The storm’s ending.
But whatever’s building between us?
That’s only just starting.
SIX
COLT
The sun’s finally punched through for real by mid-morning, turning the snow into a blinding sheet of diamonds. I stand at the window, coffee gone cold in my mug, watching the ridge emerge like it’s been hiding all this time. Visibility’s climbing. Roads’ll be passable soon—maybe tomorrow if the county plow makes it up this far.
Time to move.
I set the mug down, grab my sat phone from the shelf above the door. No cell service up here, but the sat line’s reliable enough for what I need. First call’s to Hank Lawson, Iron Peak’s sheriff since before I bought this place. He picks up on the second ring.
“Colt Ryker,” Hank drawls, sounding like he’s chewing on a toothpick. “You still alive up there, or did the storm finally bury you?”
“Still breathing. You hear anything about a Matthew James? Mid-twenties, probably drives a black F-150, runs with a pack of three or four other assholes. Might’ve been asking around town the last couple days.”
Silence stretches. Then Hank exhales slow. “Yeah. I’ve heard the name. Matthew James. Son of Judge John James. They’ve got a nice spread out past the old mill—big house, bigger ego. Matthew’s the golden boy who never quite grew up. Drugs, fights, girls who end up bruised. Nothing ever sticks. Daddy makes sure of that. Why you asking?”
“Girl showed up on my porch night the storm hit. Bleeding. Said her ex and his crew carved her up when she tried to leave. Name’s Willa. She’s got something on him—says it’s enough to put him away if it gets to the right people.”
Hank whistles low. “That’d explain why Matthew’s been driving around like a man possessed. He was in the diner yesterday, asking if anyone’d seen a dark-haired woman, early twenties, maybe hurt. Offered cash for info. I told him to fuck off polite-like. He didn’t like it.”
“Keep your eyes open,” I say. “They come sniffing around my ridge, they won’t like what they find.”
“Colt…” Hank’s voice drops. “You know I can’t just go after him without cause. Judge James has half the county in his pocket. Evidence better be ironclad.”
“It will be.” I glance toward the bedroom door. Willa’s in there changing into some of my old sweats I dug out—still too big, but better than nothing. “I’ll be in touch when the pass clears.”
“Watch your six, brother.”
I end the call, thumb already scrolling for the next number. Rhett picks up faster—old SEAL habits die hard.
“Ghost,” he says, using the callsign I haven’t heard in years. “This better be good. I’m in the middle of rebuilding a carburetor.”
“Need intel. Matthew James. Iron Peak area. Connected to Judge John James. Anything cross your desk or your contacts?”
Rhett’s quiet a beat. “James. Yeah. Word is the kid’s running product—meth, pills—through the backcountry. Small-time but nasty. Daddy cleans up the messes. Feds looked at him once; case evaporated. Why?”
“A girl. His ex. She’s got proof. I need to know if he’s got reach beyond the county line.”
“He’s got friends. Not cartel, but the kind who know how to make people disappear quietly. You got her safe?”
“For now.”
“Keep her that way. You need backup, say the word. I can be there in an hour once the roads open.”
“Appreciate it. I’ll call if it goes sideways.”
I hang up, set the phone down. My pulse is steady, but there’s a low burn under my skin—same one I used to get before a mission. Protect the principal. Neutralize the threat. Simple.
Willa steps out of the bedroom then, hair pulled back in a messy knot, wearing my gray sweatpants cinched tight at the waist and another of my flannels. She looks small, fragile, but there’s steel in her spine when she meets my eyes.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Made some calls. Sheriff. Old teammate. They know the name. Your ex is bad news, Willa. Connected. Nothing sticks to him because his father’s a judge. But if what you’ve got is real…”
