chest again, but softer this time. Tears stream down her face. "Don't you ever leave me like that again. I'm your sister. We face things together."
"I know. I won't. I promise."
She looks at him—really looks at him—taking in the healing cuts, the taped ribs, the beard he's finally starting to trim, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "You look terrible."
"You should see the other guy."
A laugh breaks through her tears. "Always with the jokes." She touches his face gently, like she's making sure he's real. "I searched for you. Every weekend. Every day off. I knew you couldn't just be gone. I knew it."
"I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."
"You better not." She hugs him again, fierce and desperate. Then she looks over his shoulder at me. Her eyes narrow slightly. "You're Sierra Vale. The cop and linguist."
"Yeah."
She releases Chris, walks toward me. I brace myself, not sure what to expect.
"Thank you. For bringing him back."
"He brought himself back," I say, shaking her hand. Her grip is strong. "I just helped clear the path."
She pulls me into a hug, unexpected and fierce. "He's alive. That's all that matters."
When she releases me, I realize I'm crying. Bryn is too. Even Chris's eyes are suspiciously bright, though he's staring off at the tree line like the forest suddenly needs his full attention.
Bryn wipes her eyes. "Okay. Enough crying. You both look like you're about to fall over. Chris, I'll get you set up at the B&B—Mara always has rooms available. Sierra, you can stay there too if—"
"She stays with me," Chris says.
Bryn looks between us, a slow smile forming despite her tears. "Good. I'll call Mara right now. She'll have a room ready by the time we get there."
The next week is a blur of debriefings and statements. DOJ agents arrive, then FBI, then Homeland Security. We answer the same questions over and over, walking them through the evidence, the firefights, the corruption network we exposed.
Seventeen arrests across three states. Deputy Director Lawrence Healy in federal custody facing multiple counts. The trafficking network's command structure broken.
The network's still out there—I can feel the loose threads every time I look at the data—but we broke its back. The routes are compromised. The operators are scattered.
Between interviews, Chris and I collapse in our room at the B&B, too exhausted to do more than sleep tangled together. Bryn brings us meals, nags Chris about his injuries, and slowly stops looking at him like he might disappear if she blinks.
On day three, Barrett offers me a permanent position. Lead analyst for Wildlife Protection, based in Talon Mountain.
"Think about it," he says. "No pressure. But you're good at this work, and we could use you."
I don't need to think about it. I've spent my whole career chasing shadows, moving from case to case. Never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots.
But here, with Chris, with this work, with these mountains—I could stay.
"I'll take it," I say.
Barrett grins. "Good. Because I already submitted the paperwork."
On day five, Barrett shows us a cabin available on the north ridge. Wildlife Protection property, available for lease month-to-month.
It's small—one bedroom, main room with a wood stove, tiny kitchen and bathroom. But it has walls and windows and a door that locks.
Not a survival shelter. A home.
"It's perfect," Chris says, standing in the middle of the empty main room. "When can I move in?"
"Barrett said as soon as you want." I walk to the window, look out at the forest. "There's another cabin about a mile east if you want space—"
He comes up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist. "Or you could just stay here. With me."
My pulse kicks up. "Chris—"
"I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other two weeks. But I spent a year alone on this mountain, and the only time I felt alive was when you showed up and turned everything upside down." His breath is warm against my neck. "Stay with me, Sierra."
I turn in his arms, look up at him. "What if I'm terrible to live with? What if I hog the covers and leave dishes in the sink?"
"Then I'll steal the covers back and do the dishes." His smile is soft. "I don't care about any of that. I just care about you."
"I leave my work stuff everywhere. Papers, laptops, coffee cups."
"I'll build you a desk."
"I talk to myself when I'm analyzing data."
"I'll listen."
"Chris." My voice cracks. "What if this doesn't work? What if we're just running on adrenaline and proximity and once things settle down—"
He kisses me. Slow, deep, thorough—his hands cupping my face like I'm something precious.
When he pulls back, his eyes are serious. "Then we'll figure it out. Together. But I'm not afraid of this, Sierra. For the first time in a year, I'm not afraid of anything."
I stand on my toes, kiss him back. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'll stay."
His smile transforms his whole face—eyes crinkling, dimple appearing in his left cheek, genuine happiness radiating from him.
"Let's go get furniture," he says.
We spend the afternoon in town, buying basics—a bed frame, a table, chairs, kitchen supplies.
Bryn insists on coming with us, adding bedding and towels and kitchen gadgets to the cart.
The owner of the general mercantile store throws in a discount when she recognizes Chris, says she's glad he's back.
By evening, the cabin looks livable. We set up the bed, stock the kitchen, and build a fire in the wood stove.
That night, Bryn insists we come to Caleb's for dinner.
His cabin is warm and surprisingly refined—restored antiques, hand-crafted furniture, nothing like the rough mountain man cabin I expected.
It's also packed with people who came to see Chris.
Townspeople who heard the rumors and want to see the ghost for themselves, neighbors who knew Bryn and are curious about her brother, people offering welcome-backs and handshakes.
Caleb himself is quiet but welcoming, standing back and letting Bryn orchestrate while he watches Chris with assessing eyes.
Chris handles it with grace, answering questions, accepting welcome-backs, letting people see that he's real. That he's staying.
I help Bryn in the kitchen, and she leans close. "He's different with you."
"Different how?"
"Lighter. Like he remembers how to be happy." She hands me a dish. "Don't break his heart, okay? He's been through enough."
"I won't."
"Good. Because I like you, and I'd hate to have to kick your ass."
I laugh. "Fair enough."
We eat pasta and garlic bread and drink wine.
The townspeople are curious but respectful, asking questions about where he's been, offering support rather than prying.
Caleb contributes little to the conversation, but his presence is steady and protective—making sure no one pushes too hard, that Chris has space to breathe.
I learn that Bryn came to Glacier Hollow searching for Chris, that she refused to give up even when everyone else did. That Caleb helped her search, and somewhere along the way they fell in love. That this town took her in when she had nowhere else to go.
When we finally leave, it's late and I'm exhausted. Chris drives us back to the cabin in Barrett's loaned truck, his hand on my knee the whole way.