Page 10 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
"I'm not going anywhere." Gabe glances at me. "Assuming I'm welcome to stay."
"You're welcome," I say quickly, then feel heat creep up my neck when I realize how eager I sounded. "I mean, until you're fully recovered. The lodge has plenty of room."
Zeke's expression suggests he's filing that exchange away for later consideration. "Good. I'll do some checking, see if anyone's reported troubles with military-trained individuals in the area. In the meantime, keep your eyes open. If someone was willing to beat you half to death once, they might not be done."
His tone is matter-of-fact, as if he’s discussing the weather, which only makes the warning land harder. I lock the door behind Zeke, move through the house checking each latch, and arm the security system. Gabe watches without comment; when he thinks I’m not looking, he tests the weight of the fireplace poker and sets it within easy reach.
Outside, the snow is no longer pristine. Tire tracks and boot prints score the white, proof of footsteps too close to home. My place feels less removed from the dangerous world beyond its walls than it did yesterday.
I crack the mudroom door, disarm that zone, and hand Gabe his gloves. He steps out to the woodpile while I stay by the window, then I close the door behind him and keep the rest of the system live. Through the glass I watch him move slowly but steadily, favoring his ribs as he tests each log before adding it to the stack. There’s a calm, practiced order to the way he works—economy over speed, purpose over pain—and as I watch him, I can’t regret the choice I made.
Maybe I've helped someone who desperately needed it. Maybe I've brought danger to my doorstep. Either way, it's too late to change course now.
4
GABE
Iwake to the sound of Mara moving around the kitchen.
The small fireplace in my room has burned down to embers, but the space is still warm. Outside my window, morning light filters through clouds that promise more snow later. My ribs ache less today, and the fog in my head has lifted enough that I can think without feeling like I'm pushing through cotton.
But the blank space where my memories should be remains as vast as ever.
I dress carefully in the borrowed clothes—jeans that are still a size too big, and a green flannel shirt that's soft from years of washing. When I look in the small mirror above the dresser, I see a stranger. The bruises are fading from purple-black to yellow-green, and the cut on my temple is healing cleanly under the fresh bandage Dr. Sage applied yesterday. But it's my eyes that bother me most. They look like they've seen things I can't remember, carry weight I can't explain.
When I enter the kitchen, I find Mara at the stove, her auburn hair caught up in a messy bun with tendrils escaping around her face. She's wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater that brings out the green in her eyes. Morning light catches in her hair, and for a moment she looks less like someone who could drag a grown man through a blizzard and more like... I don't know. Someone I'd like to get to know.
"You don't have to...”
"I want to." The words come out more forcefully than I intended. "Please. I'm going stir-crazy just sitting around."
She studies my face for a moment, then nods toward the coffee maker. "Can you go in the pantry and find the French-press coffee maker? I’m going to need it soon for guests who don’t like coffee pods."
"Guests?" The idea of other people in the lodge makes my shoulders tense automatically. More variables to account for, more potential complications.
"Not for a couple of weeks, but a lot of them like coffee made with the French press." Mara cracks eggs into a bowl with practiced efficiency.
I find the coffee maker on a high shelf toward the back of the pantry, grateful for something useful to do with my hands. The routine feels familiar—measuring grounds, filling the reservoir, starting the machine. My hands know what to do even when my brain doesn't.
"Tell me about the lodge," I say, needing to fill the silence with something other than my own uncertainty. "How long have you been running it?"
"Three years." She doesn't look at me while she speaks, focused on whisking eggs with more force than seems necessary. "Inherited it from my grandmother's estate and spent the first year renovating. Opened for business year two."
"And before that?"
Her hand stills for just a moment before she resumes whisking. "Before that doesn't matter."
The dismissal is gentle but firm, and I recognize the tone. It's the same way I feel when people ask about my missing memories—protective, maybe a little defensive.
"Fair enough." I lean against the counter, close enough to smell her shampoo—something light and floral that doesn't match the tough woman who saved my life. There's a story there, layers of meaning I don't have the right to pry into. But I file it away along with everything else I'm learning about Mara Bennett—her defensive postures, her fierce protectiveness, the way she touches that compass pendant when she's thinking.
"Need help with anything else?" I ask.
"Actually, yes." She gestures toward the back door with her spatula. "There's a loose board on the back steps that's been driving me crazy. I've got the tools, but it's a two-person job, and Zara's got other things to do today."
The prospect of real work, something that requires focus and skill, sends relief through my system. "Lead the way."
The back steps are solid pine, weathered but well-maintained. The loose board is obvious—it rocks when I step on it, and I can see where the nails have worked themselves free from the frame beneath. Mara hands me a drill and a box of deck screws.
