Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Duke
As I lead the way to the overlook, I continually look over my shoulder at her. Partly to check her progress and safety, and partly just to lay eyes on her again.
She’s a knockout.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, with strands escaping at her temples where sweat has dampened them.
And she has the most beautiful eyes, more gray than blue, like the sky when a storm is just starting to brew.
She’s physically fit, but also curvy, with just the right amount of fat to make her thighs rub together and her tits bounce deliciously as she hikes.
Good grief, dude. Get your shit together. She’s here for her dead brother.
That thought does the trick, throwing cold water on all the dirty fantasies I was beginning to play out in my mind.
She hiked into the woods alone to honor her brother’s memory. But I think there’s more to it than that. It’s like she’s also here for herself… like she’s testing her limits, her strength, her resolve.
It’s impressive and admirable.
I’m tempted to tell her so. Instead, I explain the game trail as we work our way back to the hiking trail. I tell her it’s easy to mistake them for hiking trails, and that many hikers have done the same thing.
Her shoulders relax a fraction. She hadn’t been looking for permission, but she needed reassurance. Needed to know she wasn’t stupid for getting turned around.
She’s not stupid. Just inexperienced.
We move together, me a step ahead, pointing out the subtle differences she missed earlier.
The way the real trail curves instead of climbing straight up.
The scuffed earth where boots have passed instead of hooves.
A faded marker half-hidden by brush, the paint chipped but still visible on the trees if you know where to look.
The worn roots that serve as natural steps.
She watches everything. Files it away. Asks questions that show she’s listening. She wants to understand, not just be led.
We stop for a moment to drink from our water bottles and catch our breath. She tells me she’s an architect and that she mostly designs urban projects, but she’d love to design her own home someday. She’d pay attention to every detail, right down to how the sunlight hits the windows in the morning.
When she talks about her brother, I listen. Not just to the words, but to the pauses. The way she keeps moving even when her voice catches. He loved the mountain. He told her to take chances. She wishes she’d listened sooner. Wishes she’d come here with him when she had the chance.
“I know what you mean,” I tell her. “I think anyone who’s ever lost a loved one wishes they’d had just a little more time together. But you’re hiking with Nate now, honoring his love of the mountain with every step you take.”
She smiles. “I’m ready to continue to the overlook.”
Nodding, I begin leading the way again.
An hour later, the overlook opens up ahead of us, the trees giving way to a rocky outcrop that juts out over the valley. The view is worth the climb. Always has been, but somehow, it’s even better with Trista by my side.
She stops at the edge, careful to stay back from the drop, and just stares.
Below us, the valley stretches out in layers.
Dense forest gives way to open meadows, gold and green in the afternoon light.
A ribbon of river cuts through the center, catching the sun like molten silver.
Mountains rise in the distance, ridge after ridge fading into blue haze.
On a clear day like this, you can see forever.
Or at least far enough that it feels that way.
Her expression shifts, softens. The tension she’s been carrying since I found her eases out of her shoulders.
“He was right,” she says quietly. “It is beautiful.”
I don’t answer right away. Just stand beside her and let the mountain speak for itself. Let the wind carry the scent of pine and stone. Let the silence settle.
After a while, she shrugs off her pack and sets it down carefully. Her hands move to the zipper, then pause.
“Do you need a minute?” I ask.
She glances at me, something unreadable in her expression. Vulnerability, maybe. And perhaps a little bit of trust. “Actually… would you stay?”
The request catches me off guard. Most people want privacy for this part. Want to be alone with their grief and their memories.
“Of course,” I say.
She pulls out a simple wooden urn, holds it in both hands for a moment.
“He would’ve made fun of me for getting lost on the way here,” she says. A small smile touches her lips, sad and genuine. “Then he would’ve shown me the right path and told me to pay better attention. Probably would’ve made me buy him a beer to make up for the rescue.”
“Sounds like a good brother.”
“The best.” She opens the urn carefully, reverently.
“He was the one who took chances. I was the one who planned everything to death. Color-coded calendars. A spreadsheet for everything, even my grocery lists. He kept telling me I needed to loosen up. Live a little. Stop being so afraid of making mistakes.”
She steps closer to the edge, and I move with her, close enough to be there if she needs it. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
The wind cooperates, pulling gently out toward the valley. She tilts the urn, and the ashes catch the breeze, scattering into the air. They drift down and out, disappearing into the vast expanse below, becoming part of the mountain he loved.
For a while, neither of us moves.
Then she turns to me, eyes bright but not quite crying. Grief and relief tangled together. “Thank you. For staying.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stand there in the fading light, and something shifts between us. Not grief. Not awkwardness. Just… connection. The kind of thing that happens when two people stand in the right place at the right time and recognize something in each other.
She sits down on a flat rock, and after a moment, I join her. The stone is still warm from the sun, holding onto the day’s heat.
“How long have you been a game warden?” she asks.
“Twelve years. Grew up not far from here. About thirty miles down the mountain.”
“You must know every inch of this place.”
“Most of it,” I say. “It still surprises me sometimes. Nature doesn’t care about patterns. Or maybe it has patterns I’m still learning to read.”
She pulls her knees up, wraps her arms around them. The gesture makes her look younger. More vulnerable. “What made you want to do this?”
I consider the question. Most people don’t actually want the real answer. They want a feel-good story summed up in a single sentence. But the way she’s looking at me makes me think she’s asking for real.
“My dad was a ranger,” I say. “Spent more time in the woods than at home. I used to resent that when I was younger. Thought he was choosing the job over us. Over me and my mom.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand it. This place… it matters. Not just because it’s beautiful.
Because people need it. They need somewhere to go that isn’t cities and concrete and noise.
They need to remember they’re part of something bigger.
Connected to something that existed long before them and will exist long after.
” I pause. “And they need people who know how to keep them safe while they figure that out.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Your dad would be proud.”
My chest tightens. “He was. Before he passed. Died doing a prescribed burn five years ago. Heart attack. It was quick, fortunately.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He got to do what he loved until the end. Not many people can say that.”
The wind shifts, bringing the scent of pine and earth. She tilts her head back, eyes closed, breathing it in. The last rays of sunlight catch in her hair, turning the dark strands almost copper.
“I see why Nate loved it here,” she says.
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you love it?”
She opens her eyes, looks out over the valley. “I think I could. If I let myself.”
“What’s stopping you?”
She meets my gaze. “Fear, mostly. Of not being good at it. Of messing up. Of…” She trails off, then laughs softly. “Of needing help. I don’t like admitting I can’t do something on my own.”
“Everyone needs help sometimes,” I tell her. “That’s not weakness. That’s just being human.”
“I’m only human.” She smiles at that. “I need to remember that.”
The sun is lower now, casting everything in gold. Her skin glows in the light, and when she looks at me, there’s something in her expression that makes my pulse kick up.
Attraction. Interest. Maybe something more.
I feel it too. Have been feeling it since I first saw her standing on that unstable slope, trying so hard to be brave. Since she trusted me to talk her down. Since she asked me to stay while she said goodbye to her brother.
There’s something about her that pulls at me. Not just the physical attraction, though that’s certainly there. But something deeper. The way she’s trying. The way she’s honest about being afraid but does it anyway. The way she looks at the mountain like she wants to understand it, not conquer it.
“It’s getting late,” I say, though I don’t particularly want to move. “We should head down before we lose the light. This trail gets tricky after dark.”
She nods but doesn’t get up right away. “Duke?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not making me feel stupid. For staying. For showing me this place the way Nate would’ve seen it.”
“You’re welcome.”
She stands, shouldering her pack. This time, she moves with more confidence. Less hesitation. Like something has settled in her.
We start back down the trail together, and I can’t shake the feeling that something just shifted.
Not just for her.
For both of us.