Outrider of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #7)

Chapter 1

CARA

The long drive leaves marks. My shoulders ache from gripping the steering wheel through the mountain passes.

My eyes burn from squinting against headlight glare and the endless stretch of darkness broken only by sparse reflectors.

Coffee sits cold in the cupholder, forgotten somewhere between the last gas station and the state line.

Fatigue presses against my temples, a dull throb that promises to sharpen into something worse if I don't find a bed soon.

But weariness is manageable, even familiar.

What's harder to shake is the hyper-awareness that comes from three years of looking over my shoulder.

Every vehicle that passed on the highway got noted.

Every gas station stop involved checking exits before entering.

Every moment of this drive has been spent waiting for the trap to spring, for someone to recognize me, for the careful architecture of my new life to collapse.

Glacier Hollow appears through the windshield like a mirage.

Main Street stretches before me, lined with weathered storefronts and pickup trucks wearing snow chains.

Amber streetlights cast pools of warmth onto pavement slick with ice melt.

Mountains loom beyond the town's edge, dark silhouettes against a sky threatening more snow.

The population can't be more than two hundred souls.

The town is small enough that strangers get noticed but remote enough that asking questions won't seem out of place for a journalist. It's perfect for what I need.

I pull into a parking spot near the center of town.

My rental SUV looks too clean, too new, too obviously not from here, which gives me another thing to worry about, another detail that might not hold up under scrutiny.

But I've learned that looking too hard for perfection makes you stand out more than a few imperfections.

People expect journalists to be transient.

To ask questions. To poke into corners most folks would rather leave undisturbed.

Better to let them offer information than to pry it loose.

Frigid air hits when I step out of the car.

Alaska in late October doesn't forgive weakness.

My jacket is rated for thirty below but the wind cuts through anyway, finding every gap and seam.

Snow clings to the edges of the street, piled in dirty mounds where plows pushed it aside.

My boots strike the salt-crusted pavement as I shoulder my messenger bag and scan the street.

A café sits three buildings down with warm light glowing through large windows.

The hand-painted sign reads "The Hollow Hearth" in script that's weathered but still legible.

Curtains frame the glass, and inside I can see wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and what looks like a community bulletin board covered in flyers and photographs.

People move inside. Real people having real conversations, not the careful choreography of a setup.

My gut says it's safe, but my training says trust is how you get killed, but I go in anyway.

A bell jingles above the door. Warmth envelops me immediately, carrying scents that make my empty stomach clench: cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven, strong coffee that doesn't come from a pod, and something savory, maybe soup or stew simmering in a back kitchen.

My mouth waters before I can stop the reaction.

Three customers sit scattered around the space: an older man in flannel nursing coffee and working a crossword puzzle near the window, and two younger women at a corner table with their voices low and conspiratorial.

None of them look up when I enter, but I feel the assessment anyway.

Small-town radar picking up the stranger frequency.

Behind the counter stands a woman in her early thirties with dark hair pulled into a practical bun.

She wears jeans and a navy apron dusted with flour.

Her eyes meet mine directly, taking in every detail without making it obvious as she reads me and decides something about me in the space of three heartbeats.

"Coffee?" she asks, her tone straightforward with no forced cheerfulness, no suspicion, just practical hospitality from someone who's seen every kind of person walk through that door.

"Please." I cross to the counter, setting my bag on a stool before sliding onto the one beside it. "Black, and whatever smells that good."

"Beef stew, made it this morning, and it comes with cornbread." She's already pouring coffee into a thick ceramic mug with no fancy logo, no Instagram-ready presentation, just a vessel meant for function. "You want a bowl or a crock?"

"Crock." Bigger portion. When I eat next is uncertain.

She nods once and disappears into the kitchen. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting heat seep into fingers still cold from the drive, and the coffee is strong enough to strip paint, dark enough to hide sins, exactly what I need.

The café itself tells stories if you know how to read them.

Local photography covers one wall, black and white shots of mountain vistas and wildlife.

Shelves hold mason jars filled with homemade preserves, hand-lettered labels declaring contents and prices.

This place is loved, cared for, the kind of establishment that survives because it matters to the community, not because it turns a profit.

The kind of place where people talk.

The woman returns with a crock of stew that sends steam curling into the air. She sets it in front of me along with cornbread still warm enough to melt butter, and a spoon appears next to the bowl made of real silverware, not disposable plastic.

"Sadie," she says, wiping her hand on her apron before extending it. "I own this place."

"Cara." Her grip is firm, confident. Hands that have worked hard and aren't afraid of it. "Freelance journalist. I'm doing a piece on remote Alaskan communities."

Something flickers in Sadie's expression. Not suspicion exactly, but interest sharpened with caution. She's heard that line before, or something like it. Journalists come through small towns making promises about fair representation, then leave with cherry-picked quotes and manufactured narratives.

"What publication?" Her question is direct, and I can tell she's smart enough to have heard similar lines before.

"Freelance right now," I say, which is true in the way all good lies contain truth.

"Pitching to several outlets. I'm interested in how communities this remote sustain themselves.

Economics, logistics, the human element.

" I take a bite of stew to give her time to think, and it's as good as it smells, rich and hearty. "This is excellent, by the way."

"Thanks." Sadie leans against the counter, arms crossed in a posture that looks casual but isn't. She's still evaluating. "We get a few journalists through here. Usually they're looking for survivalist angles or climate change impact stories. What's your hook?"

"Supply chains. How goods reach communities like this. What it takes to keep a town running when the nearest city is hours away." I gesture with my spoon toward the shelves of preserves. "You can't import everything. So what do you make yourself? What do you order? Who brings it?"

Her posture relaxes fractionally, which tells me that's a question someone genuinely interested in community dynamics would ask, not someone looking for scandal or sensational copy.

"Finn Ashworth handles most deliveries. Runs supplies up from Anchorage twice a month, more often if needed.

Everything from groceries to hardware to medical supplies. "

"That's a lot of responsibility for one person."

"It is." Pride colors her voice. "Finn's reliable though. Former military. Army pilot before he took a medical discharge. Knows these roads better than anyone."

I file the details away, keeping my expression neutral.

Veterans often end up in logistical roles, using organizational skills honed by service.

A medical discharge could mean anything from injury to mental health.

The key is whether it creates vulnerabilities someone could exploit, or whether it makes him cautious enough to notice when something's wrong.

Either way, Finn Ashworth just became more interesting.

"I'd love to talk to him," I say, keeping my tone light. "Get his perspective on what it takes to keep supply lines running in conditions like this."

"He should be through tomorrow or the next day." Sadie pulls a business card from a holder near the register, writes something on the back. "Give him this when he shows up. Tell him I said you're alright."

I take the card. Her handwriting is clean, efficient. In a community this tight, word from someone trusted opens doors. Word against you slams them shut. Sadie knows exactly what weight she just put behind my cover story.

"I appreciate it." I return to my stew, letting silence stretch comfortably. Pushing too hard signals agenda. Backing off too quickly signals disinterest. The balance takes practice.

Sadie moves to refill the older man's coffee, and they exchange words I don't catch.

The two women at the corner table pack up and leave, offering Sadie friendly waves she returns with genuine warmth.

This is her domain, her people. She knows them, cares about them, and watching that easy connection makes the guilt sitting in my chest twist harder.

Three years ago I was an FBI agent with a spotless record and unshakable faith in the system. Now I'm a fugitive hiding behind false credentials, aliases and hollow words, lying to good people to chase ghosts that might not exist.