Someone out there had her. Someone would pay for it. No matter how long it took.No matter what the storm left behind.
He owed Sara that much. When the sky cleared, he’d find her—and make sure whoever did this answered for it.
19
Scout & Tessa — The Grady Hunting Cabin
The fire caught slowly, licking kindling until the logs burned and warmth spread through the room. Smoke curled up the flue. A sudden gust forced smoke back into the room, stinging their eyes before the draft corrected and the chimney pulled clean again.
The cabin felt like a world apart from the storm—soft amber glow against the howling dark, rockers by the hearth, a quilt folded neat on the bed, puzzles and board games stacked on a shelf, the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air. Marlene Grady’s touch was everywhere, from the jar candles to the deer-patterned flannel curtains.
Tessa brushed a palm across the quilt. “Tom and Marlene really turned this place into a hideaway.”
“Built it to disappear,” Scout said, hanging coats by the fire. “No power lines, no cell, no neighbors for ten miles. They like it that way.”
She gave a tired smile. “I see the appeal—until a blizzard and a shooter show up.”
He chuckled, kneeling beside the bed. “Canvas duffel—extras. Flannel, Henley, sweats. Grab what fits.”
She returned from the washroom with sleeves rolled twice, flannel loose. Scout wore the Henley, firelight warming the lines of fatigue in his face. “Sit,” he said. “Let me check that cut.”
“I’m fine,” she protested.
“Humor me.”
He cleaned her temple, antiseptic biting. “Means it’s working.”
She winced. “You would say that.”
“Only when it’s true.”
Gauze taped, she glanced at the frost-blown window.
“If he’s still out there?—”
“He won’t last long in this.” Not bravado. Fact.
Scout didn’t say what followed—that his hands still remembered the recoil. He flexed his fingers once, surprised by the faint tremor that wouldn’t quite go away.
Neither strayed far from the table. Two pistols rested by the lantern—within easy reach. Neither of them sat with their back to the door.
Snow had drifted halfway up the lower panes, turning the world outside into white noise.
Tessa drew the blanket close. “Three rounds—tight grouping. He wasn’t shooting to kill.”
“Which means he could’ve,” Scout said. “And didn’t.”
“Testing distance. Bracketing.”
She nodded. “Wind drift—thirty, forty yards uphill. He had to compensate. He’s trained.”
“Military, maybe law enforcement. Knows terrain.”
“Knows us,” she added.
Scout stirred the pot over the fire—vegetables, tomatoes, corn. “Marlene’s garden. She cans in August.”
Tessa leaned back in the rocker, exhaustion warring with nerves. “I used to think tech could solve everything—drones, trackers. Now look at us. Two agents in a snow trap.”
