Chapter Nineteen
ARIS
The return journey is always shorter than the departure, not in miles but in memory.
When we first rode out, every bump in the trail was a new trauma, and every mile of snow-covered spruce felt like a step further away from sanity. I was gripping the safety handles of the sled like they were the only things keeping me tethered to the earth.
Now, on the ride back to Crystal Creek Lodge, I'm not holding the handles. I'm holding Nash.
My arms are wrapped around his waist, my gloved hands clasped against his stomach. I lean into the turns with him, anticipating the shifts in the terrain. My head rests against the back of his parka, the smell of woodsmoke and exhaust fumes strangely comforting.
We're leaving the wolves, the box canyon, and the world where survival is a multiple-choice question with only one right answer.
We're heading back to plumbing. To Wi-Fi. To consequences.
Nash slows the snowmobile as we crest the final ridge above the lodge. He kills the engine, letting the silence settle over us one last time.
"There it is," he says, and I feel it more than hear it, his chest against my ear.
I sit up and look down. Crystal Creek Lodge sits nestled along the frozen creek, a sprawl of warm timber and glowing windows. Smoke curls lazily from the massive stone chimney. It looks like a postcard. It looks safe.
It might as well be a different planet.
"It looks small," I whisper.
"It's not small," Nash says. "You just got bigger."
He turns slightly in the saddle to look at me. His face is wind-burned, his stubble is now a proper beard, and his eyes are tired. But when he looks at me, the warmth is unmistakable.
"Ready for re-entry?" he asks.
"No," I admit. "But I really need a shower."
He chuckles, restarting the engine. "Fair enough. Let's go home."
We descend the final slope, the machine growling as we hit the groomed trail leading to the main compound. As we pull up to the lodge—the same front yard where Reid set me down in my city boots what feels like a lifetime ago—the front door of the lodge bursts open.
Finn Hollister steps out, followed closely by Mags.
Finn looks exactly the same—rugged, handsome, and wearing that perpetual look of a man about to collect on a bet. Mags looks radiant, wrapped in a thick wool cardigan, holding a mug of tea.
Nash cuts the engine. The silence that follows is immediately broken by Finn's booming voice.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he calls out, walking down the steps. "We were starting to place bets. I had 'eaten by bears' at three-to-one odds."
"Bears are hibernating, genius," Nash says, climbing off the machine. He moves stiffly, favoring his right knee, the one he banged on the scree slope.
I slide off the back seat. My legs feel like jelly. The ground feels suspiciously solid after hours of vibration.
Finn stops a few feet away, looking from Nash to me. His grin fades slightly, replaced by a look of genuine assessment.
"You guys look …" He pauses, searching for the word.
"Alive?" Nash suggests.
"Rough," Finn corrects. "You look rough. Like you went twelve rounds with a moose."
Mags steps around him, her eyes locking onto mine. She doesn't comment on my matted hair, or the soot stains on my jacket, or the scrape on my cheek from the climb. She grins, wide and unsubtle.
"Welcome back, Aris," she says. "There's fresh coffee in the kitchen, and I made cinnamon rolls."
"I love you," I say instantly. "I don't even know you that well, but I love you."
Mags laughs and pulls me into a hug. She smells like vanilla and expensive shampoo. It's a stark contrast to the scent of pine resin and fear I've been living with.
"Come on," she says, steering me toward the house. "Let the boys deal with the gear. You need heat."
I glance back at Nash. He's unstrapping the gear, talking low to Finn. He catches my eye and gives a small nod. Go.
Mags leads me up the stairs to the mudroom entrance. "Go on in, I'll pour the coffee," she says, disappearing into the kitchen.
I sit on the bench in the mudroom, my hands numb and clumsy as I struggle to pry off my boots. I finally kick the left one loose and lean back against the coats hanging on the hooks.
The window next to the door is cracked open a few inches to vent the room, and voices drift in from the porch outside.
"You have that look," Finn is saying.
"I don't have a look," Nash's voice replies, sharp and defensive.
"You do. It's the 'Hollister Doom Stare.' Dad used to get it when he ran out of whiskey. You get it when you realize you have feelings and you don't know where to file them in your little mental filing cabinet."
I freeze, one boot on, one boot off.
"My filing cabinet is organized perfectly, thank you," Nash grumbles.
"Yeah, under 'D' for Denial," Finn counters. I can hear the slap of a glove hitting a shoulder. "Go talk to her, Nash. Before she packs her bags. Mags made cinnamon rolls, so the mood is salvageable, but you have a window of about twenty minutes before the sugar crash hits."
The pause that follows is heavy and loaded. The playful tone evaporates.
"I can't talk to her," Nash says, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. "Because if I talk to her, I'm going to ask her to stay. And she can't stay. She has a life, Finn. A career. I'm not going to be the anchor that drags her down."
"You're mixing them up, Nash," Finn says softly.
"I'm not—"
"You are. You're looking at Aris and seeing Mom. But Mom didn't pack a bag. She didn't check out."
I hold my breath, pressing my hand against my mouth.
"She fought for every single breath just to stay with us one second longer," Finn says, fierce now.
"She didn't leave us. She was taken from us.
That was a tragedy, Nash. But this? Aris standing in there, waiting for you to say something?
This is a choice. Don't make it for her just because you're scared of the ending. "
Silence stretches out. I can picture Nash standing there, wrestling with ghosts I didn't know he had.
"She has a tenure review," Nash says finally. "She belongs in a university. Not here, freezing in a generator shed."
"Maybe you should let her decide where she belongs," Finn says.
Footsteps crunch on the snow as Finn walks away.
I sit there for a long moment, my breath sticking high in my chest. She didn't leave. She was taken.
Finn doesn't come back to the porch. I hear his boots crunch across the gravel toward the workshop.
Then I hear the soft thud of canvas against wood.
I lean toward the cracked window and look out.
He has my Pelican case slung over one shoulder and the cedar throw from the front room folded over the other.
He pauses by the rocker on the porch and sets the throw on the seat, where I'll see it when I come out.
Then he carries my case across the yard with the careful hand of a man who understands that whatever is inside cost three years of someone else's life.
Day one, I treated this lodge like a checkpoint and the man running it like an obstacle on a schedule.
There's a cedar throw folded on the porch rocker, set out where I'll see it on my way to the plane.
These people don't let a cold, worn-down stranger walk back into the weather without something warm at hand.
I press my forehead against the cold glass and let that sit.
I take a deep breath, composing my face, and push the remaining boot off. I stand up, smooth my hair, and push through the door into the warm lodge.
The heat hits me like a physical wall, dry, forced-air warmth that instantly makes my face prickle. The interior is beautiful, all polished wood and leather furniture, but it feels loud. The hum of the refrigerator, the crackle of the fire, the distant sound of a radio, it's sensory overload.
Mags pushes a plate of cinnamon rolls toward me as I reach the island. "Eat. You look like you've lost ten pounds."
"Probably," I say, picking up a roll. My hands are shaking, but not from the cold anymore. "We … we ran out of snacks."
"Nash is terrible at grocery shopping," Mags says sympathetically. "Finn is the same. They think 'food' means 'meat and coffee.'"
"Nash is actually a pretty good cook," I say, defending him automatically. "He made these venison steaks …"
I stop. Mags is watching me with the look of someone who has already drawn her conclusions.
"Venison steaks," she repeats. "You? The woman who delivered a twenty-minute lecture on factory farming over the dinner Nash cooked the night you arrived?"
I flush, biting into the roll to buy time. It tastes like heaven: sugar and butter and civilization.
"Things change," I say with a mouth full of pastry.
"Clearly." She pours me a cup of coffee. "So? Did you find him? The famous Waldo?"
"We found him," I say. "We got the collar off him. We got the data."
"And?"
"And we got chased by a wolf pack up a vertical scree slope," I add casually.
Mags drops the spoon. "Excuse me?"
Mags retrieves the spoon, mutters something about her good silverware, and steps into the pantry to find a clean one.
The kitchen settles into a heavy, comfortable hush.
I wrap both hands around my coffee and let the heat work into my fingers.
The knot of shame from the mudroom is still sitting in my chest.
The back door opens, and Nash walks in, carrying the first load of gear. He brings a blast of cold air with him. He looks at me, and the war Finn named is right there on his face.
"She says you two got chased by wolves," Mags announces, pointing at Nash with the spoon. "Is that true?"
Nash sets the heavy case down on the floor with a groan. "They were just curious wolves, Mags. Very enthusiastic."
"They tried to eat us, Nash," I correct him. "They ate the young bull. They had a plan."
Finn walks in behind him. "You ran into the Black Rock pack?"
"We ran into something," Nash says, pulling off his gloves. "Big male. Gray. Very confident. He marked the perimeter of our camp."
Finn lets out a low whistle. "You're lucky you didn't have to shoot your way out."