Chapter 4 Beau
FOUR
BEAU
The thing about the mountains is they don’t care what you’re feeling.
They don’t care that you’re tired. They don’t care that your hands are raw from cold and rope burn. They don’t care that you haven’t slept right in years because your brain still thinks the world is a place you have to guard against.
They don’t care that for the first time in a long time, you walked into a warm cabin and saw a woman with cocoa on her breath and courage in her eyes—then walked back out like you weren’t tempted to stay.
The mountains just keep moving.
So I keep moving too.
Trail 3 is a mess when I get there—whiteout gusts, visibility cut in half, snow drifting over tracks like the earth is erasing evidence.
Dillon’s truck is already pulled to the side with hazards flashing.
Ryder and Avery are unloading a sled. There’s a snowmobile tipped on its side in the brush like it tried to argue with gravity and lost.
Dillon looks up when I approach. “Guy’s lucky. He went down before the drop.”
“Conscious?” I ask, kneeling.
“Yeah. Loud about it too. Says his ankle is broken and his ego is dead.”
I crouch beside the man—mid-thirties, red-faced, stubborn. Classic. “Name?”
“Ty,” he grits out. “I’m fine. I just—”
“You’re not fine,” I cut in, calm. I touch the boot, feel the swelling already pushing. “You tried to take a turn too fast.”
“Trail was slick.”
“Mountains don’t negotiate,” I say.
He groans. “Can you just—fix it?”
I glance at Ryder. “Splint. Pack him up.”
We work fast. Efficient. No wasted motion. My hands do what they always do—secure, tighten, check, steady. The only time my mind tries to wander is when the wind changes and I catch a scent—cocoa, faintly—like my memory is messing with me.
I push it down.
I don’t do distractions on rescues.
Still… I hear her voice in my head anyway.
I am a capable woman.
It was very informative.
I shift the man onto the sled and strap him in. His breathing shakes with pain, but he holds it together.
“You did good calling,” I tell him.
He blinks up at me, surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s how you live long enough to complain about it.”
Dillon gives me a look over Ty’s head—because he knows me, and he knows I’m quieter than usual. “You good, Wilder?”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
He snorts. “Sure.”
We get Ty down the trail and into the truck. He’s headed to town clinic. Another day, another lesson learned the hard way.
When it’s done, when the adrenaline drains out and the cold bites deeper, I stand by my truck and let the snow hit my face like penance.
Dillon leans against the tailgate, arms crossed. “You going back to the station?”
I glance toward Timber Creek—toward the road that leads to Bluebird cabin.
“Yeah,” I say, because it’s the right answer.
Dillon watches me for a beat. Then he says, like he’s tossing a match into gasoline, “June text you yet?”
My jaw tightens. “She texts everybody.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “She texted me last week asking if I thought you’d prefer a brunette or a redhead.”
I stare. “She what.”
Dillon’s grin is wicked. “I told her you’d prefer being left alone.”
“And she respected that?” I ask, dry.
He laughs. “No. She asked me what your favorite meal is and whether you’d be scared of a woman with curves.”
My throat goes tight.
Because the answer is no.
I’m not scared of a woman with curves.
I’m scared of what I want when I look at her.
I slam the tailgate shut harder than necessary. “I’m going back.”
Dillon pushes off the truck. “Don’t forget Sunday dinner.”
“I didn’t agree to Sunday dinner.”
Dillon’s eyes gleam. “June did.”
I get in my truck and start it before I say something that’ll get me murdered by an old woman with a sweet smile and a sniper’s aim for guilt.
The drive back to Haven 7 should clear my head.
It doesn’t.
All I can see is Mila standing in her doorway, cheeks flushed, trying to be brave in front of a man she doesn’t know. All I can hear is the softness in her voice when she said she was glad it was me who came.
That’s the kind of sentence that sticks under your ribs.
That’s the kind of sentence that turns into a problem.
Back at the station, I file the report, restock the med kit, hang my jacket to dry. Routine. Control. The safety of tasks that don’t ask anything from me emotionally.
Ryder wanders into the kitchen, grabbing a protein bar. “You’re weird tonight.”
“I’m always weird,” I say.
“No,” he replies, chewing. “You’re… distracted weird.”
I ignore him. “Go do inventory.”
He squints like he wants to push, then thinks better of it and disappears.
I stare at the coffee pot, which is ancient and bitter and reliable. I pour a cup I don’t want. Drink it anyway.
And then my phone buzzes.
June:
I saw the rescue call come in. You okay?
Don’t be stubborn. Eat something.
Also Mila’s coming Sunday. Don’t scare her off by acting like a bear in pants.
I close my eyes.
She always does that—says something that makes you laugh and hate her at the same time.
I type back with my thumb.
Me: Stop texting me like you’re the CIA.
Three dots appear immediately.
June: I am the CIA of Timber Creek.
And if you don’t check on her tonight, I will.
My chest tightens.
Because I know she will. June will march up that cabin road in her winter boots with a casserole and a plan.
And Mila—sweet, brave Mila—will probably invite her inside and never realize she’s being recruited into a whole operation.
I stare at my phone for a long moment.
Then I grab my jacket.
Because I tell myself I’m checking on her for safety.
Because the road is slick.
Because she’s alone.
Because it’s my job.
That’s what I tell myself.
It’s a lie.
Bluebird cabin glows like a lantern when I pull into the clearing, my headlights sweeping over Darlene sitting a little crooked in the snow. Smoke curls from the chimney now—so she figured out the fireplace.
Or she set the cabin on fire and the smoke is a warning.
I kill the engine and step out, boots crunching. The cold hits hard, clean.
I knock.
Three taps.
The door opens almost immediately, like she was waiting.
Mila stands there in thick socks and an oversized sweater that looks soft enough to ruin a man’s morals. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, little strands escaping around her face.
She’s holding a spoon.
She looks… domestic.
Like she belongs in a cabin.
Like she belongs in my hands.
My body goes alert in a way it hasn’t in years.
Her eyes widen when she sees me. “Beau.”
My name on her mouth does something dangerous.
“You okay?” I ask, because it’s easier than saying anything else.
She nods quickly. “Yes. I mean—yes. Come in. Unless you’re here to tell me I’m breaking a law by existing up here.”
I step inside, and the warmth hits me, along with a scent—tomato soup and that cocoa sweetness again.
My gaze tracks her without permission. Sweater slipping off one shoulder slightly. Plush curve of her hip. The way she shifts, nervous, like she’s aware of me watching.
I force my eyes to her face.
She’s pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft but strong. Like she’d hold her ground and still let you be gentle.
“I’m not here to arrest you,” I say.
“Good,” she says, then points the spoon at me. “Because I have a weapon.”
I glance at the spoon. “Terrifying.”
Her lips twitch. “You came back.”
I nod once. “Road check.”
She lifts her chin. “Is that the official term?”
“It is if I say it is.”
Mila laughs, low and surprised, like she didn’t mean to but couldn’t stop it. “Okay. Road check. How’s the road?”
“Slick,” I say. “You staying in tonight?”
“I wasn’t planning on running into the wilderness with my spoon, so yes.”
My mouth tugs at the corner despite myself.
She gestures toward the couch. “Do you want… soup? I warmed it up.”
I shouldn’t.
I should say no and leave and keep my life quiet.
But I’m already here. And she’s offering. And the look in her eyes is hopeful, like she’s trying not to want anything and failing.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “I’ll take some.”
She beams like she just won something, and it makes my chest ache.
“Sit,” she orders, very brave for someone wielding a spoon.
I sit.
She brings me a bowl and sets it down, then hesitates like she’s unsure where to put herself.
“Come here,” I say before I can think.
Her eyes flick to mine. “What?”
I pat the space on the couch beside me. “Sit. You’re hovering like you think I’ll bite.”
Her cheeks pink. “I don’t think you’ll bite.”
“I might,” I murmur, and immediately regret it because it comes out rougher than intended.
Mila freezes for half a second.
Then she sits—careful—leaving a polite gap between us.
Polite gaps are a problem.
I eat two bites of soup, more to occupy my hands than because I’m hungry. “You get the fire going?”
“Eventually,” she says. “It took three attempts and one mild crisis.”
I glance at the fireplace. Flames crackle steady. Good.
“You did good,” I say simply.
Her eyes dart to mine. “That sounds… like praise.”
“It is.”
Her throat bobs when she swallows. “I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”
I look at her—really look.
She’s warm. Soft. Curvy. Her sweater hugs her in a way that makes me want to grab her and pull her into my lap and test whether she tastes like cocoa or courage.
It’s been years since I’ve wanted anything like this.
Years since my body reacted to a woman’s presence like it’s remembering how to live.
Mila shifts, fingers twisting in her lap. “So. Um. How was your day?”
I exhale. “Snowmobiler. Ankle. Ego bruised.”
She winces. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah.”
She nods, quieter. “You’re… good at what you do.”
My jaw tightens. Compliments still hit like foreign objects. “It’s just work.”
“No,” she says gently. “It’s not. You… you have this calm thing. Like you make chaos feel manageable.”
Her words land deeper than they should.
I set my bowl down slowly. “You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re seeing more than what people show you.”