She tightens her grip around my waist and leans into the climb, and I'm struck by how natural the contact feels now. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she was grabbing my jacket like it might contaminate her. Now she's holding on like she trusts me to keep her safe, and that shift means more than it probably should.
The machine responds smoothly, tracks digging into the snow as we ascend through stands of pine that block out most of the winter light. At the top, the wilderness opens up into a panorama that never fails to remind me why I chose this life over everything else the world had to offer.
The valley below stretches for miles, a white expanse broken by dark patches of forest and the silver thread of a frozen stream. Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks sharp against the pale sky. It's country that's remained unchanged for thousands of years, where the only sounds are wind and wildlife, where a person can still measure themselves against something real and enduring.
I kill the engine and we sit in the sudden quiet, both of us caught by the view.
"It's beautiful," Aris says, and it might be the first time she's actually looked at the wilderness as something other than a hostile environment she has to survive.
"It's honest," I reply. "No games out here. Things are what they are."
She climbs off the snowmobile and moves to the edge of the ridge, scanning the valley with binoculars. I watch her work, noting the way she's learning to read the terrain, to see patterns and possibilities instead of just white emptiness. Whatever else she might be, Dr. Aris Thorne understands observation, and she's adapting to this environment faster than I expected.
"Movement," she says, excitement clear in her voice. "Two o'clock, near the tree line."
I follow her gaze and spot them: four caribou moving through the snow at the far edge of the valley. Even at this distance, I can see they're alert but not panicked, feeding as they travel.
"Could be them," she says, adjusting her binoculars.
"Could be. We won't know until we get closer."
She lowers the binoculars, her face flushed pink from the cold. When she looks at me, it's like she's revising something she decided earlier.
"How do we get down there without spooking them?" she asks.
"Carefully. We'll have to circle around, use the tree cover to mask our approach. Take us most of the day."
"Then we should get started."
She's already swinging a leg over the snowmobile before I can answer. She's tired, hungry, running on stubborn will and academic caffeine, but she's not backing down.
I start the snowmobile and begin the slow descent toward the valley floor. She's already got her tablet out, reading coordinates, already in the next ten minutes before we've left this location.
Three years chasing one animal. A tight window to finish the job. I've guided obsession before, but usually it's about the trophy.
Hers is about a promise.
I leave it at that.
Chapter Five
ARIS
The icebeneath Nash's boots groans as he steps onto the frozen surface of what he calls Timber Creek. The sound makes my chest tighten, a deep, ominous crack that speaks of hidden dangers beneath the white expanse. I remain on solid ground, watching him put one boot down, transfer his weight, then the next, the way a man does when he knows how treacherous ice can be.
He crosses the treacherous ice like it's a sidewalk, and something in my chest files that away without my permission.
"Ice fishing?" I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice.
"Protein," he says, kneeling beside a dark patch where the ice appears thinner. "You've been running on fumes for three days. Your body's starting to eat itself."
The blunt assessment stings because it's true. The trail mix and occasional vegetables from Nash's emergency supplies haven't been enough to sustain the grueling pace of tracking through deep snow and bitter cold. My hands shake constantly now, not from the temperature, but from hunger that gnaws at my ribs like a living thing.
Yesterday, I stumbled twice on terrain that should have been manageable. This morning, I needed Nash's help to load my pack because my muscles couldn't generate the strength. The weakness terrifies me more than the cold, more than the wolves May mentioned, because it represents the complete breakdown of my ability to function.
Nash produces a small ice auger from his pack and begins drilling through the frozen surface with the confidence of a man who could do it blindfolded. Ice chips fly as he works, creating a neat hole that reveals dark water beneath. Watching him work is mesmerizing, the rhythm of it, the way his shoulders move beneath his jacket.
I force myself to look away. This is not the time to be admiring my guide's physique.
