Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“Not dead, just drunk,” Hank says with a dismissive wave. “Found a bottle of vodka in the bathroom cupboard, finished it off during my watch. Must’ve passed out in the outhouse. Woke up half-frozen but otherwise fine.”
I exchange a look with Eli. This doesn’t add up. We checked the outhouse. Multiple times. And the blood we found was fresh, clearly visible in the snow.
“We saw the blood, Hank,” I say carefully, watching his face. “Drag marks leading into the trees.”
Something flickers in Hank’s eyes—too quick to identify, gone before I can be sure I saw anything at all. “Know nothing about that,” he says with a shrug. “But I did see a mountain lion earlier in my watch. Big bastard. Scared him off by waving myself around like an idiot. Maybe he bagged a deer after that.”
“A mountain lion,” Eli repeats, skepticism heavy in his tone. “Same one that stalked Aubrey at Cedar Creek?”
“Could be,” Hank says, moving to the fire and extending his hands toward the warmth. “Probably. Who knows? You see one cat, you seen ’em all.”
The explanation is plausible enough, I suppose. A mountain lion could explain the blood and drag marks, though they certainly looked precise. But it doesn’t explain how we missed Hank in the outhouse, or the strange feeling crawling up my spine as I watch him warm his hands by the fire.
Something’s not right. Maybe it’s just the tension of the night, the fear and lack of sleep, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.
“Take off your shirt,” I demand suddenly.
Hank turns to stare at me, confusion written across his skinny, weathered face. “Come again?”
“Your shirt, Hank. Take it off.” My voice is harder than I intend, but I need to know. Need to see if there are wounds, marks, anything to explain that blood trail.
I need to know if he’s going to turn.
“Have you lost your mind, McGraw?” Hank asks, looking around the room as if seeking confirmation that I’ve gone crazy. “It’s freezing in here and you want me to strip? Didn’t figure I was your type.”
“Shit, Jensen, what’s your problem?” Cole asks. “Maybe you are going mental.”
“Just do it,” I insist, ignoring Cole, my hand still hovering near my gun. “Show us you’re not hurt.”
The room has gone quiet, everyone watching this strange confrontation with varying degrees of confusion and alarm.
“Jesus Christ,” Hank mutters, shaking his head. But he takes off his coat and begins unbuttoning his flannel shirt, movements slow and deliberate. “Man gets lost for one night and suddenly everyone’s acting like he’s possessed or something.”
He shrugs off the shirt, revealing a thermal undershirt beneath. With an exasperated sigh, he pulls that off too, standing bare-chested in the cabin’s chill air.
His torso is exactly as I remember it—lean and wiry, skin weathered from years working outdoors, the faded tattoo of a rattlesnake curling around his right shoulder. No wounds. No scratches. Not even a bruise.
“Satisfied?” he asks sarcastically, arms spread wide. “Or would you like me to drop my drawers too? Show you what a real dick looks like?”
I grunt, giving him a dry look. The blood trail was real—Eli saw it too—but Hank is clearly unharmed.
“That’s enough,” I say gruffly, looking away. “Put your shirt back on.”
Hank mutters something under his breath, pulling his layers back on with quick, irritated movements. “What the hell’s gotten into you, boss? You think I’m one of them skinwalkers from the old stories or something?”
I wince at his choice of words and almost tell him that we’re not supposed to speak of them out loud, that we need to pay respect to the creatures from local lore. But I don’t answer, the idea hitting uncomfortably close to the legends about the hungry ones—how they can seem completely normal while being something else underneath, how they can appear unchanged until the moment they turn.
But Hank looks fine. Maybe I am losing it. Everyone is certainly looking at me like I am, save for Aubrey, though she’s barely looking at me at all.
“Well, anyway,” Hank continues, buttoning his shirt, “I’m sorry for the scare. But I’m fine. Ready to hit the trail whenever y’all are.”
“We were just discussing that,” Cole says, still eyeing me warily. “Red and I think we should head back to the ranch. After the scare you gave us, seems like the smart play.”
Hank frowns, glancing around the room. “Go back? Why? Weather’s cleared up nice. Perfect day for riding. And we’re already halfway to Benson Hut, aren’t we?”
Red stares at him in disbelief. “You serious? After what happened?”
“Nothing happened to me except I got drunk and passed out in the shithouse,” Hank says with a laugh. “Embarrassing, sure, but hardly a reason to abandon the mission.”
“Yeah, but,” Eli begins. “You weren’t having a fun time the ride up here.”