Page 108 of Grumpy on the Mountain
Understanding dawns in Jamie's voice. "Then who the hell is driving her car?"
But I already know.
The rage crystallizes into something sharper, more focused. Not the chaotic fury of a man losing control, but the cold determination of a soldier who's just identified his target and knows exactly how to get to him.
"It's Riley," I say, rising to my feet and jumping back into the truck, my head suddenly clear as day. "Get the coordinates ready, Jamie. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Beau, wait—"
But I'm already hanging up, already climbing behind the wheel. Molly scrambles into the passenger seat just as I gun the engine, snow spraying behind us as we tear down the mountain road.
"Beau, slow down!" Molly shouts over the roar of the engine as the truck slides around a turn that should be taken at half this speed. "You're going to get us killed!"
"Hold on," I grunt, fighting to keep us on the road as we hurtle through the storm.
The speedometer needle climbs past safe, past reasonable, past anything that makes sense in these conditions. But every second we waste is another second Riley might die, and despite everything—despite the rage, the betrayal, the years of toxic family dynamics—I can't let that happen.
Not because he deserves to be saved.
But because I want to be the last fucking thing he looks at when the light finally claims his sorry ass.
The Mountain Rescue headquarters appears through the snow, emergency lights cutting through the darkness as trucks from the search for Maisie begin rolling back to base.
I don't slow down, don't hesitate, don't give myself time to remember all the reasons this place used to terrify me.
I just drive.
The truck slides to a stop in the parking lot, and I'm out before the engine stops running. The familiar sounds hit me immediately—radio chatter, urgent voices, the organized chaos of people preparing to save lives.
Three years ago, those sounds would have sent me into a full panic attack like the one I just narrowly escaped back up at the cabin.
Tonight, they sound like home.
"Beau!" Jamie appears in the doorway, already suited up in rescue gear. "What the hell are you—"
"Where's the site?" I interrupt, pushing past him into the building that used to haunt my nightmares.
The operations room is exactly as I remember it, but instead of triggering flashbacks, it just feels... right. Like stepping into an old uniform that still fits perfectly.
"North ridge, mile marker twelve," Jamie says, following me to the equipment lockers. "But Beau, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do."
I'm already pulling on gear with muscle memory precision. Harness, helmet, rope, the kind of equipment that used to remind me of everything I'd lost. Now it just feels like tools for getting a job done.
"The vehicle went off the embankment about thirty minutes ago," Jamie continues, watching me with pride. "Medics are already on site. Driver's conscious but trapped. With this storm, we've got maybe an hour before conditions become too dangerous for extraction."
"Then we better move fast."
Molly appears beside me, her face pale but determined. "I'm coming too."
"Like hell you are," I say automatically, then catch myself. The same conversation we had at the cabin, the same pattern I swore I wouldn't repeat. "I mean... it's dangerous, Molly. Real dangerous."
"So is letting you go alone when you're this worked up," she counters. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't do anything stupid when you see him."
Jamie looks between us, catching on that the person inside that vehicle is my fucking brother. He just nods toward the rescue truck. "Time's wasting. Let's go save the asshole."
The ride to the crash site is a blur of emergency lights and radio static. Molly sits pressed against my side in the back of the rescue truck, her hand gripping mine like an anchor.
