Buck’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not quite—it was more like someone remembering what smiling used to feel like. “You’re either brave or stupid.”
“Probably a bit of both,” she teased.
Ghost’s voice came from the door before she could respond further. “Definitely both.” He strolled in, easy and unrushed, cigarette smoke trailing behind him. “She’s got city written all over her. Bet she’s never spent a night past the grid.”
Wren turned her head sharply. “I can handle more than you think.”
Ghost grinned, slow and taunting. “That right? Can you handle him?” He nodded toward Buck, lazy amusement gleaming in his eyes. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hide under the big desk that sat in the corner of the room or if she wanted to admit that she could probably handle both of them. Images of what the two of them might do to her flashed through her brain, causing her to overheat.
She felt heat flood her cheeks before she could stop it. “You don’t know me.”
“I plan to change that,” Ghost said, smirking as he flicked ash near the doorframe.
“Enough,” Buck said quietly. It wasn’t loud, but it shut Ghost up. Authority lived in his tone. “Storm’s coming in heavier than expected, so she’s not going anywhere tonight.”
Ghost shrugged. “Just making conversation.”
“No, you’re trying to make trouble,” Buck countered. “Same as always.” Their exchange had the easy rhythm of old loyalty—and maybe even old rivalry, if she wasn’t mistaken. Wren saw iteven in the silence, the way neither man needed to raise his voice to challenge the other.
When Buck looked at her again, the decision was already made. “There are some rooms upstairs. You can take the first one on the right. You’ll be safe here tonight.” There it was again—safe. It didn’t sound like comfort when he said it; it sounded more like an order.
“I don’t want special treatment,” Wren said. “I’ll leave at first light. Just tell me which way’s south.”
“That’s not happening.” Buck pushed off the desk, taking a slow step closer. “The roads will be glass in an hour. You drive on them, and I’ll be digging your car out of a ravine by morning.”
Her shoulders tightened, but she nodded. She knew he was right. The way the storm had looked on her climb up the hill—it wasn’t letting anyone out of Manitoba tonight. Still, the thought of sleeping above men whose eyes had followed her like she was their prey was far from comforting.
Buck must’ve read the hesitation on her face because his next words softened, just a fraction. “No one will touch you. They might look, they might talk about you, but they know better. You’ve got my word.” Somehow, she didn’t doubt he could enforce it.
He reached past her to grab a key from a hook on the wall. His arm brushed her shoulder, his heat bleeding through her jacket, grounding her in a way she didn’t want to admit. The sight of his hand—broad, scarred, steady—made something tight settle in her chest she couldn’t quite name.
“Here.” He pressed the key into her palm. “Rooms are on the second floor. Go right at the top of the stairs.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly, meaning it more than she intended to.
Ghost stood aside as she walked toward the door, a smirk still half-formed on his face. “Sleep tight, Wren.” Buck’s glarewarned him off before she even reached the hallway, but Ghost just gave one of those amused huffs that said he liked crossing lines for sport.
Upstairs, the floorboards groaned under her boots. The narrow hallway smelled like cedar and smoke. Her room was small—barely containing a twin bed, a dresser, a single lamp whose shade leaned to one side—but it was warm, and the window framed the storm screaming across the frozen land.
She set her satchel down and finally let her breath out. In the quiet, the sounds from below rose—the hum of voices, country music, men laughing, and the metallic clink of bottles. Somewhere in that noise, she could pick out their voices: Buck’s low, steady rhythm and Ghost’s sharper tone threading through it. They were arguing, or talking, or both. It was hard to tell.
Wren toed off her boots and sat on the edge of the bed. Her legs ached from driving, and her mind wouldn’t stop circling the events of the past hour. The man who had promised to guide her to find the poachers was dead. Outlaws seemed to have more power than the law out here—and that was dangerous. She currently sat in a house full of men who answered to loyalty, not jurisdiction.
And Buck—the way he stood between her and danger, like it wasn’t a question. There was protectiveness in him, yes, but also something territorial. As if once she walked through that door, she’d crossed a line she couldn’t go back over.
She rubbed her arms, listening to the storm press against the windows. Her breath pooled in small, fogged circles on the glass as she whispered to herself, “Just one night.” But deep down, she already knew that she was lying to herself.
Ghost
The storm pounded the metal roof like it wanted to tear the place down. The wind howled through the cracks in the siding, snow scraping across the windows like claws. Inside, the heat from the stove was heavy, tangled with whiskey and smoke. It was a night made for confessions, or for fights—maybe both.
Ghost sat at the bar, spinning his half-empty glass slowly between his fingers. The whiskey was cheap, but it burned high and clean in his chest as he swallowed it down. He preferred that kind of pain these days—the kind he could measure in ounces.
He watched Buck pace the length of the room, unhurried but restless, every movement tight with thought. Typical Buck—stillness in motion. Always holding something back. “Is she asleep?” Ghost finally asked.
Buck didn’t look at him. “No idea,” he lied. Ghost could tell that his friend was keeping a close eye on their visitor.
“Probably scared shitless. Can’t say I blame her. Not exactly the Four Seasons we got here.”
