Page 91 of Left Cold, Wolf Owned
Mateo's voice, level and immediate: "Three vehicles on the south road. Moving fast. They're not stopping at the valley."
I pull out my phone and call Ray before I've taken three steps toward the door.
He picks up on the first ring.
"Whitaker is on the mountain," I state. "Three vehicles, south road, moving fast. Whatever you need to put in place, now is the time."
A brief silence—the kind where someone is already moving. "How long until he reaches your property line?"
"Twenty minutes. Maybe less."
"I'll make the calls," Ray declares. "Keep your people back, Logan. Let him make the move. Document everything."
"Already done," I confirm, and end the call.
I clip the radio to my jacket.
"Harper," I call, already moving toward the door.
"I heard," she answers, already on her feet, already reaching for her phone. She holds it up briefly—the recording app is open, and the timestamp is running. "I've been recording since Mateo radioed."
I look at her across the room—the focused certainty of her, the woman who accidentally showed up on this mountain and has spent every day since building herself into it—and feel the mate bond with the full, settled weight of everything it means.
"Stay close," I instruct.
"I will," she insists.
We go.
35
HARPER
We're already in the clearing when his vehicles come through the gap.
Same clearing. Same positions. Same pack in the treeline, same bridge behind them, same lodge at the far end—everything exactly as it was the last time Dawson drove up this mountain, except that this time there is nothing for him to surprise. He drives through the gap and finds us waiting, and I watch the calculation happen through the windshield of the lead SUV before the door even opens.
Good. Let him feel that.
Logan is beside me. The pack is in the treeline. My phone is recording.
The doors open.
Croft gets out first. He scans the clearing—taking in Logan, taking in me, taking in the quality of the treeline—and something shifts behind his eyes, a small and controlled recognition. He's been here before. He knows what came out of those trees.
Then Dawson gets out.
He's dressed for the mountain this time—still tailored, still composed, but the jacket is more practical than last time, and the absence of the resort polish tells me he's been here long enough that the performance has started to cost him something. He walks toward us with the same measured pace as before, but the composure is different. Thinner at the edges.
He stops fifteen feet away.
His eyes go to me. Then to Logan. They stay on Logan a beat longer than necessary, and what's in them is the same thing I saw the first time—the assessment, the calculation, and underneath it, the disgust he almost manages to conceal.
Almost.
"Harper." The warm, concerned voice. Produced on cue. "I've come a long way. All I'm asking is that you come back with me so we can have a real conversation, away from—" He gestures vaguely at Logan, at the clearing, at all of it. "This."
"This has a name," I remark. "It's called home."
