Chapter Two
NASH
She's been avoiding me for the better part of an hour, which shouldn't be possible when the whole main floor is one open room, but Dr. Aris Thorne has managed it with the determination of a wounded animal searching for cover.
She's up in the loft with her equipment, accompanied by the soft click of dials being adjusted, the rustle of papers, and the occasional frustrated sigh. Her satellite communicator has chimed every few minutes since we arrived.
The university is keeping a tight leash on its investment, I'd guess, and I can't blame them for wanting updates when they're paying for weeks of wilderness time. Judging by the way she tenses every time the thing makes a sound, someone back home is demanding answers.
Whoever it is doesn't seem to trust her judgment any more than she trusts mine, and that makes me want to defend her to people I've never met.
Which is ridiculous.
She hasn't spoken to me since we arrived, aside from a clipped thank-you when I carried her equipment inside. Before that, she looked at the animals mounted on my wall like I'd personally marched into the forest and executed every living thing I found.
Professional distance should not be difficult under these circumstances.
I've guided plenty of challenging clients over the years.
The ones who think they know more than someone with twenty years of wilderness experience.
The ones who pack three times what they need and complain about the weight.
The ones who want to debate every safety decision until a storm rolls in and suddenly my opinion becomes fascinating.
But I've never guided anyone who spent her first hour hiding from me like I might contaminate her.
The rich smell of venison stew drifts through the cabin. Mags sent a jar up with me from the lodge, along with the rest of the perishables I'll burn through this week. She made it from my recipe using meat from a buck I took last fall with one clean shot.
He lived free and wild and had a better death than most creatures get in nature.
There's nothing fancy about the stew, but the smell is apparently strong enough to reach the loft because I hear Aris's movements pause before resuming with renewed urgency.
I check the fire and add another log, then turn down the heat beneath the pot. The cabin is warming nicely, but there's a chill between us that has nothing to do with the temperature outside.
She hasn't said a word to me since climbing into that loft, and her silence tells me everything I need to know about her opinion of my profession.
The university told her she was getting a wilderness logistics expert. They conveniently failed to mention that logistics around here means reading weather patterns, understanding animal behavior, repairing engines with frozen fingers, and knowing how to take game when survival depends on it.
Just another way people sugarcoat reality so they can benefit from skills they'd rather not examine too closely.
There's something intent about the sounds coming from above. Focused. Driven.
Whatever she's tracking matters to her beyond academic curiosity. I saw it in her eyes when she talked about Waldo, the way her entire face changed when she mentioned the three years she's spent studying him.
That kind of dedication comes from passion, obsession, or a particularly dangerous mixture of both.
She's clearly not built for this environment. Her hands look more familiar with books than tools, her skin carries the pale cast of someone who spends most of her time indoors, and every movement belongs in a lecture hall rather than a snowdrift.
But she came north.
That says something.
Most academics would have demanded immediate extraction the second Reid pointed toward the snowmobile and explained that it was the only way to reach the cabin.
The stew has been ready for twenty minutes, but I've learned patience from years of working with wild things. They come around when they're ready, or they don't, and getting pushy rarely helps.
Still, she needs to eat.
I test the stew with a wooden spoon. The meat falls apart at the touch, and the vegetables are tender without turning to mush.
I clear the small wooden table and set out two bowls, cloth napkins, and proper spoons because something about Dr. Aris Thorne suggests she appreciates things being done correctly, even in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.
"Dinner," I call toward the loft.
The sounds stop.
A moment later, I hear her moving around, packing things away before she climbs down the ladder one careful rung at a time.
Her dark hair has escaped whatever professional braid she started with and hangs in loose waves around her face. She pushes it back with fingers that tremble slightly, though I can't tell whether it's from cold or hunger.
Professional distance, Hollister.
She's a client.
"Thank you," she says when I hold out a bowl.
Her voice is flat, as though she isn't certain about accepting anything from me but knows starvation would be an overdramatic way to make a point.
Her gaze moves over the set table, the folded napkins, and the careful presentation. Something in her expression eases by one degree.
She sits and picks up her spoon. I settle across from her with my own bowl and watch her take a tentative taste of the broth.
For one second, her guard drops completely.
Surprise flashes over her face, like she expected it to taste terrible. When it doesn't, the corner of her mouth lifts before she can stop it.
Then her spoon hovers halfway to her lips.
She studies the contents of the bowl as if conducting a chemical analysis. After a moment, she resumes eating, but I notice what she's doing.
She pushes every piece of meat to one side, creating a careful border between the venison and everything else, as if proximity alone might infect the potatoes.
Well, that explains a few things about Dr. Aris Thorne.
I take a bite and savor meat that is tender and seasoned right. Mags puts up several jars from my recipe every fall, and it took years to get it exactly where I wanted it.
"Are you a vegetarian?" I ask, gesturing toward the untouched side of her bowl.
"No." Her answer comes too fast. Her chin lifts. "I eat everything."
She glances down at the meat she's separated from the vegetables.
"What is this, exactly?"
"Venison. From a deer I took last fall."
Her face moves through several expressions. Understanding. Distaste. Something close to guilt.
"You killed it yourself."
"I did."
I keep my tone matter-of-fact, though I'm watching her reaction.
"Shot him during hunting season."
She sets down her spoon.
"What do you eat back home?" I ask.
"Normal food."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Chicken, beef, fish. Things from the grocery store."
"So you eat meat."
"Yes."
"Those animals were killed too."
Her jaw tightens. "That's different."
"How?"
She stops eating again, her spoon loaded with potato and carrot. Her dark green eyes narrow as though she's deciding whether I'm asking a genuine question or laying a trap.
There's intelligence in that stare. Sharp and fast, even when she's defending an argument that doesn't survive much pressure.
"Those animals were raised for food," she says. "It's not the same as hunting wild animals."
"Right."
I cut off another piece of venison and eat it deliberately.
"Different."
Silence stretches between us while she picks up her spoon again. She takes a bite of vegetables and chews as though she's giving the matter serious consideration.
I let it sit.
"A life is a life," I say.
She looks up and meets my eyes for the first time since we sat down.
"It's not that simple."
"Most things aren't."
I finish the bite in my mouth, then lean back in my chair.
"Tell me about Waldo," I say. "Three years is a long time to follow one animal."
Her expression changes immediately.
Whatever rises beneath it, she buries before I can read it.
"He's special. Dr. Brine, my mentor, believed Waldo might be the key to understanding how caribou herds adapt to climate change. His migration patterns are different from the rest of his herd."
"Different how?"
"He takes routes that shouldn't work, but somehow they do. He leads his group to better grazing areas, almost as though he knows where the resources will be before they get there."
Her voice gains strength as she talks about the research. The stiffness leaves her shoulders. Her hands begin moving as she explains, quick and expressive.
I nod.
I've seen animals do things that shouldn't make sense but work out perfectly. Instinct runs deeper than logic, and some creatures are born with gifts no one can explain.
"And his collar is failing," I say.
"The battery is nearly dead." She sets down her spoon. "I need to recover the collar and download the data it's been storing. Then we have to fit him with a replacement so we can continue tracking him."
"And if we don't find him before the battery dies?"
"We lose the signal."
Her voice lowers.
"If that happens, we might lose Waldo and three years of research along with him."
"So the information in the collar could prove he's choosing those routes deliberately."
"It could show a consistent pattern," she says. "I need to document his choices and demonstrate that his instincts could make the difference between survival and extinction for the entire herd."
"What happened to Dr. Brine?"
Her face closes.
"He had a heart attack last winter. He was …"
She stops and draws a breath before trying again.
"I promised him I'd finish the research."
There it is.
Obligation to the dead, not simple academic curiosity.
I understand that weight. Promises made to people who can no longer hold you accountable are often the hardest ones to break.
"He'd be proud of you for seeing it through," I say.
She looks up, surprised by the plainness of the statement.
"Would he?" Her gaze drops to her bowl. "I'm sitting here eating around meat I'm too squeamish to touch, working with a man he would have …"
She trails off.
"Would have what?"
"Nothing."
Her mouth tightens.
"It doesn't matter."
But it does.
I see it in the way she refuses to meet my eyes.
Whatever turned her against hunters is her own. It sits bone-deep, and now she's caught between her principles and the promise she made.
"He mattered to you," I say.
"He was everything I wanted to become. Patient. Methodical. Completely dedicated to the work."
She eats another spoonful of vegetables, leaving the meat untouched.
"He believed science could save the world if you applied it correctly."
"What do you believe?"
The question catches her off guard.
She considers it seriously before answering.
"I believe I made a promise that matters more than my personal comfort."
When she's eaten everything she's willing to touch, she sits back and looks directly at me.
"Thank you for dinner."
"You're welcome."
"And for …"
She makes a vague motion between us.
"Making me think."
"It's part of the service."
A wry expression crosses her face, and one corner of her mouth lifts.
It isn't a smile, exactly, but it's close enough to feel like a victory.
She helps me clean up, moving around the tight kitchen without trying to take over or getting in my way. The sounds are strangely domestic. Ceramic against wood. Water running into the basin. The soft brush of fabric as we pass each other.
Her sleeve grazes my arm when she reaches for a dish, and I catch the scent of her shampoo.
Clean. Floral.
It doesn't belong in this cabin, but it makes the place feel less like a one-man operation.
When we're finished, she returns to her equipment. I bank the fire, check the windows, and run through the mental list that keeps people alive in places like this.
Weather is holding.
It won't forever.
"Dr. Thorne," I say as I turn down the lights.
She peers over the edge of the loft, her face framed by loose hair in the lamplight.
My pulse kicks at the base of my throat, quick and uninvited.
I look back at the fire.
"Yes?"
"We'll be working together for several weeks, so we might as well use first names. I'm Nash."
She hesitates, considering the offer as though it comes with hidden conditions.
Then she nods.
"Aris."
"Aris," I repeat.
It fits her.
"Get some sleep. We start early tomorrow."
"How early?"
"Before dawn. Best tracking happens in the first few hours of light."
She winces but doesn't complain.
"I'll be ready."
I settle onto my bunk behind the woodstove and listen to her moving around above me. The rustle of the sleeping bag. The careful placement of equipment. The small sounds people make when trying to settle into a strange place with someone they don't trust.
"Nash?" Her voice drifts down through the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"When you kill an animal, how do you feel?"
I think about the question.
Not many people ask it, and fewer would understand the honest answer.
"Grateful," I say. "I thank them for what they're giving me."
Silence follows.
Then she speaks again.
"That's more than most people would do."
"Most people don't have to look their dinner in the eye before they kill it."
"No," she says quietly. "They don't."
The cabin settles around us.
Outside, something howls in the distance. It could be a dog, but it probably isn't, and I make a mental note to look for tracks in the morning.
She'll learn the difference between academic theory and wilderness reality quickly.
Or she won't.
I have weeks to find out.