Chapter One

Camden

My lungs burned as I drew a deep breath, seeking oxygen that wasn’t there, and my fingers itched to hold the cigarette I’d thrown away six years ago. Altitude did that to me every time—at least the breathing part.

The craving for a smoke? That was courtesy of Alba, Colorado, population 649. Or so the sign I’d passed about a mile back proclaimed. Then again, I wasn’t about to trust a sign that hadn’t been updated since before I’d been born—which was par for the course in my hometown.

Nothing about it had changed since I’d left, which was pretty much the point of the whole town. Just past the paved roads, Alba was the best-preserved ghost town in Colorado, and the tourists who flooded her streets in the summer kept the tiny town alive all winter long.

The total on the gas pump climbed as I stretched my hands toward the late-afternoon sun and the snowcapped peaks above me, willing life back into muscles I’d kept cramped for far too long during the drive from North Carolina. The bite in the March breeze cut through my exhaustion, and I welcomed its icy fingers on my exposed skin. It definitely wasn’t T-shirt weather up here at ten thousand feet.

A gasp caught my attention, and I turned toward the minivan that had pulled up behind my Jeep a minute ago. A blonde wearing sunglasses too big for her face and a puffy winter coat gawked with one foot on the concrete and one inside her vehicle, as if someone had pushed pause during her exit.

I lowered my arms, and my shirt slid back into place, covering the inked strip of stomach she’d no doubt gotten an eyeful of.

She shook her head quickly and started to pump her gas.

At least she didn’t make the sign of the cross and back away.

Either she’d moved to Alba in the last ten years or my reputation had softened some since I’d joined the army. Hell, maybe the population of Alba had forgotten all about me.

I finished filling my tank and headed inside the small convenience store to grab a drink. God only knew what Dad would have in his fridge.

A set of bells chimed as the door closed behind me, and I nodded in greeting to the older man leaning on the counter. Looked like Mr. Williamson still owned the gas station. His bushy silver brows rose with a quick smile. Then he did a double take, both his brows and smile falling as he blinked in confusion. And then his eyes narrowed in recognition.

Looks like that rep is alive and well.

I quickly chose a few bottles of water from the slim selection and carried them to the counter.

The old man’s eyes darted between my hands and the bottles as he rang them up, like I was going to steal them or something. I’d been a lot of things, but a thief wasn’t one of them.

The bells chimed again, and Williamson visibly relaxed. “Afternoon, Lieutenant Hall,” he greeted his newest patron.

Awesome.

I didn’t bother looking. That stubborn, old, judgmental piece of work hated my—

“Holy shit. Cam?”

That wasn’t Tim Hall wearing a badge—it was his son, Gideon.

Gid’s mouth hung slack, his light-brown eyes wide in shock. It was a similar expression to the one he’d worn that time Xander had shoved us into the girls’ locker room the fall of our freshman year. I’d never found a way to properly thank my brother for his attempt at hazing—not that anyone would believe Xander would stoop so low. After all, he was the good son.

“I didn’t think police officers were supposed to swear in uniform.” I gave him a quick once-over. Unlike his dad, Gid was still too trim to sport a belly over his belt.

“As opposed to soldiers?” he countered.

“Actually, that earns us bonus points, and besides, I’m not in a uniform anymore.” I hadn’t been for seventeen days. “Does your dad know you stole his badge?”

“Anymore? Does your…” He sighed. “Crap, I’ve got nothing!” His laughter unleashed my own. “It’s good to see you!” He pulled me into a fierce, back-pounding hug, his badge digging into my chest.

“You too.” I grinned as we broke apart. “In fact, you might be the only person I’m happy to see.”

“Oh, come on. Not Mr. Williamson here?” Gid looked over my shoulder and cringed at whatever expression he saw on Williamson’s face. “Okay, maybe not him.”

“He’s never really cared for me.” I shrugged, well aware that he could hear me.

“You did throw someone through that window the last time you were here.” Gid motioned toward the glass that had long since been replaced. “Man, how long ago was that? Four years?”

“Six,” I answered automatically. Of the few things I remembered about that night, the date was still crystal clear.

“Six. Right.” Gideon’s expression fell—no doubt remembering why I’d been in Alba last.

Sullivan’s funeral.

Grief threatened to rise up and steal what was left of the oxygen in my lungs, but I beat it back for the millionth time since we put Sully in the ground.

God, I could still hear his laughter—

“You going to pay for these waters, Camden?” Mr. Williamson asked.

“Yes, sir,” I responded, thankful for the interruption, and turned back to the counter to finish the transaction. I didn’t miss the flash of surprise on Williamson’s face at my tone or when I thanked him as I took the bag and moved aside.

“That stuff will kill you,” I told Gideon as he purchased a six-pack of soda.

“You and Julie, man,” he muttered under his breath as he handed over his debit card. “Can’t a guy drink in peace?”

Funny. This was more than I’d smiled in the entire last month. “How are Julie and the kids?”

“Driving me to drink.” He lifted his soda in the air. “No, really, they’re great. Julie’s a nurse now, which you would know if you ever joined the social media world.”

“No, thank you. What’s the point?”

Gideon thanked Mr. Williamson, and we headed outside. “What’s the point? I don’t know. To keep in contact with your best friend?”

“No, that’s why we have email. Social media is for people who need to compare their lives. Their houses, their vacations, their accomplishments. I see no reason to stand on my front porch with a bullhorn to broadcast what I had for dinner, either.”

“Speaking of dinner, how long are you in town for?” he asked as we paused between my Jeep and his faded squad car. “I know Julie would love to have you over.”

“For good,” I replied before I could choke on the words.

He blinked.

“Yeah, it’s taking me a little time to process, too.” I glanced up at the mountains Alba slept between. Mountains I’d sworn I’d never see again.

“You got out? I figured you’d be career.”

So had I. Just another thing to mourn.

“Officer Malone?” a scratchy feminine voice called over the radio.

“Marilyn Lakewood still calls out dispatch? What is she, seventy?”

“Seventy-seven,” Gideon corrected. “And before you ask, Scott Malone is twenty-five and a giant pain in my ass.”

“What did you expect from the mayor’s kid?”

“Mayor’s kid? When’s the last time you talked to—”

“Officer Malone?” Marilyn repeated, her annoyance pitching her voice higher.

“Do you need to get that?” I motioned toward the radio on his shoulder.

“Malone needs to get that,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “It’s probably Genevieve Dawson whining about the Livingstons’ cat in her yard again. If it’s serious, Marilyn will call me. Now, fill me in. When did you get here? You’re back for good? As in you’ve moved back here? The place you called Satan’s as—”

“Xander called.” I cut him off with the half-truth before he could remind me of yet another reason I’d sworn I’d never come back here. “Since it had been six years, I answered.”

“Your dad,” Gideon said softly.

“My dad.”

A quiet moment of understanding passed between us.

“Gideon Hall!” Marilyn snapped through the radio.

“Lieutenant,” he whispered to the sky before responding. “Yes, Marilyn?”

“Since Boy Wonder isn’t answering the call, it seems that Dorothy Powers has lost Arthur Daniels again. She woke up from her nap, and he was gone.”

My stomach dropped, and my gaze drifted up the mountain. According to Xander, Dad ditched his home nurse a few times a week but never wandered far from the house. It didn’t help that Dorothy Powers was older than Dad and probably in need of her own nurse.

“On my way. Call up the usual searchers.” Gideon caught my eye, then dropped his hand from the radio.

“My dad.” How far could he have gotten?

“Second time this month.” His lips flattened. “I’m going to head to the station to grab the four-wheel drive. I won’t make it to your place in the cruiser.”

“Just hop in with me. I’ll take you up,” I more ordered than offered, unwilling to wait. My Jeep was lifted and sported massive tires, a V-8 engine, and more than enough four-wheeling capability to survive the apocalypse. Even the road to Dad’s wasn’t that bad this time of year.

He agreed, and a minute later, we pulled onto Gold Creek Drive, which served as the town’s main artery—no stoplights needed but snowmobiles optional.

“How long have you been gone?”

“Six years.” I shot him a look. Hadn’t I just answered that?

“No, I mean today. When did you leave the house? Was Dorothy awake? Was your dad?” He was already thumbing through his cell phone.

“I wish I could help you with a timeline, but I haven’t been home yet.” I motioned toward the back seat of the four-door Rubicon.

“You literally just pulled into town?” He took in the bags and boxes that had been my only companions on the two-thousand-mile drive.

“Yep,” I replied as we passed the last post-fifties building in Alba. We crossed the bridge that spanned all thirty feet of Rowan Creek, and the snow-packed pavement ended, marking our entrance into the time capsule that kept Alba alive. “Figured it was a good idea to gas up. Someone told me once that it’s easier to run from the cops on a full tank.”

Main Street opened up on my left. Wooden buildings with metal roofs lined both sides of the dirt road that would fill with tourists in the next few months, all looking to experience a real 1890s old west mining town.

“Someone grew up. Also, please don’t make me chase you. This thing is a beast. I might have to tell Julie I’ve found the perfect birthday present.”

“Sure, if you get it with a ladder.” We turned at the Hamilton place, where the grant money for preservation had run dry. Snow sat piled in the shade against structures that had long since lost their roofs, windows, or walls.

“Shut up. Not all of us are six foot four.”

“It’s all in the genetics. At least it should make Dad easier to spot.”

“He’s been easy to find, but Cam… It’s gotten pretty bad,” Gideon told me as we pulled onto Rose Rowan Road and started to climb in elevation. “The last couple times I’ve seen him, he either hasn’t known who I am or he thinks I’m Dad.”

My hands flexed on the wheel. “Xander’s reached his limit. He basically told me to get back here or Dad was getting shipped to a home in Buena Vista, which would screw Dad’s whole ‘your mother died in this house and I will, too’ vow.”

“Hold that thought.” He held the phone to his face. “Hey, Mrs. Powers. Yep, it’s Gideon.” He paused, rubbing the skin just above his nose. “I know you are. I know you do. We’re going to find him, and we’ve got some searchers on their— Oh, she is? Good. That will help. We’re about four minutes out.”

I took the final turn onto Dad’s property and cursed at the conditions. Spring runoff was always hard on the drive, but it looked like it hadn’t been maintained in years. Washboarding, which was no doubt under the packed snow, was easy enough to fix, but the deep, canyon-like trenches carved out by the mini river currently eating away the right side of the drive were going to take some effort to repair.

Not that I hadn’t seen shittier roads in Afghanistan or any of the other places I was never supposed to be, but this was my fucking driveway.

Gideon hung up as I came to a stop and put the Jeep into four-wheel drive.

“How does Dorothy get up here every day?” I asked as we started the ascent. The Jeep rocked with enough force to jostle the boxes in the back, and Gideon braced himself on the roll bar as we made it around a shady, iced curve. That particular spot was always the last to melt.

“She cuts over from the Bradley property. You know the judge keeps his drive paved and clear.”

The land was adjacent to ours, but it would have added ten minutes, and I wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing…or Bradleys.

God, if there was anyone in the world who had the right to hate me more than I hated myself, it was—

A flash of blue in my rearview caught my attention.

Gideon glanced back. “Xander,” he said, answering my unspoken question. “That’s his truck.”

“Well, this should be fun.”

“Welcome home?” he offered.

I blatantly ignored him as we rounded the final switchback and came into the clearing. I’d been back only once in the last decade, but I’d seen this view nearly every night in my dreams.

The setting sun reflected off the windows of the two-story structure I’d grown up in, painting it with a picturesque light that matched the majesty of the bare peak that loomed just behind it.

Dad had always joked that it was safer to raise his family at the tree line, where the wildfires weren’t as big of a threat.

Personally, I thought he took a perverse pleasure in living at the edge, where there was barely enough oxygen for anything to grow.

I threw the Jeep into park, killed the engine, and then grabbed my coat from where it had fallen to the floor behind me.

By the time Xander pulled in next to me, I was out of the Jeep and had the black North Face on and zipped, wishing it was my Kevlar. I would rather have been dodging bullets than facing him—or Dad, for that matter.

“I’ll…uh…not be here,” Gideon said awkwardly before leaving me in the yard. I heard the house door open and shut right around the same time Xander’s car door did.

He came around the front of his polished, brand-new truck and stopped suddenly, his hands pausing mid-zip on his coat.

A lifetime of memories assaulted me—the good, the bad, and the worst. Pretty much in that order.

He raked a hand through his Ken doll–perfect blond hair and sucked in a breath. “Camden.”

“Alexander.” I shaped the brim of my ball cap.

Guess we both had our nervous tells.

He hadn’t changed much. Same blue eyes. Same lean frame. Still Dad’s obvious genetic gift to the world. Still my opposite in every way.

He shook his head as if struggling for words, and instead of reciting every way I’d failed our family, he crossed the decomposed granite of the drive and threw his arms around me.

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

His words sliced deeper than any insult could have. An insult I could handle—I’d been prepared for that.

But the way he pulled back, clasped my slack arms, and smiled at me—all tight lipped and furrowed brow, fighting back emotions I no longer felt capable of—wasn’t anything I could have built a defense against.

He laughed, the sound thick with six years of absence. “You’re huge. What do they feed you Delta boys? And what is this?” He motioned to my light beard as he stepped back.

“Green Beret, not Delta,” I corrected him with the decade-old joke and a forced smile as my stomach sickened.

“Yeah, yeah. Guys like me who never saw action can’t ever tell the difference.” His eyes skittered over my features, as if he were trying to memorize them before I disappeared…again. “God, Cam. I’m just…”

Nausea churned as the pit in my stomach deepened to a gaping chasm of regret and guilt.

He smiled, boasting even white teeth and a happiness I wasn’t sure I’d ever experienced. “I’m just really glad you’re home.”

“You said that.” I was going to vomit. How could he be so nice to me?

“Well, it’s true.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “What do you say we go find Dad?”

“You don’t seem too worried.”

“I am, but for every time he’s forgotten my name, he’s never gotten lost on the land. We just need to spot him before the temps drop.”

I nodded, and he turned toward the house. It was in the high twenties right now, but we’d hit single digits within an hour of the sun retiring.

“Nice Jeep, by the way. It suits you,” he called back over his shoulder.

My eyes slammed shut as I sucked in breath after breath through my nose, willing the bile to slide back down my throat. It was like my body couldn’t physically handle the emotions.

Of course he forgave me. Of course he welcomed me with open arms. Of course there was no malice in his eyes, just open, raw love. He didn’t need to blast me with all my flaws. He’d always lived as an example, showing me every single way I’d never measure up by simply being him.

Just as I got myself under control, he turned back.

“You okay?” His voice dropped in concern.

“Yeah,” I lied. Because it was one of the things I excelled at.

“Altitude?”

“Something like that.”

“Just make sure you’re drinking enough water,” he reminded me, arching an eyebrow until I nodded my consent, and then headed up the steps to the front porch.

An eyebrow that was bisected by the first flaw I’d ever seen on Xander—a scar that hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen him. A thin, short scar that had me fighting back the urge to throw up my lunch all over the driveway.

The scar I’d put there when I’d thrown him through Mr. Williamson’s window.

Xander was halfway up the stairs when the front door flew open and Gideon ran from the house.

“He has a gun!” he shouted.

Xander froze, pivoting to watch Gideon race down the steps toward me.

“I’m sorry?” I pinned Gid with a stare, hoping he’d correct that asinine statement.

“He has the shotgun! Dorothy just told me. We have a couple search parties coming in from the Bradley side.” Gid strode past me, already talking into the radio on his shoulder.

“How the hell does Dad have access to the shotgun?” I growled at Xander.

“I…” He shook his head. “I thought I had them all locked in the safe. I hid the key and everything.”

“In the laundry room?” Dorothy asked as she walked onto the porch, holding a familiar, faded bottle of fabric softener. Time had apparently decided it was done with Mrs. Powers, because she hadn’t changed in the ten years that had passed since I’d enlisted. Her hair was the same shade of silver in the same chin-length cut. She even wore the same green winter coat.

“Yeah, right above—” Xander sighed, his eyes sliding shut. “Right above the fabric softener he refuses to use.”

“This fabric softener that I found in the entry hall?” she asked, giving him one hell of a “mom” look.

“That would be it.” A muscle flexed in his jaw.

“Tell me you stored the ammo separately.” Tell me you at least remembered that much from serving your three years.

Xander blanched. Awesome.

“Let’s find him before he kills someone.” I turned on my heel and headed back to the Jeep. Oddly enough, I was more comfortable with guns than I was with mushy reunions.

I dropped my coat, climbed up the Jeep, and popped the lock on the cargo carrier I’d anchored to the roof for the cross-country trip. Selling off just about everything I owned had seemed the logical choice at the time, but I’d held on to a few things for reasons I didn’t have time to examine.

“What are we going to do?” Xander asked, peering up at me.

“What do you mean?” I found what I was looking for and closed the carrier. Then I jumped to the ground, landing in front of Xander, whose eyes were bigger than my headlights.

Two more trucks and the APD pulled up the drive and parked.

“I mean…” Xander eyed the newcomers as they talked to Gideon and then lowered his voice as he turned back to me. “What are we going to do? He has the shotgun and doesn’t know who I am about seventy-five percent of the time.”

A comforting weight settled on my chest as I dressed for the occasion before zipping my jacket and tying my boots. “I figured we’d go find Dad.”

I rustled through my glove box, quickly grabbing my headlamp and a flashlight, then stuffed them in my pockets, pausing only long enough to tuck in the little white onyx bishop next to my driver’s manual so the chess piece didn’t get lost. We probably had another hour of good light, but if I was wrong, it was going to take more than that to cover the hundred acres Dad owned, and that was if he’d stayed on the property.

“Don’t you think we should let Gideon and the PD handle this now?” Xander asked quietly.

I looked back to where Gideon stood with the other four officers who made up the Alba Police Department. They all had sidearms strapped on. I was on the receiving end of more than a couple of glares. Not that I could blame them. At least three of those guys had put cuffs on me at one time or another.

“You mean, am I going to let the men with the guns find our dad, who has his own gun?” I didn’t wait for Xander’s response, turning toward the northern section of the property.

“Wait!” Xander gripped my elbow, and I tensed, reminding myself at least a dozen times not to beat the crap out of him for touching me without warning.

“Let go of me.”

My tone must have gotten through to him, because he dropped his hand.

“There are rules, Cam. Regulations. They know how to handle this kind of thing. The last thing we need is you flying off the handle.”

Ah, there it was, the butter knife–soft condescension Xander used when he thought the twenty-five months he had on me age-wise gave him the right to issue orders. He’d never make a quick, clean cut to get his way. He’d simply saw with that lightly serrated edge until you were too raw from the friction to object.

I preferred the more direct butcher’s-knife approach.

“You and your rules. You’re telling me that if he points that shotgun at them, they won’t pull the trigger?”

Xander scoffed. “Come on, it’s the guys.”

“You willing to bet Dad’s life on that twenty-five-year-old bully who doesn’t bother to answer his radio and has flicked open the holster on his weapon at least four times since they started talking? I’m not. I know where he is, and I’m getting there before they do.”

Xander’s head snapped toward the little meeting Gideon was holding, and I started off after a faint set of tracks I knew would disappear as soon as we hit the mountain grass. They were more than enough to tell where he was headed. I muttered a curse at the altitude. It would take me only a few days to adjust, but I didn’t exactly have a few days.

“Where are you going?” Gideon called out.

“To find our dad!” Xander responded, radiating confidence.

I rolled my eyes at his public facade but kept going.

He caught up quickly, falling into step next to me as we stuck to the areas where the snow had already melted. Our strides were equal. They always had been. We were equal in height, but I had a good forty pounds of muscle on him.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said as the tracks disappeared.

“Yep.” My gaze raked the terrain, looking for any sign that Dad had come this way.

“Seriously, you think you know where he is?”

“How long has he had that bottle of fabric softener?” I asked as the granite crunched beneath my feet. At least it wasn’t snowing.

“Years.” Xander shrugged.

“Right. At least a decade. Paula Bradley brought it over when he was sick that year, remember? Tried to help out with laundry.”

“How the hell do you remember that?”

“I’m cursed with an excellent memory.” I turned toward the part of the property where Sullivan was buried. “Trust me, there’s shit I would love to forget. Do you remember why he wouldn’t use it?” We crested one slope and started back down toward the tree line, keeping the peak on our right as we trekked through a snow-covered section.

“I barely remember Mrs. Bradley bringing it over.”

“He wouldn’t let her use it, but he refused to throw it away,” I tried to remind him.

Xander threw me a clueless look.

“It’s lavender scented,” I said, answering my own question.

Xander sucked in a breath. “Mom.”

“Mom,” I confirmed as we reached the tree line and started to hike through the pines. In the shade, the temperature dropped to an uncomfortable level.

“But she’s buried at the other end of the property with—”

“That’s not where he goes when he misses her. Not that he’d ever admit that he misses her.” Admitting that would be tantamount to broadcasting a weakness, and Arthur Daniels was anything but weak.

“The ravine.”

“Yep.”

We pushed through the finger of forest that covered this strip of the property and came out into a clearing I knew all too well.

I cursed under my breath as it came into view.

“Oh no,” Xander whispered.

Oh no didn’t quite cover this. My heart paused mid-beat, then slammed, pumping adrenaline through my system.

Dad stood about thirty yards to our left, in the middle of the clearing, shotgun raised at the one person I’d hoped to never see again.

I’d know that frame, that thick braid of chestnut hair, that profile with a slight bump in her nose anywhere. Hell, I’d been there the day she’d broken it when we were kids. I’d been the one to carry her out of that mine.

She stood about fifteen yards in front of us with her hands out and open, but she wasn’t retreating from the double-barreled reaper pointed straight at her chest. Backing down had never been in her nature, and while I’d always been intrigued by her tenacity, right now I was cursing her stupid stubborn streak.

Willow Bradley was going to get herself shot.

Sullivan’s Willow.

You gotta help me here, Sully. I sent the thought rather than spoke it, knowing Xander wouldn’t understand.

“Walk through the trees until you can come up behind him. As soon as I give you the signal, get that gun away from him,” I whispered to Xander, leaving zero room for argument.

“What signal?”

“Trust me, you’ll know.”

“He won’t recognize you. He’ll shoot you,” he hissed.

“Better me than her.” Death had never scared me. We’d played a game of cat and mouse for as long as I could remember, and one day I would lose. It was that simple.

If I died today, then so be it.

I moved.