Chapter 19
Scout & Tessa — The Grady Hunting Cabin
The fire caught slowly, licking kindling until the logs burned and warmth spread through the room. Smoke curled up the flue. A sudden gust forced smoke back into the room, stinging their eyes before the draft corrected and the chimney pulled clean again.
The cabin felt like a world apart from the storm—soft amber glow against the howling dark, rockers by the hearth, a quilt folded neat on the bed, puzzles and board games stacked on a shelf, the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air.
Marlene Grady’s touch was everywhere, from the jar candles to the deer-patterned flannel curtains.
Tessa brushed a palm across the quilt. “Tom and Marlene really turned this place into a hideaway.”
“Built it to disappear,” Scout said, hanging coats by the fire. “No power lines, no cell, no neighbors for ten miles. They like it that way.”
She gave a tired smile. “I see the appeal—until a blizzard and a shooter show up.”
He chuckled, kneeling beside the bed. “Canvas duffel—extras. Flannel, Henley, sweats. Grab what fits.”
She returned from the washroom with sleeves rolled twice, flannel loose. Scout wore the Henley, firelight warming the lines of fatigue in his face. “Sit,” he said. “Let me check that cut.”
“I’m fine,” she protested.
“Humor me.”
He cleaned her temple, antiseptic biting. “Means it’s working.”
She winced. “You would say that.”
“Only when it’s true.”
Gauze taped, she glanced at the frost-blown window.
“If he’s still out there—”
“He won’t last long in this.” Not bravado. Fact.
Scout didn’t say what followed—that his hands still remembered the recoil. He flexed his fingers once, surprised by the faint tremor that wouldn’t quite go away.
Neither strayed far from the table. Two pistols rested by the lantern—within easy reach. Neither of them sat with their back to the door.
Snow had drifted halfway up the lower panes, turning the world outside into white noise.
Tessa drew the blanket close. “Three rounds—tight grouping. He wasn’t shooting to kill.”
“Which means he could’ve,” Scout said. “And didn’t.”
“Testing distance. Bracketing.”
She nodded. “Wind drift—thirty, forty yards uphill. He had to compensate. He’s trained.”
“Military, maybe law enforcement. Knows terrain.”
“Knows us,” she added.
Scout stirred the pot over the fire—vegetables, tomatoes, corn. “Marlene’s garden. She cans in August.”
Tessa leaned back in the rocker, exhaustion warring with nerves. “I used to think tech could solve everything—drones, trackers. Now look at us. Two agents in a snow trap.”
Scout handed her a steaming bowl and cornbread. “Yeah, but you can’t hack hunger.”
They ate, spoons tapping tin, wind howling beyond the walls.
Tessa finally broke the silence. “Sara’s still alive.”
He met her eyes. “You’re sure.”
“She has to be. This guy’s controlling the narrative—making us chase. He’s not ready to end it.”
Scout nodded. “Then we make it through tonight. When the blizzard breaks, we hunt.”
A branch scraped hard across the roof, a dragging, nails-on-tin sound that stopped both of them cold. Scout’s hand moved, calm and precise, closing around the grip. Tessa mirrored him, rising slowly, eyes on the door.
For a long beat, only the wind answered. Then another faint creak somewhere above them—too soft to place, too sharp to ignore.
Scout drew in a breath, lowered the gun. “Just wind shifting.”
“That’s what I hate about storms,” Tessa said. “They hide things.” Her pulse didn’t settle. She slid her weapon back on the table, barrel angled toward the door.
The fire popped. Sparks flared against the hearthstone.
“So we wait,” Tessa murmured.
“Yeah,” he said. “We wait it out.”
Wind screamed down the ridge, shaking the shutters, but inside warmth held—woodsmoke, lantern glow, two guns on the table, two agents too stubborn to rest while the mountain kept its secrets. Outside, darkness deepened.
Tessa settled deeper into the rocker, exhaustion threatening to swallow her whole. Her mind flickered to Sylva, the rental cabin, to Tallulah—safe, fed, the feeder’s backup battery a little comfort against the dark. One thing, at least, she could control.
But silence made space for memory—the brush of heat between them earlier, the way the world had narrowed for a heartbeat before the radio cut through.
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to.
The fire shifted. Wood settled.
Across the room, Scout felt the weight of her gaze even without meeting it. Not fragile. Not shaken. Just steady.
He was suddenly too aware of the space between them. The heat of the fire. The fact that it wasn’t the only thing warming the room.
“Get some sleep,” he said quietly.
“You first.”
Neither of them moved. Neither of them looked away.
Tomorrow, they’d hunt.
Somewhere beyond the ridge, someone else was waiting for the storm to clear.