Page 9 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
"Is that what this is? Doing what's right?"
I turn to face him fully, spatula in hand, struck by the intensity in his eyes. There's something there I can't quite read—gratitude, yes, but also a kind of desperate hope that makes my chest tight. "I found you dying in the snow, Gabe. What else was I supposed to do?"
"Most people would have called for help and waited."
"I'm not most people." The words come out more forcefully than I intended, carrying echoes of every time someone told me I was too impulsive, too willing to act on instinct instead of logic. "And if I had waited, you'd be dead."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying my face with an attention that makes me self-conscious. "Thank you," he says finally. "For not being most people."
I turn back to the stove to hide the flush I feel creeping up my neck. "You can thank me by eating breakfast and not collapsing while you're helping with the firewood."
The sound of another vehicle pulling up outside saves me from whatever response he might have made. Through the window, I see the familiar bulk of Sheriff MacAllister's truck, chains on the tires and emergency lights dark. My stomach drops. Zeke doesn't make social calls, especially not the morning after a major storm.
"Expecting someone?" Gabe asks, and I notice how his posture has changed, becoming more alert and watchful.
"The sheriff." I move the pan off the heat and wipe my hands on a dish towel. "He'll want to talk to you about what happened."
Something flickers across Gabe's face—fear, or maybe recognition. "Should I be worried?"
"Not unless you have something to hide." I study his expression, looking for tells. "Do you?"
"I honestly don't know." His laugh is hollow, without humor. "That's the hell of amnesia—you never know what you might have forgotten."
Zeke's knock interrupts whatever I might have said in response. I take a deep breath and go to answer the door, aware of Gabe following at a distance that keeps him out of immediate sight but within earshot. Whatever happens next, I have the feeling it's going to change everything.
Zeke MacAllister fills my doorway the way he fills most spaces—with quiet authority and the kind of presence that makes people think twice about causing trouble. He's taken off his hat, revealing salt-and-pepper hair, and his expression is carefully neutral in the way that means he's here on official business.
"Morning, Mara." His voice carries the slight rasp that comes from too many years of shouting orders and breathing smoke. "Heard you had some excitement the other night."
"Word travels fast." I step aside to let him in, noting how his eyes immediately begin cataloging details the way cops do—looking for signs of disturbance, evidence of trouble. "Coffee?"
"Please." He stomps the snow off his boots and follows me toward the kitchen, where Gabe hovers near the doorway. "You must be Andrews."
"Gabe." He steps forward to shake hands, and I watch Zeke size him up. The sheriff takes in Gabe's careful movements, the visible bruising, the way he holds himself like he's ready for trouble even when he's trying to be friendly.
"Zeke MacAllister. I'm the sheriff here in Glacier Hollow." He accepts the coffee mug I offer and settles onto one of the barstools, deliberately casual but positioned where he can see both exits. "Understand you've had a rough time of it."
"So I'm told. I don't remember much of it." Gabe's tone is carefully neutral, neither defensive nor overly cooperative. "Mara saved my life."
"That she did." Zeke's glance in my direction carries approval mixed with exasperation. "Though she took some risks doing it. Storm like that, most folks would have waited for proper rescue."
"I'm not most folks," I repeat, earning a slight smile from the sheriff.
"No, you're not." He turns his attention back to Gabe. "I ran your name through the system yesterday. Gabriel Andrews, former Navy SEAL, honorably discharged six years ago. Clean record, no outstanding warrants. Mind telling me what brought you to Alaska?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke. Gabe sets down his coffee mug with careful precision, and I can see him struggling with the fundamental impossibility of answering. "I wish I could. The last thing I remember clearly is..." He pauses, frustration creasing his forehead. "Actually, I don't remember anything clearly. It's all fragments and shadows."
"Head trauma can do that." Zeke's tone remains conversational, but his eyes never leave Gabe's face. "Sometimes memories come back gradually. Sometimes they don't come back at all. But those injuries Dr. Sage documented—they didn't happen in a fall."
It's not a question, and Gabe doesn't treat it like one. "No. Someone worked me over pretty thoroughly. I just don't know who or why."
"Any enemies you can think of? Anyone who might have reason to hurt you?"
"That's the problem—I can't think of anyone because I can't think of anything." Gabe's voice carries a note of desperation that makes my chest tight. "For all I know, I deserved what happened to me."
"Or you didn't." I speak before I can stop myself, earning sharp looks from both men. "Just because someone hurt you doesn't mean you did anything wrong."
Zeke studies me for a long moment, and I can see him drawing conclusions about my investment in Gabe's well-being. "True enough. But it also doesn't mean he didn't." He turns back to Gabe. "I'm going to need you to stay available while we try to figure out what happened. Think you can manage that?"
