Her expression shifts. "Zeb Cross. The guy from the stories?"
"There are stories?"
"My friend Caryn—" She stops. Stares at me. "Caryn Stevens went looking for him. She never came back."
"She stayed. She's his woman."
"His woman." The word hangs between us. "You mean his wife?"
"I mean his woman. Zeb doesn't have much use for society's rules." I let that sink in. "Your friend figured that out. Stayed anyway."
The silence that follows is heavy. She's processing the information. Her friend is alive. She chose to stay with a man who lives off-grid in the mountains. She chose that life over the one she left behind.
"She's happy?" Neve asks finally.
"She's his. He's hers. That's all that matters to them."
"You're serious."
"I'm serious." I move back to the snowmobile. "Questions later. Moving now."
She doesn't argue. Just climbs back on and wraps her arms around me. Trusting me to get her through this even as her understanding of reality keeps expanding.
We ride for hours more. The sun tracks across the pale sky. Shadows lengthen. Temperature drops as afternoon bleedsinto evening. When the light starts failing, I find shelter. Small outcropping of rock that provides windbreak. I kill the engine.
"We camp here." My voice is rough from cold and lack of use. "I'll build a snow cave. More insulation than the tent."
"I can help." She's stiff when she climbs off.
"Start the camp stove. Melt snow. We need water." I point to the compact fuel canister stove.
She nods and moves to follow orders. I start digging. Building the snow cave the way I learned in survival training. Mindless physical work that keeps blood moving and cold at bay.
By the time I finish, she's got water melting and food heating. I crawl into the cave. She follows. The space is small. We're pressed together by necessity. Sharing heat.
We eat in silence. Dehydrated meals that taste like cardboard but provide the calories we need. She's methodical about it, eating because she needs fuel.
When we're done, I pack snow into the entrance. Not sealed completely—we need air circulation. But enough to block wind and create insulation. The space is dark except for faint light from the entrance. Our breath fogs in the cramped cave.
"Magnus." My name in her mouth is question and demand both.
"Sleep. We move at first light." I pull her against my chest. Position her between me and the insulated wall.
She settles against me with her head tucked under my chin. Trusting me to keep watch. Her breathing eventually evens out. Sleep taking her despite the cold and fear.
I stay awake. Listening to the wind outside. The silence of the wilderness. The steady rhythm of her heart against my chest.
I'm monitoring the radio one last time before shutting down for the night when I hear it. Frequency I recognize. Voice I know. Smithfield—pilot out of Fairbanks who's moved cargo for me in the past.
"—confirmed intel on three cache locations. Ridge cabin is primary target. Weather's clear enough for flyover. Moving assets into position for intercept."
My jaw locks. Smithfield. Selling information about my operations. Feeding my locations to the hunters for cash. He knew the ridge cabin. Knew the supply points. Knew my patterns because I'd used him for transport to several of those sites.
I switch frequencies. More chatter. Different voices. Coordinates being discussed. Search grids being assigned.
They're organized. Well-funded. Professional operation with resources I can't match.
And now they know where every one of my safe locations is.
