Chapter 2
DELILAH
Iwake up to firelight and the smell of coffee.
For a second I don't move. My body's doing inventory without me. Left ankle throbbing inside something wrapped tight. Ribs sore enough that breathing deep is a bad idea. Head pounding at the temple where it hit rock. Bandage there too, taped clean.
Somebody took care of me.
I force my eyes open.
Low ceiling of exposed timber. Stone fireplace across the room throwing heat and amber light. Wood floor. A ranger station patch framed above a gun rack. And in a worn leather chair pulled close to the couch where I'm laid out, a man.
He's watching me.
Black hair cropped close. Jaw shadowed with stubble that's seen more than one day.
Dark eyes that don't waste motion, taking me in the way a person reads a map.
Big shoulders. Sleeves pushed up over forearms that look like they've done real work.
A gray dog with a white muzzle lying across his feet.
I remember his voice in the dark saying I got you.
My throat's raw. "Water."
He's already moving. Hands me a glass, supports the back of my head with a palm that's warm and steady. I drink too fast. Cough. He doesn't tell me to slow down. Just waits.
When I stop, he eases me back against the pillow.
"Where am I?"
"My cabin. Backcountry. Nobody's getting up here without me knowing."
"How long?"
"Found you at four this morning. It's a little past noon."
Eight hours. I lost eight hours. I try to sit up and the room tilts hard. He puts a hand flat against my shoulder and presses me back down. Not rough. Not negotiable.
"Don't. You've got a hairline fracture in that ankle. I splinted it. Two ribs are bruised, not broken. Head wound's surface. You were dehydrated and in shock. You're staying horizontal for a while."
"You a doctor?"
"Ranger. Combat medic trained. I know enough."
His voice is low. Short on words. He delivers information like he's giving a mission brief, and something about that steadies me more than any bedside manner would.
My pack is sitting on a table across the room. Pelican case next to it. Notebook on top. Exactly where I'd want to see them.
He follows my look.
"Checked it. Didn't read it. Figured you'd want to know it's here before you started asking."
"Thank you."
"You remember getting to me?"
"I remember the fall. I remember you carrying me up." Pieces coming back. "Someone was up there. On the ridge."
"Yeah."
"You saw him."
"Single male. Armed. Moving like he was looking for something specific."
I close my eyes. "Me."
The silence that comes after that is the kind of silence you can lean on. He doesn't rush it. Doesn't fill it.
When I open my eyes again, he's leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, waiting.
"I'm Delilah Reyes. I'm a contract geologist. I was doing a survey for Crestview Resource Partners. The claim they're working up on the north ridge."
"Heard of it."
"The numbers they filed with the state are garbage. Ore grades don't match what's actually in the ground. I ran tests three times. The site's a shell. Whatever they're really doing up there, it isn't mining."
He takes that in without blinking. "Who'd you tell?"
"My project manager. He told me to lose the data. When I didn't, he asked who else I'd talked to. Three hours after that call, a truck I didn't recognize was parked at the head of my trailer. So I packed my samples and my notebook and I went into the backcountry."
"Smart."
"Until I twisted my ankle on a loose rock like an idiot."
"Not an idiot. Tired. Scared. Moving fast on unfamiliar terrain. Happens to pros."
I look at him. Really look. The compliment landed gentle. Not a line.
"What's your name?"
"Garrett Hawkins. People call me Hawk."
"Of course they do."
His mouth moves. Almost a smile. Doesn't quite get there.
"Tell me about the notebook."
I ease myself up on one elbow this time and he doesn't stop me, just watches to make sure I don't push it.
"Assay data. GPS markers. Photographs of what's actually on the site.
Trenches that aren't in the filings. A prefab structure on the west edge that isn't on any permit.
Truck logs I pulled from their own loading pad. "
"Digital copies?"
"Cloud backup. Encrypted. Password's in my head."
"Good."
"They don't know that."
"They know enough to send a man with a rifle after you in the dark."
Something in my chest squeezes. I press a hand flat against my ribs. His eyes catch the movement.
"Pain?"
"Reality."
He nods once. Doesn't offer reassurance. I'm grateful. If he'd told me everything was going to be fine I wouldn't have believed him, and we'd have started on the wrong foot.
He stands. He's taller than I thought. Lean in a way that reads as endurance, not vanity. He moves to the woodstove and ladles soup out of a pot into a mug, brings it to me with a spoon.
"Eat. You need calories."
I take the mug. Our fingers brush. His are warm. Callused along the pads. Mine aren't exactly soft either and I'm suddenly self-conscious of the dirt still under my nails from the climb, the blood I can feel flaking at my hairline.
"I probably look like hell."
He looks at me. Pauses long enough to make my stomach twist.
"You look alive. That's the part I care about."
He turns away before I can figure out what to do with that.
I eat. It's a thick broth with shredded meat and something earthy. Venison, maybe. It's the best thing I've tasted in a week. The dog lifts his head and thumps his tail once against the floor.
"What's his name?"
"Ghost."
"Retired?"
"Mostly. Still works scent when I ask him to. Doesn't like to sit out when I've got something going."
"He was with you this morning."
"He's the reason I knew you weren't alone out there."
I set the mug down on my lap and look at him across the room where he's pulling something out of a cabinet. A small kit. Antiseptic. Fresh gauze.
"Come sit by me."
He does. Pulls the chair closer and perches on the edge of it. He unwraps the tape at my temple, eases the old gauze off. His hand cups the back of my skull to steady me, and his thumb rests light against my jaw to hold me still.
He cleans the wound with something that stings. I don't flinch. His eyes flick to mine when I don't.
"Tough."
"Stubborn."
"That too."
He works fast and neat. Hands don't shake. Hands don't linger either, but when his fingers graze along my jaw to check the edge of a bruise, I feel it down through my ribs into places that have no business waking up when I've just escaped a man with a rifle.
He finishes the bandage. Doesn't move back right away.
I'm close enough to see the flecks of lighter brown in his eyes. A thin scar along the left side of his jaw. The way his throat works when he swallows.
"Hawk."
"Yeah."
"Thank you."
"You already said it."
"I meant it more this time."
He studies me. Something moves behind his expression that I can't read. His hand is still cupped at the back of my neck. His thumb drifts once along the line of my jaw, barely.
Then he pulls back. Sits up straight. Becomes a ranger again.
"I called Sheriff Parker. He's running your name, running Crestview, running that claim. Nobody's coming up this road without my say. You're safe here, Delilah."
My name in his voice does something to my pulse that has nothing to do with the concussion.
"I believe you."
He stands. Crosses to the woodstove. Adds a log. Stays there with his back to me longer than he needs to.
Ghost puts his head on my good foot.
I close my eyes.
And the first real breath I've taken in seventy-two hours goes all the way in.