Midmorning, I encountered a pair of hikers—young couple, backpacks bulging, faces flushed from the climb. They nodded as we approached, and I reined in Daisy.
"Morning," I said, forcing the corners of my mouth up. It felt foreign, like stretching muscles long unused.
"Morning!" the woman replied, bright and breathless. "Beautiful day, huh? You from around here?"
"Yes, ma’am," I grunted, keeping it short. Politeness didn't mean conversation.
The man eyed Daisy appreciatively. "Nice horse. We saw elk tracks back that way—think we'll spot any?"
"Might," I said. "Keep quiet, move slow."
They thanked me, waved, and continued on. I watched them go, envying their easy chatter, the way they leaned into each other. Companionship like that was a luxury I didn't allow. My only companions were the horse and the ghosts, and they demanded nothing but silence.
We pushed on, climbing higher into the foothills. The terrain grew rugged, boulders strewn like giants' dice, streams rushing cold and fast. Daisy's hooves clattered on stone, a rhythmic counterpoint to my thoughts.
I skirted the ranch again, closer this time, the pull stronger in the rain-washed air. Through the binoculars, I caught a glimpse of movement—maybe a coyote. I thought of my brothers. My chest tightened. Family was blood, but blood could drown you if you let it. I lowered the glass, urging Daisy forward.
By afternoon, the sun broke through, steaming the ground and painting the mountains in sharp relief. We paused at an overlook, the valley sprawling below like a living map. Aspens quivered gold, pines dark sentinels against the sky. A hawk circled overhead, its cry piercing the quiet.
It should have been peaceful, soul-settling. Instead, it stirred the restlessness, a reminder that beauty was fleeting, like life itself. I lived in the now because the past haunted and the future promised nothing but more of the same—orders, ops, the poetry of death. It was a cage, yes, but one I'd forged myself. Searching for a key meant admitting I was locked in.
As evening approached, I made camp again, this time in a grove of cottonwoods by a creek. The water burbled over rocks, a soothing murmur. I unsaddled Daisy, rubbed her down, and built my shelter. Rain threatened again, clouds massing on the horizon like an advancing front. I ate jerky and hardtack by the fire, the flames flickering low.
Memories crowded in: Dad teaching me to tie knots, his hands steady over mine. "Strong but flexible, Gideon. Like a man should be." I'd been strong, all right. Flexible? Not so much. The loner life suited the military, but it left scars deeper than any blade.
Night deepened, stars pricking the velvet sky. I lay back, the ground hard beneath me, rain starting its patter once more.Sleep eluded, the present a thin shield against the ghosts. Then, a buzz—sharp, insistent—from my pack. My phone. It never buzzed unless it was an emergency. No ignoring it; another Dane-ism. Answer the call, face the fire.
I fished it out, the screen glowing harsh in the dark. A message, simple and stark: "Get to Charleston." Followed by an address for some place called Dominion Hall.
Charleston? My usual jump-offs were San Diego or Seattle, close to the action, the teams. This was east, foreign territory. Dominion Hall—what the hell was that? A safe house? A new op?
Confusion knotted in my gut, but questions weren't my style. I followed orders, always had. Secretly, I hoped each one might be the last—the one that laid my father's ghost to rest or ended my endless wandering for good. One way or another.
I stared at the screen a moment longer, then pocketed it. No sense waiting until dawn. Time to ride out, leave the mountains behind. Montana's beauty faded with the stars, unsettled as ever. The cage rattled, but the key? Maybe it waited in Charleston.
3
HAZEL
The dream started soft.
Warm light on skin. A man’s low laugh, roughened by sleep.
He stood behind me, tall enough that I had to tip my head back to meet his gaze. His face was shadowed, but I knew he was beautiful in that unpolished way—the kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be noticed. His hands slid over my waist, palms calloused, reverent. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Every brush of his fingers said I was safe, desired, claimed.
I leaned into him, greedy for the comfort, for the warmth that moved through me like honey. When his mouth found the base of my throat, I sighed, the sound embarrassingly needy. The world blurred, all golden edges and breathless promise.
I’d never felt wanted like that. I could almost believe this was real, that someone like him might exist in the same world as spreadsheets and late-night emails.
“Stay,” he whispered against my ear. His voice was deep, familiar in a way that made my pulse stutter.
I turned in his arms to see his face?—
—but the scene fractured.
The light went out.
The air thickened, and somewhere far off a woman screamed.
