He chuckles, a sleepy rumble, tightening his hold. “Yeah,” he sighs with contentment. “Must be.”
The fire burns low, casting a final, soft glow. Outside, the vast Alaskan night holds its breath. And here, tangled up with my grumpy mountain man on a possibly enchanted bear rug, I know without any doubt I've found where I belong.
Epilogue
FINN
January's gotCrystal Creek locked down tight under snow. Inside the lodge, the fire's cranking, fighting off the cold that wants to creep through every crack. Mags sits by the hearth sketching something, drinking coffee from that fancy espresso machine I got her for Christmas. Six months since she turned that plane around, and she's still here. It still feels like I got lucky.
The partnership's working—both the business side and the personal side. We've found our rhythm. It's good.
Reid's snow machine whines up the track from Port Promise, cutting through the quiet afternoon. I glance out the window, watching his headlight bounce as he climbs toward the lodge.
“The researcher?” Mags asks without looking up.
“Should be.” The university booked winter transport and support months ago. Specifically wanted access to Black Creek basin in January. Not many outfits will take that on, but Nash has the equipment and the money was decent.
Reid pulls up near the porch and kills the engine. A bundled figure climbs off the back, hauling gear that looksexpensive and scientific. Reid starts unloading equipment cases while his passenger shoulders a heavy pack.
Reid comes in first, stomping snow off his boots. “Brought your scientist,” he announces. “Dr. Thorne. Float plane was only a few minutes late.”
Dr. Aris Thorne follows him in, pushing back her parka hood. Younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with sharp green eyes that immediately start cataloging the room. Her face is red from the cold, but she moves like someone who doesn't let weather slow her down.
“Thank you for the ride,” she tells Reid, then turns to us. “I'm Dr. Aris Thorne, University of Alaska. I arranged logistics support with Nash Hollister?”
“Welcome to Crystal Creek,” I say, standing up. “I'm Finn, Nash's brother. This is Mags. Nash is out checking equipment, but he'll be back soon. Coffee while you wait?”
She heads straight for the fire, holding her gloved hands to the flames. “Yes, coffee. Black.”
Mags sets down her pencil. “Cold flight up from Anchorage. You're here about caribou?”
“Winter migration patterns,” Dr. Thorne says, taking the mug I hand her. “Six-week study in Black Creek basin. The university arranged comprehensive support.”
“That's remote country in winter,” I tell her. “Nash is your best bet for getting equipment in there safely. He's got the vehicles and knows the terrain.”
Dr. Thorne's eyes move around the room—the mounted moose head, hunting photos on the walls, the general look of a place built by hunters. Something changes in her expression.
“The university called this a 'wilderness logistics company,'” she says carefully. “What exactly do you do?”
I glance at Mags. There's something in the doctor's tone I don't like.
“Transport, equipment hauling, route planning,” Iexplain. “Nash gets people and gear to places they couldn't reach otherwise, especially in winter.”
“And?”
She's looking at one of Nash's hunting photos now—him and a client with a big bull moose. Her mouth gets tight.
“I see,” she says quietly.
The room feels colder despite the fire. Mags clears her throat.
“We could show you to your cabin while you wait,” Mags offers. “Get you settled and warmed up properly.”
Dr. Thorne barely glances toward the cabin. “I'd rather discuss protocols with Mr. Hollister first.”
The sound of Nash's ATV grows louder, then cuts off as he parks. A few minutes later he comes through the door, stomping snow and pulling off gloves.
“Equipment's all set, weather's holding,” he tells me, then notices our guest. His easy smile appears. “Dr. Thorne, I'm guessing?”
