Page 5 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
I check on Gabe one more time before heading to my own room. In the firelight, his face looks peaceful, the harsh lines softened by sleep. The bruises are stark against his pale skin, but his breathing is steady and strong. Whatever violence has marked him, it's in the past. Tonight, he's safe.
The dog tags lie on the nightstand where I've placed them, catching glints of light from the dying fire. Gabriel Andrews. Whatever has brought him to my mountain in the middle of a storm, whatever those bruises and scars mean, he's my responsibility now. Tomorrow will bring questions I'm not ready to answer and decisions I'm not prepared to make.
But the storm can rage all it wants. My sanctuary will hold, and Gabriel Andrews will live to see morning. For now, that's enough.
2
GABE
Iwake to warmth and the scent of woodsmoke.
My eyes open to unfamiliar surroundings—log walls, a small stone fireplace crackling softly in the corner, sunlight filtering through windows I don't remember seeing before. The bed beneath me is soft, piled with quilts that smell like lavender and cedar. Everything feels wrong and right at the same time, like waking from a dream I can't quite recall.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain shoots through my ribs, sharp enough to make me gasp and see stars. My head throbs with a dull ache that pulses behind my eyes. When I lift my hand to touch my temple, I find gauze taped there, professional and neat. Someone with medical training worked on me.
Where am I?
The question hits me like a physical blow because it's followed immediately by others I can't answer. How did I get here? What happened to me? Who am I? The harder I try to remember, the more my head pounds, fragments of images flashing through my mind too quickly to grasp. Snow. Darkness. The metallic taste of fear. Voices shouting orders I can't make out.
But my name... I reach for it and find nothing. Not even that basic piece of identity remains. The emptiness makes my chest tight with panic.
I force myself to breathe slowly, the way my body seems to know how to do without conscious thought. In through the nose, hold for four counts, out through the mouth for six. It's a technique that feels practiced, automatic. Military training, maybe. That feels right.
The room is warm but not stifling, clearly designed for comfort. Heavy wooden furniture that looks hand-built, a thick rug on the hardwood floor, curtains that let in light while maintaining privacy. A heavy wooden dresser sits against one wall, topped with a ceramic water pitcher and matching basin. Clean jeans that look several sizes too big are folded neatly on a chair, along with a red flannel shirt that definitely isn't mine, and wool socks that are clearly borrowed.
My original clothes are nowhere to be seen. Cut away, maybe, or ruined by whatever happened to me. The thought brings another flash of memory—hands working over me, gentle but efficient, the sting of antiseptic on cuts I can't remember getting.
My dog tags rest on the nightstand beside me, along with something else. A small leather pouch that triggers a flash of... something. Warmth. A woman's laugh, musical and bright. Hands that smelled like flour and vanilla pressing the pouch into my palm. The image is gone before I can hold onto it, leaving only the hollow ache of loss and the certainty that whoever gave me this pouch mattered.
I pick up the tags with shaking fingers, noting how the simple movement makes my ribs scream in protest. Gabriel Andrews. The name means nothing to me at first, just letters stamped into metal, but as I stare at it, something clicks into place. That's me. That's who I am—or was. Gabriel Andrews. The name feels foreign on my tongue when I whisper it, but the tags don't lie. Blood type O-negative. Six years of service, according to the date, but serving what? Where? Doing what?
The leather pouch is worn smooth from handling, the kind of softness that comes from years of being carried close to someone's body. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper that's been folded and refolded countless times, I find a photograph—a woman with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a loose bun, smiling at whoever holds the camera. She's standing in front of what looks like a garden, her hands dirty from working in the soil, her expression radiating contentment.
My chest tightens with an emotion I can't name. She's important, I know that much, but I can't remember who she is or why her face makes me want to cry and rage at the same time. The love I feel when I look at her is overwhelming, pure and uncomplicated. There's something about her features—the shape of her eyes, the set of her jaw—that feels familiar, like looking in a mirror. Family, definitely. My mother, maybe. The thought feels right, but I can't be certain of anything.
There's also a pressed flower, carefully preserved between two pieces of tissue paper. A mountain wildflower of some kind, purple petals still holding traces of their original color despite being dried. The sight of it brings a flash of memory so vivid it takes my breath away: gentle hands placing it in the pouch, a voice saying "So you remember where home is, no matter how far you wander." But the voice has no face, and the hands belong to no one I can recall.
Home. The word echoes in my mind, bringing with it a longing so sharp it's almost physical. But where is home? Who am I supposed to remember?
A soft knock at the door makes me fumble the pouch, my body instantly alert in a way that surprises me. Every muscle tenses despite the pain, my eyes automatically cataloging exits and potential weapons. The door is eight feet away, solid wood that would slow down but not stop a determined attacker. The window is closer but smaller, not big enough for a quick escape. The fireplace poker could serve as a weapon if necessary.
The response feels trained, instinctive, at odds with my current helplessness. Whoever I was before this, I was someone who thought about threats and escape routes. Someone who knew how to fight.
"Come in," I manage, my voice rough with disuse.
The door opens to reveal a woman with auburn hair pulled back in a loose bun and the most remarkable green eyes I've ever seen. She's holding a steaming mug, and when she sees I'm awake, her face brightens with relief so genuine it makes something twist in my chest.
She's beautiful. The thought hits me without warning, followed immediately by confusion about why I notice that when I can barely remember my own name. There's something about the set of her shoulders that suggests she's used to handling whatever life throws at her, but also a gentleness in the way she moves that puts me at ease despite my automatic threat assessment.
"You're awake." Her voice is warm, slightly husky, with the kind of careful gentleness people use around wounded animals. "I was starting to worry."
I should be cautious. Everything about this situation screams potential danger—unknown location, unknown people, my own mind a blank slate that could be hiding anything. But looking at her face, I feel only a strange sense of safety, as if some part of me recognizes her even though my conscious mind draws a blank.
"Where am I?" I ask.
"Northern Lights Lodge. My place." She steps into the room, and I catch a faint scent of vanilla and something outdoorsy—pine, maybe, or woodsmoke from the fireplace. "I'm Mara Bennett. I found you in the snow last night during the storm."
Mara. The name feels significant somehow. It suits her—strong and musical at the same time. "You saved my life."
