Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“How much further?” Cole calls from behind me, voice raised against the strengthening wind.
“Mile and a half, maybe two,” I answer. “We follow this ridge, then drop down into a protected valley. Cabin’s nestled against the eastern slope, sheltered from the worst of the weather and the peak.”
If we make it that far. The light is failing faster than I’d anticipated, the clouds bringing premature darkness. And with darkness comes danger.
I scan the ridgeline above us, searching for movement among the rocks and twisted pines. Nothing yet, but they’re there. Watching. Waiting. A curse as old as the mountains themselves.
Marcus would laugh if he could see me now, jumping at shadows, spooked by old legends. The crime boss values pragmatism above all else—cold, hard cash and the power it brings. To him, the world is simple: predators and prey, winners and losers. He’d never believe the truth about these mountains.
About what almost happened to me.
Sometimes I envy his ignorance, as well as covet his power.
“Jensen.” Eli has dropped back to ride beside me, his voice pitched low. “We’re losing light fast.”
I nod, already calculating. “Shortcut through the Emigrant Glades?”
“Risky in these conditions.”
“Riskier to be caught out after dark.”
Understanding passes between us, unspoken but clear. Eli knows what’s at stake. He nods once, then moves ahead to take the lead, guiding us toward a barely visible game trail that cuts through a stand of pine before ascending sharply toward a rocky saddle. The shortcut will save us nearly thirty minutes—the difference between reaching the cabin before full dark or being caught on the mountain.
I nudge Jeopardy forward, coming alongside Aubrey. “Trail gets rough here. Stay close.”
She glances at me, snowflakes caught in her eyelashes, her cheeks flushed with cold.
Looking damn pretty.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Just the weather,” I lie. “Storm’s moving in now, and faster than expected.”
Her eyes hold mine for a moment too long, searching. She senses there’s more I’m not saying, but mercifully doesn’t press.
The game trail narrows as we climb, forcing us into single file once more. Snow has accumulated enough to obscure the path, but the horses pick their way forward with instinctive caution. Above us, the saddle appears as a dark notch against the rapidly darkening sky. Once we cross it, we’ll drop down into the protected valley where the cabin waits. Just another half hour, maybe less.
A sound carries on the wind—a distant, mournful cry that might be mistaken for a coyote if you didn’t know better. My hand drops to the rifle in its scabbard, a reflexive gesture. Behind me, Hank mutters something that’s lost in the wind.
“Just the storm,” I call back, not believing it myself.
We reach the saddle as the last usable light fades from the sky. The wind hits us full force here, unobstructed by trees or terrain, driving snow horizontally into our faces. I dismount briefly, checking the trail ahead for safe passage. The descent is steep but manageable if we take it slow.
“Everyone dismount and lead your horses,” I order. “Too dangerous to ride down.”
No one argues. The danger is apparent even to Red, who’s been challenging my authority since we left the ranch. One misstep on this slope could mean a broken leg for horse or rider—a possible death sentence in these conditions, this far from help.
I take Jeopardy’s reins in one hand, offering the other hand to Aubrey as she slides stiffly from Duke’s back. Her gloved fingers grip mine for a brief moment, surprisingly strong despite the cold.
“Watch your footing,” I tell her. “Stay between me and Eli.”
The descent is treacherous, each step a negotiation with gravity and uncertain terrain. Snow has filled the depressions between rocks, creating false impressions of solid ground. Twice I have to catch Aubrey as she slips, her body colliding briefly with mine before she regains her balance. Each contact sends an unwelcome surge of awareness through me, a distraction I can’t afford right now, bringing up hungry memories from earlier.
Focus on survival, I remind myself. On reaching shelter. On keeping these people—keeping her—safe through the night ahead.
The cry comes again, closer this time. Not a coyote. Not the wind. I pretend not to hear it, but my pace quickens slightly. The horses grow more agitated, tossing their heads and rolling their eyes, ears flat back. They sense what’s out there, what’s following our scent through the gathering darkness.
“We’re almost there,” I call, voice steady despite the tension coiling in my gut. “Another quarter mile.”
The valley opens before us, a natural bowl sheltered by ridges on three sides. And there, nestled against the eastern slope just as I’d promised, stands the McGraw hunting cabin. It’s a solid structure of timber and stone, built by my grandfather after the war with an understanding of mountain winters and mountain dangers. Two stories with a stone chimney protruding from a steep shake roof that can shed the heaviest snow, and even an exterior door on the second floor just in case the snowpack gets that high, which isn’t unusual here in the middle of winter.