Chapter 1 – Morgan
The storm hits Whitetail Falls like it's been holding a grudge all winter, waiting for the perfect night to settle the score.
I watch snow slash across the bar's front windows, driven nearly horizontal by wind that screams through the mountain pass with enough force to rattle the old brick walls. The cold seeps in around the doorframe despite the weather stripping Hansen had me install last November. The kind of cold that finds metal and bone and makes both ache.
The bar feels insulated against the world. Heat pumps from the ancient radiators and the bodies of men who know better than to ride in this weather. The air smells like whiskey, motor oil, and the faint char of someone's burnt coffee on the hot plate behind the counter. Conversation hums low, punctuated by the crack of pool balls and the occasional burst of laughter.
I lean against the bar, nursing a glass of water I'm not drinking, and run routes through my head.
Highway 14 will be gone by midnight. The switchbacks near Miller's Gorge already lost to black ice. County maintenance won't touch anything past the town line until the storm breaks, which means the north access is closed.
I calculate margins—which trucks can make it through, which loads need rerouting, which drivers I'll have to call before dawn to tell them to stay put.
Grave appears at my shoulder, silent except for the shift of leather. He doesn't say anything, just stands there radiating heat and the particular stillness that means he's running his own mental math. I glance at him. He tips his chin toward Hansen, who sits at the corner table with Miller and Luke, maps spreadbetween them like they're planning an invasion instead of next month's supply run.
"Road conditions?" Grave asks.
"Bad," I say. "Worse by morning."
He nods once, knowing I'll have a plan before anyone needs it.
The door slams open and the sound cracks through the bar like a gunshot.
Every head turns. Conversations die mid-word. The sudden silence is heavier than the wind outside, thick with the kind of attention that comes from men who've learned to assess threats on reflex.
A woman stumbles through the doorway.
She's not walking. She's barely standing. Snow clings to her hair, her shoulders, her coat soaked through and offering no protection against the cold. Her face is pale, lips bloodless, eyes too wide. Her breath comes in short, visible gasps that fog the air between us.
Time slows. My focus locks on her the way it used to lock on targets in another life, narrowing everything else into periphery. I don't think about it. My brain just shifts into that gear, cataloguing details faster than conscious thought can keep up.
Her hands are shaking, fingers curled tight like she's trying to hold onto something that isn't there. Dark bruises circle her wrists, finger-shaped and deliberate.
Her shoulders are hunched too far forward, weight balanced on the balls of her feet like she's ready to bolt at the first wrong move. She scans the room quickly, measuring exits, countingbodies, calculating whether she just made a fatal mistake walking in here.
The bar stays silent.
Grave shifts his weight almost imperceptibly, blocking the door without appearing to move at all. Miller's gaze tracks the windows, the back exit, the stairwell that leads upstairs. Hansen sits still as stone, watching, waiting for the situation to resolve itself into something he needs to act on.
We don't speak.
Then Price—young, eager, a prospect still learning the edges of when to stay quiet—pushes back from the pool table and moves toward her. Not threatening, just fast. Thoughtless.
She flinches hard.
Her whole body recoils, arms coming up to guard her ribs, head ducking like she's bracing for a blow that doesn't come. The movement is pure reflex, muscle memory.
"Price." My voice cuts through the silence, calm and absolute. "Back off."
He freezes mid-step, confusion flickering across his face, but he moves back without question. The room adjusts around my words, resettling into a stillness that feels less like waiting and more like containment.
I push off the bar and close the distance between us slowly, keeping my hands visible, my posture open, everything about my movement designed to telegraph that I'm not a threat.
Her eyes find mine and stay there.
I watch her make the calculation in real time—scanning my face, my stance, the space I'm leaving between us. Looking for danger.
I don't know what she sees, I just know she doesn't run.
