Chapter 17 #2
Jax sighs. “I knew safety would eventually ruin my brand.”
“I’m serious.”
That lands harder than I intend.
I look at each of them in turn. Taylor. Maya. Jax. Owen.
Daisy. Especially Daisy.
“We don’t post locations. We don’t mention route details on comms unless necessary. We leave decoy camera cases on the east trail and enter the drainage from the south switchback instead of the north access.”
Taylor leans over the map. “That adds two miles.”
“It also keeps us below the ridge.”
“And pushes us through the muddiest section.”
“Yes.”
Jax closes his eyes. “I would like to file a formal complaint with the manager.”
“Denied,” Maya says.
Owen studies the route. “It’s ugly.”
“It works.”
“It might.”
From Owen, that is practically a standing ovation.
Daisy steps closer, looking down at the map. “And if Grant’s team is already there?”
My jaw tightens.
“Then we document what we can and leave.”
Taylor lifts her brows. “We leave?”
“If they’re hostile, yes.”
“No offense,” Jax says, “but you do know we are actively hunting a giant forest beast, right? Hostile, insecure men feel manageable in comparison.”
“No one is manageable if they’re desperate.”
The room settles again.
Because we all heard it. Whatever it takes.
Daisy’s face changes slightly.
Not fear.
Awareness.
I hate it. I hate that she has to understand what he meant.
I hate that she’s here because she wanted a story and now that she really has one, it means her safety is compromised.
“We move in twenty,” I say.
The mud is worse than expected.
Which is impressive, because expectations were already very low.
The sagebrush and pines swallow us within the first mile, the trail narrowing from dirt path to animal track, then to a vague suggestion made by someone who hates ankles. Mist clings to the low spots and the air smells like wet leaves, cold mineral soil, and something faintly sour underneath.
The mud starts as an inconvenience. Then becomes a slurpy, borderline painful, mucky mess.
By the time we reach the lower basin, every step makes an obscene sucking noise. Jax has stopped speaking entirely, which would be concerning if it weren’t also the greatest gift nature has ever given me.
Daisy, however, has plenty to say about the terrain. And all of it’s profane.
“This is the fucking worst,” she growls, yanking one boot free with a wet pop.
I turn back. “You good?”
“Do I look good?”
Silly question.
Her cheeks are flushed from exertion, a streak of mud cuts across one temple, and her hair is coming loose from its tie in a way that makes me want to tuck it behind her ear and also kiss her and also walk into traffic.
“You look…” I stop. Because Taylor is behind me. Maya is behind her. Jax may be pretending not to listen, but he absolutely is. “Fine,” I finish.
Daisy stares at me. “Fine?”
“Terrain-wise.”
“Wow.”
“That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“Apparently.”
Jax mutters, “Flawless recovery.”
We continue trudging through the sandy, muddy mess until Daisy takes one step too close to the edge, hitting a slick patch of mud, and suddenly, she’s sliding sideways.
I catch her before I think.
One hand around her wrist, the other at her waist.
Her body collides with mine, and for one suspended second, the forest narrows to the feel of her under my hands. My thumb flexes at her waist. There’s mud on her cheek. A loose strand of hair sticks to her lower lip. Her eyes lift to mine.
Bad. This is bad. This is extremely, professionally, catastrophically bad.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
I clear my throat and let go like she’s burned me. “Just watch your footing, okay?”
Her eyebrow twitches, knowing I don’t mean it. “Do I look fragile to you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But you do look accident-prone.”
Her mouth falls open.
Behind us, Maya coughs.
Taylor says, “You’re not not a klutz. I swear you’ve fallen on every hike so far.”
Daisy gasps. “Betrayal.”
“You almost lost a boot ten seconds ago.”
“The boot and I are working through some things.”
Owen passes us with the calm brutality of a man unaffected by discomfort. “Less talking. More walking.”
Daisy watches him go. “Is he always like that?”
“Yes,” I say.
Owen calls back, “Worse, usually.”
We push deeper.
The drainage ditch cuts through the seam where the desert meets the forest, a shallow scar etched into the earth.
Most of the year it's bone dry—just sand, scattered rocks, and rabbitbrush clinging to the banks.
Then the monsoons come. They rip through here with enough force to rearrange the landscape before disappearing as quickly as they arrived.
The floodwater is gone, but it leaves behind churned mud, snapped branches, and debris tangled in the brush.
Branches rake across our packs as we pick our way through the wash. The mud turns darker, slick enough that Taylor tests each step with her trekking pole before trusting it.
Then Maya stops.
“Tracks.”
Everyone freezes.
She crouches near the edge of a shallow puddle, careful not to disturb the bank. Taylor moves beside her. I step in after them.
My pulse changes.
There, pressed into the sandy mud, is a partial impression. The heel is deep, toes distorted by runoff, the arch almost nonexistent. It points toward the drainage, angled away from the easier terrain.
I crouch. The world seems to hold still. This is why we’re here.
This exact moment. Mud under my knees. Breath locked in my chest. Evidence in front of me that refuses to be easily dismissed.
Daisy kneels beside me, recorder already in hand. She says nothing. Just starts recording.
I measure the print. Taylor photographs it with scale markers. Maya collects soil from the edge. Jax gets wide establishing shots and drone footage where the canopy allows it.
For ten minutes, we are a machine. Focused. Quiet. Competent.
Then Owen says, “We’ve got another problem.”
I look up. He’s twenty feet ahead, standing near a cluster of broken branches—no, cut brush. My stomach tightens. I move toward him, careful with my footing, and see it immediately.
Someone cleared a path through here. Recently. Not much. Just enough to move equipment through without snagging. Beside a fallen log, half-buried in mud, is a boot print.
Human. Heavy tread. Not ours.
Taylor swears under her breath.
Jax lowers his camera. “Grant?”
“Probably,” I say.
Daisy comes up beside me. “They were already here.”
“Or close.”
Maya points toward a tree trunk. “Camera mount.”
There’s a fresh scrape on the bark where a trail camera was either placed or removed.
The back of my neck prickles. Grant isn’t just talking. He’s hunting.
He’s either sloppy, or he wants us to know.
I scan the trees, the slope, the tangled brush.
“We’re leaving,” I say.
Taylor looks at me. “Miles.”
“We got the print. We got the brush. We got enough.”
“There may be more farther in.”
“There may also be four men waiting for us farther in.”
Taylor holds my gaze for one long second, then nods.
“Pack it up.”
No one argues.
That is how I know they’re really angry.
The rain starts on the way back.
Of course it does.
A cold, needling drizzle turns the ground into something vindictive.
The trail pools with water, tracing the edge of a ridge that drops off fast and hard to our right—one misstep from a dangerous fall.
The slope grows slick. Twice, Jax nearly goes down and saves himself while making noises I’m not convinced are human.
Then Daisy slips.
Not a little.
One moment she is behind me, muttering something hostile about nature. The next, her boot skids on a slick patch and her feet go out from under her.
She hits the ground hard, and is already sliding—toward the edge. I’m moving before I think.
I reach down, grasping for anything. My fingers close around her pack strap—fabric, not skin.
I don’t have a hold on her, not really, just enough.
My boots catch in the mud, skidding, catching, skidding again.
For one endless moment I stop breathing, her weight straining against my grip, my boots bracing against gravity by the force of blind luck. Then we stop.
She reaches up to grasp my forearm, a shaky breath bursting out of her.
Her eyes are wild with fear and relief. Mud coats one side of her leg from knee to hip. Her hand is scraped.
My heart slams against my ribs as I pull her to her feet. Behind her, a broken branch juts up from the rocks below. I don’t let my mind go there. I can’t.
“Daisy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just my hand.”
“Let me see.” My voice comes out harder than I mean it to.
Daisy looks at me, then her expression softens. She holds out her hand.
It is a scrape—a small one. Barely bleeding. Nothing at all, really. But my body does not seem to understand that.
I take her wrist carefully and wipe mud away with my thumb. Her skin is cold.
“You’re freezing,” I say.
“It’s raining.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m angry.”
“You’re shaking because you’re cold.”
“I can multitask.”
“They’re doing the thing again,” Jax whispers, startling me. I forgot they were here.
“Shut up, Jax.” Taylor’s voice has an edge but is laced with concern.
I release Daisy’s hand, but every instinct in me rebels. Wants to keep holding on. Wants to carry her out. Wants to put myself between her and the entire forest, which is ridiculous.
“Back to camp,” I say. “Now.”
No one jokes this time.