The soft hum of a car engine. Something colder than annoyance settles under my skin. No one should be heading this way, within hearing range.
My eyes narrow, breath hitching. Before I can think, I run inside, grab my binoculars, and then sprint up the red-dirt peak behind my place for a better vantage.
I see it then: a raised dark gray Jeep Wrangler. Rental. Town issue. Fully loaded. The windshield glints, reflecting the midday sun.
I adjust the focus, hold my breath. Still can’t make out who’s driving.
Crouching by a large stack of granite boulders, I melt into the shadows, waiting.
Who could it be? A turned-around tourist? Someone looking for Animas Forks or one of the other old mining claims?
A woman steps out. She doesn’t look lost or even hesitant.
Just…purposeful.
Then the details land—messy bun, fitted black T-shirt, camera slung over one shoulder, laptop bag. Gear that says she knows exactly where she is.
A reporter.
God.
Seen too many in my day not to recognize her immediately. She’s a problem.
Sure enough, she knocks twice, then starts snooping, snapping photos. She circles the front of the cabin as if she’s looking for something.
Then she does the unthinkable. She steps inside.
Possessive anger hits fast and ugly at the sight of her inside my cabin.
Found.
By someone who won’t stop talking. Or respect what I’ve built here.
I could stop her. Two steps down the ridge, one shout, and she’d turn. But I don’t.
I rub a hand over my beard, hearing the scrape of callused skin over scruffy hair. Haven’t looked in a mirror for too long to recall. Must resemble a grizzly.
Doesn’t matter now. What matters is her going. Now. Before she can cause more trouble.
She flicks her gold aviator sunglasses down, eyes narrowing against the darkened treeline. I wonder for half a second if she saw my binocular glass catching light.
But no, her stare is blank. Curious and cold. And then I see it.
My God.
Those same eyes.
Like Phoenix.
Same strange mix of moss-green and gold threaded through the brown. But skepticism and stress lines don’t frame these eyes. No, they’re surrounded by thick black lashes.
And the face isn’t his, either. Not really. Too soft and round. Cheeks too pink and alive. Same with the lips, more generous, and the nose shorter and more button-shaped than his.
My instinct is still the same as it was overseas, though. Protect first. Ask questions later.
She surveys the expanse of the land surrounding my cabin, and my breath stalls.
It’s like reckoning with him all over again. Like one of those dreams that drags me awake before dawn with my pulse hammering.
