Page 8 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
"Uh-huh." She takes a sip of coffee, never taking her eyes off my face. "And you didn't think to call for backup? Maybe get Zeke or the search and rescue team involved?"
The question I've been dreading, because the answer reveals more about my state of mind than I'm comfortable admitting. "The storm was getting worse by the minute. By the time I could have gotten help organized, he would have been dead."
"So you dragged an unconscious stranger back to your lodge by yourself." Zara sets down her mug with enough force to make the coffee slosh. "Mara, what were you thinking?"
"I was thinking about saving a life." The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don't apologize. "Would you have left him there to die?"
"I would have called for proper help instead of playing hero." Zara's expression softens slightly, but her voice remains firm. "You don't know anything about this man. Those injuries Dr. Sage mentioned—what if he's running from something? What if whoever hurt him comes looking?"
The questions I've been asking myself since I found him bleeding in the snow. "Then we'll deal with it."
"We?" Zara's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "When did this become a community project?"
Before I can answer, footsteps in the hallway announce Gabe's approach. He appears in the kitchen doorway moving carefully, dressed in the borrowed clothes I left for him. The jeans are still too big, and the flannel shirt hangs loose on his frame, but he's managed to make himself presentable. What strikes me most is how alert he looks despite his injuries—his eyes immediately catalog the room's exits and occupants with an assessment that's purely instinctive.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, his voice still rough with sleep. "I heard voices and thought I should introduce myself."
Zara steps slightly forward, placing herself between Gabe and me in a movement so subtle I doubt he notices it. But I do, and the protective gesture both touches and irritates me. "You must be Gabriel. I'm Zara Okafor."
"Gabe." He offers his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, she shakes it. I watch her evaluate his grip, his posture, the way he holds himself despite obvious pain.
"Dr. Sage asked me to check on you since I was coming by anyway," Zara says, her tone carefully neutral.
"That's kind of her. And you." Gabe's smile is genuine but guarded. "I'm feeling better today, though I can't say I remember much more than I did yesterday."
"Well, that sucks," Zara says bluntly, crossing her arms. "Do you remember anything at all? Like, anything that might explain how you ended up half-dead in the snow?"
Gabe considers the question seriously, and I find myself holding my breath while I wait for his answer. "Nothing specific. Sometimes I think I hear voices, but I can't make out words. And certain movements feel automatic, like muscle memory, but I don't know why."
"What kind of movements?" The sharpness in Zara's voice makes me look at her more closely. She's picked up on something I missed.
"Defensive postures, mostly. The way I automatically checked the room when I walked in just now." Gabe gestures toward the windows and doorways. "I don't remember learning to do that, but my body seems to know."
Zara catches my eye and I can see the same concern there that I'm feeling. Military training that runs deep enough to survive amnesia suggests someone with significant experience, possibly in combat situations. The kind of experience that might make enemies. Zara's seen enough violence in her short life to recognize the signs.
"Well," Zara says after a moment, "Dr. Sage will want to do another examination today, assuming the roads are passable. In the meantime, you should take it easy. Head injuries are nothing to mess around with."
"I appreciate the concern." Gabe's tone is polite, but I catch something underneath it—frustration, maybe, or the kind of restlessness that comes from being dependent on others. "Is there anything I can do to help around here? I don't like feeling useless."
The offer surprises me. There's something about the way he asks—like sitting still is harder for him than moving around with what are probably broken ribs.
"You don't need to worry about that," I start to say, but then I catch the look on his face—the kind of restless frustration that comes from feeling useless. I change course. "Actually, there are a few things you could help with. Nothing strenuous, but if you're feeling up to it, I could use help restocking the firewood inside. The storm went through a lot of our indoor supply."
Zara's expression suggests she thinks I've lost my mind, but Gabe's face brightens with something that looks like relief. "I can handle that."
"Good. But first, breakfast. You need fuel if you're going to be useful." I move toward the refrigerator, already planning eggs and bacon, maybe some of the sourdough bread I baked yesterday. Cooking gives me something to do with my hands while my mind processes the strange dynamic developing in my kitchen.
"I should go," Zara announces, draining her coffee mug and setting it in the sink. "I need to check on the Mitchelsons—their generator's been acting up, and with this cold snap, they'll need backup heat." She pauses at the door, fixing me with a look that promises a longer conversation later. "Call if you need anything. And I mean anything."
After she leaves, the kitchen feels both larger and smaller somehow. Gabe settles at the breakfast bar, moving with the careful precision of someone managing pain, while I busy myself with cooking. The domesticity of it feels strange after three years of solitary meals, but not unpleasant.
"She doesn't trust me," Gabe observes, watching me crack eggs into a bowl.
"She doesn't trust easily, period. It's not personal." I glance at him over my shoulder. "Zara spent three years learning to survive on her own after she left foster care. That kind of experience teaches you to read people fast and trust slowly."
"And you? Are you cautious?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness. I consider my answer while I whisk the eggs, thinking about Derek and the lessons he taught me about the dangers of trusting too quickly. "Usually. But sometimes caution has to take a back seat to doing what's right."
