Chapter One
ARIS
There arethree things I despise in this world: hypocrisy, bad data, and being forced to work with someone whose easy grin makes me forget why I'm angry at him in the first place.
When my late mentor asked me to find the most elusive caribou in Alaska, I didn't expect the job to start with a floatplane free-falling out of the sky and slamming into a freezing harbor. I didn't expect the forty-minute side-by-side ride up the ridge either, with Reid Hollister at the wheel, delivering an unsolicited sibling-by-sibling assessment of the men I was about to meet, beginning with himself. And nobody warned me about the front-row seat to the Hollister family hunting empire.
Now I'm standing outside Crystal Creek Lodge in the bitter January cold, watching Nash Hollister run through equipment specifications while Finn and a woman watch from inside, framed by the big bay window.
Nash Hollister, the charming "logistics expert" outlining the payload capacity of his snow machine, is exactly the sort of man I've built a career learning to argue with, and he does it with a confidence that has me clenching my jaw and noticing things I have no business noticing.
"… so the main sled can haul about five hundred pounds of gear, plus another two hundred in the secondary trailer," he's saying, his voice a low, easy baritone that seems designed to soothe panicked tourists and charm wealthy clients. Which, apparently, includes me now, though I'm neither wealthy nor charmed. Much.
I nod, my eyes drifting past him to the trophies mounted inside the lodge, visible through the window. They stare back with glassy eyes, a silent reminder of what this place is built on. I'm here to study caribou, and my guide makes a living helping people kill them. The irony isn't lost on me, even if the university's funding department seems oblivious to it.
"And the route?" I ask, my voice clipped, professional. I refuse to let him see how much this arrangement bothers me, or how his competent explanation of wilderness logistics is annoyingly impressive.
"Let's head inside where it's warm," Nash says, gesturing toward the lodge with hands that look strong and capable. "I'll show you the route on the topographical maps."
Perfect. Back into the mausoleum of mounted antlers and my own moral contradictions.
We move inside, and I'm immediately hit with the warmth and the oppressive atmosphere of the lodge. Nash moves to the large dining table by the window and spreads out a map, smoothing the edges flat with movements that suggest he's done this hundreds of times.
The woman—Mags, she said with a nod—and Finn step back, giving us space for the technical discussion. "The route to the Black Creek basin runs through here," he says, pointing to a spot marked with elevation lines. "About twelve miles of rough terrain once we leave the main trail."
I study the map, tracing the lines with my finger while trying to ignore the pine-and-motor-oil scent of him, which hasabsolutely no business registering at all. This hunter somehow makes the route briefing feel like the start of something worth doing.
The university's email had been deceptive: "We've secured the services of Hollister Wilderness Logistics, the best in the region for remote winter access." They'd failed to mention that "logistics" was a polite euphemism for a high-end hunting guide service, or that the guide in question would be built like a distraction I hadn't budgeted for.
"My research requires minimal ecosystem disturbance," I say, the words feeling inadequate against his practical competence.
"And my operation requires getting you and your half-ton of expensive gear across twelve miles of frozen wilderness without you ending up at the bottom of a ravine," he says, not looking up from the map but with just enough humor in his voice to take the sting out. "I disturb the ecosystem as little as possible. It's bad for business."
His matter-of-fact response should irritate me. The corner of my mouth disagrees. His straightforward approach is refreshing, even if his profession still makes me want to lecture him about wildlife conservation.
"I know I was supposed to stay here tonight," I say, "but I'd like to get started right away. Latest sighting reports put Waldo on a direct migration path toward these mountains. Every hour counts."
Nash looks up from the map. One eyebrow goes up. "Three years chasing one animal? That's either dedication or obsession."
"The line between the two gets blurrier every winter," I admit, surprising myself with my honesty. But his direct gaze makes deflection feel pointless.
"Fine," Nash says, straightening to his full height, which I definitely don't notice. "We can head out. But we still need to inventory your gear properly, make sure everything survived the trip and is calibrated for the conditions we'll face. We'll stay the night at Misty Meadows, get the process started, and that will put us in position for the real push tomorrow."
He looks at me with steady eyes that seem to assess everything—my determination, my preparedness, probably my chances of survival. Right now, I'm probably failing the survival half.
"Let's load the gear then," I say, the words feeling like a small victory.
Mags and Finn step forward again as we finish the route discussion.
"There's been a change of plans," I announce. "We're heading out this afternoon instead of staying tonight. The research grant will still cover the room, of course."
Finn shrugs with the easy acceptance of someone accustomed to clients with shifting schedules. "Weather's holding," he says. "It's a good day for travel."
Mags steps forward and, before I can protest, pulls me into a brief, fierce hug. "Stay safe out there," she murmurs. "And don't let this one give you too much trouble." She nods toward Nash with the look of someone who has already decided how this ends, which makes my cheeks burn.
"I'll try to contain my troublemaking to the essentials," Nash says, his infuriating grin spreading across his face.
Six weeks. I'm going to need a much better plan.
