Epilogue
The Adams Ranch Three Months Later
The first snow of the season dusted the peaks of the Stone Ribs in a brilliant, clinical white. From the porch of the finished cabin, the world looked like a black-and-white photograph, silent and still.
Thea sat in the Adirondack chair Ben had built, a heavy wool blanket draped over her shoulders. On the small table beside her, a spent brass shell casing rested atop a stack of folders. It was her final legacy for the Park Service, the data that would let the next team keep the mountain quiet.
She picked up the top folder from her lap. The header read: USFWS – Red Wolf Recovery Program (Alligator River, NC).
She had run the numbers a thousand times. The grant was approved. In January, she would be trading the granite of the Rockies for the salt-marshes of the Atlantic coast. She would be working in the swamp by day and, if the variables stayed in alignment, she would be wherever the Armor was by night.
The sound of engines echoed up the ridge—not the high-pitched whine of a ranch truck, but the heavy, low-frequency hum of high-displacement engines.
Thea stood up, her pulse jumping to a steady 92 bpm.
Two large, blacked-out SUVs wound their way up the drive, moving with a synchronized spacing that suggested the drivers hadn’t quite turned off their tactical training. They hummed to a halt in the clearing, their exhaust plumes white against the falling snow.
The driver’s door of the lead vehicle opened first.
Ben “Grizzly” Adams stepped out. He wasn’t wearing the flannel of a rancher. He was in a dark technical jacket, his face leaner and his eyes carrying a “sea-stare” that looked a thousand miles deep. He looked like a man who had been chewed up by the Pacific and managed to spit himself back out.
He looked up at the porch and stopped. He didn’t wave; instead, he stood there, breathing in the Wyoming air as if he were trying to wash the salt out of his lungs.
From the passenger side, Reef emerged, immediately dropping into a crouch to scoop up a handful of snow. He looked at the white landscape with a raw, instinctive hunger. “The ground is solid,” he shouted, his voice raspy. “Grizz, the damn ground isn’t moving!”
The second SUV pulled up, and the rest of the team spilled out.
Picasso stepped out of the driver’s seat, looking exhausted, when suddenly Gabriella hopped out of the passenger seat.
Her red hair was loose, cascading down to her waist as she ran toward Marjorie, talking a mile a minute.
Without hesitation, she threw her arms around Marjorie in a tight hug.
Falcon followed, his arm out of the sling but moving with a stiff, careful economy that told Thea the “geological” jawline had seen some action. Hurricane was right behind him, already arguing with Reef about the coefficient of friction on frozen gravel.
They looked like a unit that had been through a war the world wasn’t allowed to know about.
Ben started up the stairs, each step deliberate and steady.
When he reached the top, his eyes found Thea’s, tired but filled with a quiet intensity.
After seventy-two long days, the love shining through them was unmistakable: deep, unwavering, and as clear as the high-country sky they both knew so well.
The smell of him was salt, cold steel, and the unmistakable, clean scent of the mountain wind, wrapping around her and stirring memories she had carried since she was thirteen.
He reached out, his large, calloused hands framing her face. His thumbs were rough, but his touch was a prayer.
“You stayed,” he rasped, his voice a low vibration that made the Data Loop in her head finally go silent.
Thea reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out the spent brass casing. She pressed it into his palm, the metal warm from her skin.
“Data point,” she whispered, her eyes bright with a future she no longer had to calculate. “The Navigator never leaves her post. And the commute to Virginia is exactly two hours from the refuge.”
Ben didn’t ask how she knew. He didn’t ask about the grant. He just pulled her in, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes closing as the “Grizzly” mask finally shattered.
The war was still out there, and the Leviathan Initiative was still a shadow on a map. But for one week, the anchor was holding.
Ben leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss that tasted of homecoming and a Wyoming winter.
“Welcome home, Benji,” she breathed against his lips.
“I’m home now,” he replied. “I’m finally home.”
Coming soon: Love for Maya
Read on for a preview of Reef’s book