Page 23 of Nothing But Air

Because somewhere out there—where eagles soared and footsteps had never come before—a chest waited.

And Marcus Roosevelt was going to help him find it.

Teague just had to figure out what the man was really after.

Before they were alone together on a cliff face with nowhere to run.

Eden hadn’t slept.

Well, not really. Maybe an hour around four a.m., when exhaustion had finally dragged her under. But it hadn’t lasted, and now her eyes burned and her head pounded and a second extra-large coffee was absolutely, nonnegotiably, a must.

She pulled the steaming cup from under the ancient dispenser, added two generous pours of vanilla creamer—the good stuff, not the powdered nonsense—and slapped a lid on her liquid salvation.

The first sip burned her tongue.

Perfect.

She walked through the empty dining room toward the main doors of the lodge, boots echoing against hardwood in the unnatural quiet. Morning light kissed the canyon walls through the massive windows—amber bleeding into rust, shadows retreating into ancient crevices carved by ages of wind and water.

Strange for the dining hall to be so empty. No tourists chattering over scrambled eggs. No hikers comparing trail plans. Most of the staff…gone.

The North Rim had become a ghost town. At least she got to keep her job at dispatch. It turned out Betty was happy for a break to visit her grandkids.

Eden pushed through the heavy wooden doors and aimed herself toward the ranger station. The talk at breakfast—what little she’d managed to catch—mentioned more meetings, more plans taking shape. If decisions were being made, she wanted to be part of them. At least she’d heard that Liam had agreed to go. That gave her more confidence than sending Teague out there with Marcus alone.

The morning air, crisp and pine-scented, carrying the faint mineral tang of the canyon depths, bit at her cheeks. A slight fog had settled overnight, but it would burn off in the next hour.

Eden paused outside the ranger station and drew another long sip of her coffee, letting the bitterness wake her senses and focus her thoughts.

She’d tried to sleep last night. Really tried.

She’d lain in bed staring at the water-stained ceiling, listening to Nimue’s soft breathing from the other room, watching shadows shift as clouds drifted over the moon. But every time she closed her eyes?—

Teague.

Standing in the meeting room yesterday, jaw set, green eyes blazing with stubborn determination. Volunteering to go into the backcountry with Marcus Roosevelt. Offering himself up for danger as if it cost him nothing.

I don’t want to watch another person I?—

She’d almost said it.

Almost admitted out loud what she’d been trying to deny for months. That somewhere between his reckless rescues and stubborn determination, between the way he looked at her as if she actually mattered and the way he’d traced the calluses on her palm with such gentle reverence?—

She’d started to care.

And caring about Teague Hamilton was the absolute last thing she could afford.

Her boots crunched against the gravel parking lot. Their conversation in her cabin three days ago replayed in her mind. The way his face had shuttered when she’d told him she was done caring for people who threw themselves at danger. The hurt that had flickered across his features—quick, raw, real—before he’d locked it down.

Everything in her had wanted to take it back.

To tell him he wasn’t Landon. That maybe—maybe—she’d been wrong to compare them.

But he was like Landon. Reckless and brave and so certain he was invincible.

She couldn’t lose her heart like that again.

She might not survive it a second time.