Page 2 of Mountain Storm
Present Day
The sign for Hollow Ridge barely pokes through the snow flurries swirling across the road, and I have to squint to make out the carved bear paw stamped into the wood. The snow's been falling steadily for the past hour, and I've driven farther from cell reception than any sane woman should. Still, I press my foot down and guide the rental SUV into the snow-packed parking lot of a two-pump gas station that looks like it hasn't changed since the 1950s.
Perfect.
Exactly the kind of place that keeps secrets buried deep.
I kill the engine, tug my hat lower over my ears, and glance into the rearview mirror. My reflection looks flushed, a little wild-eyed. Makes sense. Only someone a little unhinged would chase the ghost of a man up into the Chugach Mountains.
But I've planned this from the moment I heard that first whispered story. Not reckless impulse or adrenaline-seeking foolishness—calculated risk, sharp instinct, and a need that runsdeeper than logic. I've researched and traced every breadcrumb to this frozen corner of the world. I didn't come all this way to be turned back by a little snow—or the ghost of a man I've never stopped wondering about.
This isn't about chasing shadows. It's about proving a theory. About confronting what's haunted the back of my mind for years. I'm not here for an article. Not really. I'm here because I need to confirm if the man I saw once—briefly, in the fog and pine of a memory that refuses to fade—is real. And if he is… why he never came back for me.
The rumor started as a whispered story in a bush pilot's bar back in Anchorage. A feral ex-military sniper who lives completely off-grid above a peak called Solace Ridge, with a reputation for disappearing intruders and hunting his own food year-round. No one knows his name. No one's seen him in years. But the locals speak of him with the kind of respect and wariness usually reserved for apex predators.
A few beers, a carefully played flirtation, and a hefty tip slid across a warped bar top later, and I had what passed for coordinates. Rough ones. Half-remembered numbers scribbled on a cocktail napkin, a landmark no outsider would know, and a warning said with deadpan seriousness: "If you see bones in the snow, turn around. That means he's already seen you."
That was enough to ensure that I wouldn't turn back. I don't like being told what to do... or what not to do. Those who know me know that giving me an order or an ultimatum will usually ensure I do precisely what it is you don't want me to do. I'm dependable that way.
I need to see for myself if the man who pulled me out of that ravine all those years ago—the one who never said a word but vanished into the trees like a ghost—is the same one everyone here is too afraid to name.
I step inside the gas station. The bell above the door jingles, and an older woman behind the counter looks up, her expression tightening slightly as she takes me in. The place smells of burnt cedar and old oil. A space heater hums near the door, and next to it, a rack of faded postcards and dusty snow globes. A mounted lynx, frozen in time, stares down at me from a high shelf, its glassy eyes full of silent judgment.
The woman has a hard-lined face of someone who's seen too many winters and tolerated too many fools. Deep crow's feet etch her wind-chapped skin, and she's pulled her gray hair back into a thick braid resting over one shoulder. She wears a flannel shirt layered under a stained quilted vest, and her gnarled fingers drum lightly on the counter, callused and steady. There's no softness to her expression, but no cruelty either—just wary curiosity, the kind that doesn't like surprises walking in through her door.
"You lost, sweetheart?"
I smile, friendly but not too open. "Not lost. Just headed up toward Solace Ridge."
Her brow lifts. "That so? You a photographer? Hiker?"
"Journalist," I reply easily. "Doing a piece on Alaskan isolationists. Looking for stories."
"You looking to write your own obituary?" mutters a man seated by the window, his boots up on a low wooden bench. "Ain't no good reason for a woman to be going up there."
"Maybe I enjoy writing about dangerous men," I reply, brushing snow from my jacket.
"You like getting eaten alive, more like," he mutters then cackles at his own unintended double entendre.
The woman narrows her eyes slightly, clearly debating whether to humor me or call in someone with a badge. But after a long beat, she sighs. "We get people through here now and then, asking about the ridge. Most of them either turn around ordon't come back. I suggest you be the first kind, or you'll end up becoming one of the others. You sure you want to be one of those who never return?"
I laugh and then realize she isn't joking. "I'm not most people," I answer.
She studies me a moment longer, then gestures toward the back. "Well, you're going to need a snowmobile. Nothing with four tires is going to get you up the side of the mountain. Donny out back will help you. We got one snowmobile left with enough fuel for a day run."
"Great. Can I rent it for the week?" I ask as I start toward the door.
"Hold up," she says, her voice low and rough like gravel under snow. "I want to be sure you understand what kind of place you're heading into. We got a storm warning last night, and it's not just wind and flakes, it's the kind that swallows cabins whole and takes names off gravestones. If you get stranded up there, no one's coming. Not today. Maybe not for days. Maybe not until spring pries your frozen fingers off whatever you were clinging to."
"Understood. I'll take my chances. I've got a bit of research to do so I'm going to rent a room and I'll wait until the weather gets cooperative."
She nods her head. "Have you got a sat phone? Emergency beacon?"
"Yes. And yes." Untruths, but necessary ones.
She nods slowly. She doesn't believe me but seems to decide that it's on me and none of her concern. "You crash or go missing, I'm telling the troopers you lied to me."
"Fair enough."
