Page 7 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
I reach for the mug, noting how she tracks the movement. Watching for signs of coordination issues, or violent tendencies. The tea is perfect—not too hot, sweetened with honey that tastes like summer wildflowers and carries hints of something else I can't identify. "This is really good."
"My grandmother's recipe. She always said chamomile could cure anything short of heartbreak, and even that if you added enough honey." Mara's expression grows distant for a moment, touched with the kind of sadness that comes from missing someone. "She built this place, originally. Just a hunting cabin, but she had big dreams for it."
"And you made those dreams come true." It's not a question. I can see it in the way Mara looks around the room, the pride mixed with protectiveness. Every detail speaks of someone who put thought and care into creating something lasting and successful.
"Something like that." She stands, smoothing down her jeans with hands that are steady but show the small scars that come from years of manual work. "The lodge has become more than she ever imagined. A flourishing business that brings people from all over to explore and enjoy Talon Mountain and the surrounding area." The pride in her voice is evident, and I can see it in the way she looks around the room.
"I'll let you rest," she continues, "but call if you need anything. There's a bell on the nightstand, and I'm usually somewhere nearby. Dinner's in a few hours if you feel up to it—nothing fancy, just soup and bread."
She's at the door when I call her name. "Mara?"
She turns, eyebrows raised in question.
"That first night, when you found me—why didn't you just call for help? Why risk bringing me here yourself?"
For a long moment, she doesn't answer. When she does, her voice is quiet but steady, carrying the weight of hard-won wisdom. "Because sometimes the only thing standing between someone and the storm is another person's willingness to open the door. And sometimes," she adds with a small smile, "you have to choose to trust that not everyone in the world is looking to hurt you."
After she leaves, I sit in the warm room staring at the photograph in my hands. The woman's face is kind, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache with longing. Somewhere in the blank space where my memories should be, there must be someone who cared enough to give me her picture and a pressed flower. The dog tags suggest military service, and my body's automatic responses hint at training I can't recall. But these are just clues, fragments that might mean nothing or everything.
And now I have Mara Bennett, who pulled me out of a storm and gave me sanctuary without asking for anything in return.
The tea warms me from the inside out, and gradually the pain in my head begins to recede to a manageable level. I set the mug aside and lean back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling at me despite having slept for eighteen hours. Whatever happened to me took more than just a physical toll.
I don't know what comes next. I don't know who I was or what kind of trouble might be following me. But for now, I'm alive and warm and safe, and that has to be enough. Mara Bennett pulled me out of a storm when she could have left me to die. Whatever else happens, I owe her my life.
Outside, the wind picks up again, rattling the windows. But inside, the fire crackles steadily, and I'm still breathing. For someone who woke up not even knowing his own name, that feels like more than I had any right to expect.
3
MARA
Iwake before dawn, the way I always do when something's weighing on my mind.
The lodge is quiet except for the soft crackling of banked fires and the whisper of wind around the eaves. The storm has finally moved on, leaving behind that peculiar stillness that follows blizzards in Alaska. I slip out of bed and pad to my window, pulling back the curtain to reveal a world transformed by snow. Everything is pristine white, sculptured by wind into drifts that reach nearly to the first-floor windows.
Gabe is still asleep when I check on him, his breathing deep and steady. The bruises on his face look worse in the morning light, purple-black marks that speak of deliberate violence. Someone worked him over professionally, and the thought makes my stomach clench with anger I didn't expect to feel. Whatever brought him to my mountain, it wasn't an accident.
I dress quietly and make my way to the kitchen, grateful for the familiar routine of starting coffee and planning breakfast. The lodge feels different with him here—not worse, exactly, but charged with possibility and uncertainty. During the off season, I'm used to having the place to myself, and even during tourist season, guests rarely stay more than a few days. Having someone here for an extended stay changes the rhythm of everything. Now there's someone else breathing under my roof, someone whose presence shifts the very energy of the space.
I've just started the pod coffee maker when I hear the sound of tires on snow outside. Through the kitchen window, I see Zara's ancient Jeep pulling up to the lodge, chains on the tires and snow flying from the wheel wells. She must have started driving before sunrise to get here this early, which means she's worried about something.
Or someone.
I meet her at the front door, noting the way her dark eyes immediately scan the interior of the lodge, searching for signs of whatever trouble she's convinced I've brought upon myself. Zara Okafor has been like a younger sister to me since she showed up in Glacier Hollow a year ago, nineteen years old and trying to build a life after aging out of Alaska's foster system. She'd been on her own since she was sixteen, running from a bad situation in Anchorage, and the experience left her with survival instincts sharp enough to cut glass. It's served her well, but it makes her a formidable opponent when she thinks I'm being reckless.
"Coffee's fresh," I offer, stepping aside to let her in.
"The coffee's always fresh; you use one of those pod systems." She stomps the snow off her boots with more force than necessary, her movements sharp with the kind of controlled energy that means she's been stewing about something all night. "Dr. Sage called me at six this morning. Said you'd taken in a stray."
"That's one way to put it." I lead her toward the kitchen, buying time to figure out how much to tell her. Zara sees through lies the way other people see through windows, but the truth about Gabe's injuries might trigger her protective instincts in ways that could complicate everything.
She makes herself a cup of coffee but doesn't sit down, instead positioning herself where she can watch both the hallway leading to the guest rooms and the front entrance. "She also said he's military, banged up pretty bad, and doesn't remember anything. That about cover it?"
"Close enough." I lean against the counter, wrapping my hands around my own mug for warmth. "His name is Gabriel Andrews. He was unconscious when I found him near Grotto Falls during the storm."
"Unconscious." Zara's voice is flat, skeptical. "Just lying there in the snow, waiting for you to stumble across him."
"That's exactly what happened."
