Chapter 4
The wind howled through the trees, threading its icy fingers down the back of Daphne’s coat and scraping her skin. Every crunch of her boots in the snow sounded too loud in the hush of the forest.
The snowstorm was in its early stages and the cold had deepened.
Shadows gathered under the heavy pine branches, and the world was shades of white and gray, with Abe moving steadily ahead like a silhouette pulled from a dream.
They wore small flashlights attached to paracords around their necks, courtesy of Abe’s emergency kit.
Even with the lights, she didn’t know how he saw anything in this weather. The trail Damian had left was faint, a few drag marks and a scuff on a low branch that Abe had spotted like it was lit up with neon.
She’d walked right past it.
He crouched to study a disturbance in the snow. He was silent, utterly focused. Controlled. She could see the Army Ranger in him now, the way he moved with purpose, scanning, tracking, reading the land like it was a map only he could decipher.
She was just trying not to fall over.
“I don’t see anything.” She kept her voice low even though it seemed silly. “Are you sure we’re not going in circles?”
He rose, his breath ghosting in the air, and turned back to her. “Damian’s trail is weak, but it’s fresh. He’s not walking evenly. Looks like he’s favoring his left side.”
Her stomach twisted. “And if he’s—”
“He’s not.”
Steel lined his voice, and she didn’t push. She just followed, stepping where he stepped, her heart hammering as the snow deepened and the wind picked up. Branches rattled above like bones in a box.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted after a stretch of silence. “If you weren’t here—”
“You’d be out here.” Abe glanced at her. “Because you care. That’s the hardest part.”
“You make it look easy.”
“It’s not. I’ve just done it before.”
The answer hung in the air between them. He had found people in the snow before. Soldiers, maybe? Brothers. Bodies.
She didn’t want to ask. She didn’t want to know. If that made her a coward, then so be it. She wasn’t proud of that statement. But in situations like this, she now understood how pride could get you killed.
They crested a ridge, and he knelt, brushing snow aside. A dark shape lay half-buried beneath a drift at the base of a tree, curled inward, motionless.
Her breath caught. “Is that Damian?”
“Yes.” Abe was already moving, clearing the area. Damian’s face appeared, pale and blotched with red from cold exposure, his lips cracked, eyes half-lidded. A smear of blood streaked down one temple.
“Damian?” Abe’s voice dropped, low and urgent. He touched his brother’s neck, found a pulse. “He’s alive. Barely conscious.”
She dropped to her knees. Her breath came too fast. Her hands shook. “What do we do?”
“We get him back to the cabin.”
“But—he’s heavy, and it’s so far—”
Abe had already unzipped his coat and was wrapping it around Damian’s torso, shifting him gently-yet-expertly into a fireman’s carry. He grunted but didn’t falter.
“You’re going to carry the shotgun the way I taught you and walk in front of me.” He nodded toward the trail they’d made. “Don’t look back. Just keep moving.”
“But—”
“Trust me.”
And she did. Because he was an experienced soldier.
Because love wasn’t always soft. Sometimes it was heavy and cold and dangerous. Sometimes it looked like snow in her boots, wind in her face, and a man carrying his broken brother through the woods without a word of complaint.
She held the shotgun in the ready position and led the way toward the cabin. Toward the light. Toward home.
Please don’t be dead.
The door banged open under Daphne’s shoulder, and warm air spilled into the night, hitting Abe in the face.
He ducked inside, cradling Damian’s limp body as carefully as he could. Damian was dead weight, barely conscious, body ice-cold through Abe’s coat. Damian’s breathing was shallow but steady, and that was the only thing keeping Abe from spiraling into panic.
“Blankets,” he said hoarsely as Daphne leaned the shotgun against the wall and fumbled with the door behind him. “From the upstairs guestrooms.”
She vanished upstairs, her footsteps quick and sharp against the old wood floor above his head.
He moved into the bedroom behind the fireplace and dropped Damian onto the mattress.
It seemed hours ago now that he and Daphne had been curled up beneath these blankets, his primary concern about when to propose.
He shifted Damian, careful not to jostle the shoulder he suspected was dislocated.
Damian’s face twitched with pain but he didn’t wake.
Damian was his half-brother. Newly discovered. Barely acknowledged. But none of that mattered. He was half-frozen, bruised, broken, and lying silent on a bed that’d been meant to offer solace to Abe and Daphne… but now cared for the brother he didn’t even know.
“You idiot,” he muttered under his breath, brushing damp hair off Damian’s forehead to check for a head injury. That blood had to be coming from somewhere. “What the hell were you trying to do? Run from the world?”
She returned with blankets. He helped her tuck them around Damian’s thin frame, hating the deep scars on his face that marred his good looks. His skin was too cold, and when Abe held Damian’s wrist, he felt the tremor just under the surface. Shock. Cold exposure. Maybe a concussion. Maybe more.
“His shoulder’s out of place,” Abe said. “Dislocated or worse.”
She hovered nearby, her eyes wide and worried. “Should we fix it?”
“I don’t want to risk making it worse. We need a doctor.”
He pulled the SAT phone from his coat pocket and hit the button again. Nothing. Not even static.
He threw the phone onto the bedside table, and it knocked over the nutcracker ornaments he’d fixed earlier.
“Uncle Gage recently installed an emergency beacon. It’s by the stove.
It’s a black box, about the size of a walkie-talkie, with a red rubber cover over the button.
Flip it up and hold the button until the green light flashes. That means it’s broadcasting.”
“How long will it take?” she asked, her voice tight.
He shook his head. “Depends on the weather and if the signal gets through. Could be an hour. Could be all night. Or a week. But it’s our best shot.”
“Got it.” She disappeared and a moment later she said loudly, “Did it! I’ll also revive the fire.”
She banged around logs in the sitting room until the flames picked up, warming the bedroom.
He exhaled, fighting the familiar coil of frustration in his gut. Damian’s situation was why he didn’t like to get close to people. This was why he liked rules and plans.
But Damian hadn’t come here with a plan. He’d come with a history Abe had never asked for and features too much like their father’s.
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched his brother’s chest rise and fall.
She handed him a wet dish towel. “You always take care of people who’ve hurt you.”
He used the towel to wipe the blood off Damian’s temple. “I don’t know how not to.”
Because this wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about being better. About refusing to become the kind of man who mistook walls for strength and left a legacy of silence behind.
Damian stirred, just once, lips parting in a soundless breath. Then he went quiet again.
Abe stayed seated beside him. Just in case. Because even if they’d wasted years, this was a start.