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13

AUbrEY

A fter a quick breakfast, we get ourselves and the tents packed and the horses tacked up. I’m cinching Duke’s saddle for a second time when Jensen appears at my side, checking my work with critical eyes.

“Did I pass inspection?” I ask.

“Weight’s uneven. Shift it forward.” His hands brush mine as he loosens the girth, the brief contact sending warmth up my arm.

He moves the saddle up just behind the withers and cinches it again before he turns and studies me for a moment. I try not to get lost in his eyes, the green matching the moss on the side of the ponderosa. “You ready for this?”

“I survived yesterday. I’m a little sore but I’ll manage.”

“For what we might find.” His voice drops, meant only for me. “The Pass isn’t just a place, Aubrey. It’s a threshold.”

Before I can ask what he means, Eli calls out that the horses and Angus are ready, and Jensen turns away, the moment lost.

The trail begins easily enough, following Donner Creek upstream through stands of pine and fir. The morning sun filters through the branches, dappling the forest floor with dancing displays of light. Under different circumstances, it might be beautiful. Peaceful, even.

But there’s nothing peaceful about the silence that has fallen over our group. Each of us is lost in our own thoughts, the only sounds the creak of leather, the steady rhythm of hooves on packed earth, and the occasional snort from one of the horses.

Jensen and Jeopardy lead our small procession, moving with the easy synchronicity of long partnership. I follow on Duke, with Eli and the pack mule behind me. Red and Cole ride side by side where the trail allows, their eyes constantly scanning the forest. Hank brings up the rear, rifle across his lap, posture tense.

An hour into the ride, I’ve grown warm enough that I take off my jacket and tie it around my waist, and the terrain begins to change. The trail steepens, switchbacking up the mountainside. The trees thin out, offering glimpses of the valley below, the landscape spreading out like a rumpled blanket of green and gray, trees then houses and the shimmering waters of Donner Lake.

“This is the old Dutch Flat Donner Lake Wagon Road,” Jensen calls back, raising his voice against the wind that’s starting to pick up. “Built in 1863 to connect the mining towns to the railroad.”

We plod around the road for a while and I’m surprised that I haven’t seen any hikers or signs of civilization. The trail narrows again, forcing us back into single file. As we climb higher, the air grows noticeably thinner, each breath less satisfying than the last. Duke’s sides heave beneath me, steam rising from his hide as the air starts to cool with the elevation.

At 6,500 feet, according to Jensen’s offhand comment, the trees change. From my brief venture into botany at college, I pick out lodgepole pines and mountain hemlocks, though there seems to be more granite outcroppings and low, wind-stunted shrubs. The trail here is ancient, worn into the very bedrock by thousands of wagon wheels and countless feet over more than a century and a half.

As we’re rounding one such outcropping, Hank cries out. I twist in the saddle to see him suddenly rein in his horse, the animal dancing nervously beneath him.

“Hold up,” he calls, his voice tight.

Jensen raises his hand, bringing our column to a halt. “Problem?”

Hank’s eyes dart to the rocks above us. “Thought I saw something moving up there.”

We all follow his gaze, but the ridgeline stands empty against the brilliant blue sky.

“Probably just a marmot,” Red says dismissively. “Shoot it next time.”

“Excuse me?” I say to Red, giving him a disgusting look.

“Vermin,” Red says with a sneer.

“Men are the real vermin here,” Jensen says derisively. At least he agrees with me.

“Wasn’t no marmot,” Hank insists. “Too big. Maybe a mountain lion.”

Jensen studies the ridge with narrowed eyes. “We’re in their territory now. Stay alert, keep moving.”

But I notice how his hand drifts to the rifle in its scabbard, how he waits for Hank to take up position before nudging Jeopardy forward again.

The next hour passes in heightened vigilance, the easy rhythm of our morning ride replaced by taut silence and watchful eyes. I’m probably not the only one thinking we’re about to ambushed by a mountain lion. The wind picks up further, carrying a bite that wasn’t there before, and I put my jacket back on. Seems tomorrow it will be time to bust out the puffer.

Even Duke seems affected by the growing tension, his ears flicking back and forth, nostrils flaring as he tests the air. I stroke his neck, murmuring reassurances I don’t fully believe.

We stop to rest the horses at what Jensen calls the halfway point, a small plateau with a stream trickling down from the snowpack above. The elevation is taking its toll on the horses, on us. Every movement requires more effort, every breath hard.

I slide from Duke’s back, my legs protesting after hours in the saddle. The ground feels unsteady beneath my feet, though whether from exhaustion or altitude, I can’t tell.

“Drink,” Jensen says, appearing at my side with a water bottle. “Small sips. Altitude sickness is no joke.”

His concern catches me off guard, like I’m being doted on. “I’m fine. We’re near the pass, right? I drove through there the other day.” But I take the water bottle, our fingers brushing in the exchange. His are warm despite the chill.

“Driving over mountain passes and back down isn’t the same as riding. You might think you’re just sitting on Duke while he does all the work, but you’re exerting yourself too.”

“Is that why cowboys have such rock-hard abs?” I tease, thinking back to his body this morning, the feel of his hard muscles as I ran my fingers over them.

He grins at me and it lights up his eyes, making me feel even more breathless. “Nah,” he says. “Just the way I’m built. I’m a natural.”

Then he moves to check on the horses, leaving me strangely bereft. I take small sips as instructed, watching the group spread out across our small resting place. Red and Cole confer in low voices by the stream. Eli adjusts the pack mule’s load. And Hank…

Hank stands at the edge of the plateau, staring back the way we came, his posture rigid.

Curiosity pulls me toward him, even though he himself still gives me the heebie-jeebies. “See something?”

He flinches at my voice. “Jesus, woman, don’t sneak up on a man like that.”

“Sorry.” I follow his gaze down the trail, which winds like a ribbon through the rocky terrain below us. Nothing moves except the shadows of clouds drifting across the mountainside. “What are you looking at?”

“Thought I saw something following us.” His voice is low, taut with an anxiety I haven’t heard from him before. “Been seeing things all morning.”

I feel a prickle of unease down my spine. “What kind of things?”

His eyes dart to mine, then away. “Movement. Just at the corner of my eye. Gone when I look straight at it.”

“Could be anything, right? Deer. Shadows…marmots.” I attempt a joke.

“Yeah.” But he’s not amused and he doesn’t sound convinced. “You feel it too, don’t you? Like we’re being watched.”

I want to deny it, but the truth is, I’ve been fighting the same sensation since we left camp. That prickling awareness of unseen eyes tracking our progress up the mountain.

“It’s probably nothing,” I say, as much to convince myself as him. “Or a mountain lion, as Jensen says.”

Hank’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “As if that’s nothing.”

Before I can respond, Jensen calls out that it’s time to move. The rest is over.

Back on Duke, I find myself scanning the trail behind us, searching for whatever had Hank so unsettled. The landscape seems empty here, just rock and scrub and patches of lingering snow between the skinny trunks of pine. But something catches my eye near a cluster of boulders, a flicker of movement, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

Except I didn’t imagine how Duke tenses beneath me, a tremor running through his powerful body.

“Easy,” I murmur, patting his neck. But my own heart has picked up speed, hammering against my ribs.

The trail grows steeper still as we climb higher, though it’s wide enough we don’t have to ride single file. The wind howls around the rocks, carrying the scent of snow. The horses struggle against the grade, their breathing labored, sides slick with sweat despite the growing cold.

We’re traversing a particularly exposed section, the trail hugging the mountainside with a steep drop to our right, when Duke suddenly balks, refusing to move forward.

“You okay?” Jensen calls back from where he waits at the bend ahead.

“He won’t budge,” I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice as Duke dances nervously in place, dangerously close to the edge.

Jensen dismounts in one fluid motion, securing Jeopardy’s reins to the horn before making his way back to me. “What spooked him?”

“I don’t know. He just stopped.”

Jensen takes Duke’s bridle, speaking to him in low, soothing tones. The horse’s eyes roll, showing white, but he gradually calms under Jensen’s experienced hand.

“Something’s got him scared,” Jensen murmurs, almost to himself. His eyes scan the rocks above us, the narrow trail ahead.

That’s when I see it. A shadow moving among the boulders fifty yards ahead. Not a cloud shadow. Not a bird. Something large.

Something that moves with purpose.

Reminding me too much of a feral horse.

“Jensen,” I whisper, nodding toward it.

He follows my gaze, his body going completely still. For a second, I think he’s going to dismiss it, tell me it’s nothing. Instead, he slowly reaches for the knife at his belt.

“Everyone stay where you are,” he calls, voice steady. “Eli, bring my rifle.”

The shadow shifts again as I try to see it clearer through the sun’s glare, sliding between rocks with unnatural fluidity. A bear? A mountain lion? But it doesn’t move like either. Nor does it move like the horse. There’s something wrong about its motion, something that makes my skin crawl.

Then it’s gone, vanished behind a jutting spur of granite.

Eli appears with Jensen’s rifle, his own face grim. They exchange a look loaded with meaning I can’t decipher.

“What was that?” I ask, my voice sounding thin.

“Probably just a deer,” Jensen says, but he doesn’t lower the rifle. “Trail narrows ahead. We need to go single file, nice and slow. Eli, take point. I’ll bring up the rear.”

The reorganization happens quickly, efficiently, everyone taking their new positions without question.

But as we move forward, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being herded, guided along this ancient path toward something waiting ahead. The thought is irrational, I know, a product of altitude, exhaustion, and Hank’s contagious paranoia.

But rationality does little to quiet the alarm bells ringing in my mind, and the conversation with Jensen earlier about pioneers who “transformed,” coupled with the fact that I was attacked by a rabid horse the other night, doesn’t help.

The sky begins to change as we near the summit, brilliant blue giving way to streaks of high, thin clouds that race across the sun, casting the landscape in alternating light and shadow. The temperature drops noticeably with each passing cloud, the wind growing sharper, more insistent.

“Weather’s turning,” Cole mutters as we pause to let the horses catch their breath. “Wasn’t supposed to storm today.”

“Mountains make their own weather,” Eli replies, his eyes on the darkening western horizon beyond the peaks. “We need to reach the pass before it hits.”

Jensen, who’s been unnervingly quiet since the incident with Duke, nods in agreement. “Another hour, maybe less if we push.”

I’ve given up trying to pretend I’m not affected by the altitude. My head throbs with each heartbeat, and the world has taken on a slightly surreal quality, edges too sharp, colors too vivid. I sip water mechanically, knowing dehydration will only make it worse, and stretch my aching limbs on the ground beside Duke who is munching on some sparse grass.

“How you holding up?” Jensen asks, appearing beside me.

“Fine,” I manage, though the word comes out breathier than I intended.

His eyes narrow, unconvinced. “We’re nearly there. Just a little further. You’re doing good, Blondie.”

That brings a smile from me, along with a swimmy feeling in my stomach. Pretty pathetic, considering he was eating me out this morning. Every time I’m reminded of it, it feels more like a fever dream. Did that really happen between us?

Then Hank calls out, his voice tight with alarm.

“Look!”

We all turn toward where he’s pointing, back down the trail we came up, where it disappears around a bend. At first, I see nothing. Then a shape moves into view, distant but unmistakable. A figure, standing motionless on the path.

“Is that…a person?” Red asks, squinting against the sun.

The figure is too far away to make out clearly, but something about its stillness sends chills through me. No hiker would stand like that, so utterly immobile in the biting wind.

Seeming to stare right at us.

Jensen raises his rifle, peering through the scope, and for a moment I fear he’s going to shoot the person. Then, whatever he sees causes his jaw to tighten before he lowers it.

“Mount up,” he orders, voice clipped. “Now.”

“What is it?” I press, but he’s already swinging onto Jeopardy’s back. “Who is it?”

“Now, Aubrey.”

The urgency in his voice propels me into action. I scramble onto Duke, wincing as my stiff muscles protest. The others follow suit, no one but me questioning Jensen’s sudden shift in demeanor.

We press on at a pace that borders on reckless given the narrow trail and steep drops. The horses sense our anxiety, their ears pinned back, nostrils flaring. Twice Duke nearly stumbles on loose shale, and I have to fight to keep the both of us on the trail.

“They’re gone now,” Cole says, but no one responds. We don’t turn around either, just keep riding forward.

The trail curves around a massive outcropping, then begins a final ascent toward the ridgeline above. As we climb, the wind shifts, now carrying the scent of diesel and asphalt—a jarringly modern but welcome intrusion that signals we’re nearing Interstate 80 that now crosses Donner Pass.

“Almost there,” Jensen calls back, though his voice is nearly lost in the gusting wind.

The summit appears suddenly as we crest the final rise, a saddle between peaks, where the mountains briefly part to allow passage from one side to the other. The view is breathtaking, both literally and figuratively at this altitude: the steel-blue expanse of Donner Lake below, the endless procession of Sierra peaks stretching to the horizon, the distant ribbon of the interstate cutting through the pass.

But it’s what lies directly ahead that draws my attention, a series of dark openings carved into the mountainside. Tunnels, their entrances like gaping wounds in the pale granite.

“The old railroad tunnels,” Eli explains, seeing my expression. “Built in 1867, abandoned when they rerouted the line in the 1990s.”

“We’re going through there ?” The prospect of entering those dark maws makes my already racing heart skip a beat, even though there are ugly signs of civilization with countless graffiti tags across the rock.

“Fastest way across,” Jensen says, though his expression is wary. “Fast is good with the weather changing. We’ll only have to take a few of them and then we’re back on the open trail.”

And with us being followed by who the hell knows what , I think.

As if the weather hears Jensen, the wind gusts stronger, carrying the first stinging particles of sleet. The storm is approaching faster than any of us anticipated.

“Looks like we don’t have much choice,” Red observes, eyeing the darkening sky.

“Single file through the tunnels. Stay close, stay together,” Jensen commands. His eyes meet mine, serious. “Horses spook easily in the dark and we don’t know what’s in there. It’s a popular place for hikers and sightseers. Kids might be running about. Keep a firm hand on Duke’s reins.”

I nod, swallowing the knot of anxiety in my throat. There’s something primal about the fear of dark, enclosed spaces, something that goes beyond reason and taps into more ancient instincts. Honestly, I welcome the idea of kids running around and spooking the horses. Would at least give a sense of normalcy where the only other creatures we’ve seen so far seem to be no more than shadow.

“Bring your flashlights out,” Jensen orders, producing his own from his pocket. “Eli, take the lead. I’ll bring up the rear.”

We reorganize our line, Eli moving to the front with his powerful beam cutting through the gathering gloom. I fall into position behind him, with Red, Cole, and Hank following. Jensen brings up the rear, a solid presence at our backs that provides more comfort than I care to admit.

As we approach the nearest tunnel entrance, the temperature seems to drop further, the air becoming dense, almost resistant. The horses grow increasingly nervous, snorting and tossing their heads. Duke’s entire body trembles beneath me, and it takes all my strength to keep him moving forward.

“Easy, boy,” I murmur, stroking his neck. “Just a tunnel. Nothing to be afraid of.”

But as the darkness swallows us whole, I find myself wishing I believed my own reassurances.

It’s wonderfully dry inside the tunnel but the darkness is absolute, the flashlight beams creating narrow corridors of visibility that do little to dispel the overwhelming blackness pressing in from all sides. The temperature drops immediately, a cold that seeps through layers of clothing to settle against the skin like damp silk.

The tunnel is wider than I expected, designed to accommodate rail cars, but the ceiling feels oppressively low. Water drips somewhere in the darkness, the sound echoing strangely, making it impossible to determine its origin. Our horses’ hooves create a hollow, rhythmic percussion that bounces off the stone walls, multiplying until it seems like we’re accompanied by an invisible herd.

“Watch your head,” Eli calls back, his voice tight. “Ceiling drops in places.”

I duck instinctively, though his flashlight reveals nothing but empty space above. The beam catches ancient timber supports at regular intervals, the wood blackened with age and moisture. Graffiti covers the walls, some fresh and garish, others faded to ghostly impressions. Names, dates, symbols. Generations of people marking their passage through this manmade cavern.

The air tastes metallic, tinged with diesel fumes and something older, mustier. The scent of decades of darkness and neglect.

I’m pretty good with tight, dark spaces, but here the claustrophobia is starting to build.

“How long is this tunnel?” I ask, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the confined space.

“I dunno, maybe eight hundred feet,” Eli replies. “First one’s the shortest.”

“First one?” I echo, my stomach dropping. “How many are there?”

“Seven,” he says, and my heart drops. “Some connected, some separated by short stretches of open track. Hopefully weather will be better in those parts.”

The knowledge that we’ll be spending awhile in these oppressive passageways settles like a weight on my chest. I focus on the steady rhythm of Duke’s movements beneath me, the reassuring solidity of his presence, the comfort that we’re backed by Jensen at the rear.

We’re perhaps halfway through the first tunnel when Eli’s flashlight catches something reflective ahead, two points of light that gleam momentarily before vanishing.

“Hold,” he calls, raising his hand. Our procession grinds to a halt, the sudden silence more unnerving than the echoing hoofbeats had been.

“What is it now?” Cole asks, his annoyed voice barely above a whisper.

Eli doesn’t respond, his flashlight beam sweeping methodically across the tunnel ahead. For several tense seconds, nothing moves. Then the light catches it again—a brief flash of reflection, like eyes catching the beam.

“Someone’s there,” Eli says, his voice steady despite the tension evident in his posture.

Behind me, I hear the distinctive sound of Jensen’s rifle being readied.

“Hello?” Eli calls into the darkness, echoing. “Identify yourself. Please.”

Silence answers him, thick and oppressive.

My pulse quickens, the throbbing in my temples intensifying. I strain to see beyond Eli’s light into the impenetrable darkness that seems to swallow our beams rather than be pierced by them.

Then there’s movement ahead, a shadow detaching from the greater darkness. Then a voice, echoing in the tunnel.

“Who’s there?” the voice says.

A figure emerges into the edge of our lights and I’m about to cry out until I see that it’s a man in his thirties, dressed in hiking gear, a headlamp strapped to his forehead. He shields his eyes against our lights, his expression confused and slightly wary at our posse.

“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me,” the hiker says, lowering his hand. “Didn’t expect to meet anyone in here, let alone a bunch of trail riders.”

“We’re just passing through,” Eli says. His tone is neutral but carries a clear warning to the stranger: don’t ask questions.

The hiker seems to pick up on the undercurrent of tension. “Well, don’t let me hold you up. There’s a storm coming in fast.” He steps to the side of the tunnel, pressing against the wall to let us pass. “These old tunnels can flood pretty quick when it rains. Wouldn’t want to get caught in here when that happens.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Eli says, nudging his horse forward.

As I pass the hiker, our eyes meet briefly. There’s nothing threatening in his gaze, just ordinary human curiosity, perhaps a hint of concern at our obvious agitation. Yet part of me wants to go with him. For the first time since I hired Jensen, I’m starting to second guess my decision. Hanging out at a campground and roasting hot dogs sounds much more preferable than what this journey has become.

Jensen is the last to pass him, and I hear him murmur something I can’t quite catch. The hiker’s response is equally low, but his tone suggests surprise, perhaps alarm.

Then we’re moving deeper into the tunnel, leaving the hiker behind. The darkness swallows him within seconds.

The next section of tunnel is longer, the darkness more complete somehow. The walls press closer, the ancient stonework slick with moisture. Patches of ice glisten in our flashlight beams, forcing the horses to pick their way carefully.

“Not natural, this cold,” Hank mutters behind me. “Not for October.”

No one contradicts him. The temperature has indeed dropped far below what it should be, even accounting for the elevation and approaching storm. My breath clouds in front of me, the moisture crystallizing in the beam of my flashlight, and I shiver slightly.

“Almost through,” Eli calls back, his voice oddly muffled in the dense air.

A faint grayish light appears ahead, the end of the tunnel, though whether it opens to daylight or another tunnel is impossible to tell from this distance. The horses pick up their pace slightly, as eager as the rest of us to escape the oppressive darkness.

That’s when I hear it.

A soft scraping sound, like nails on stone, coming from somewhere behind us. I twist in the saddle. Nothing but empty tunnel stretches behind us.

“Did you hear that?” I ask Hank, who rides directly behind me.

But there’s no answer.

“Hank?” I call, louder this time.

Silence.

What the fuck? Where did he go?

I rein in Duke, turning him fully around. Cole and Red have already passed me, moving toward the growing light ahead. Only Jensen remains, his flashlight pointed at the ground in front of him.

“Where’s Hank?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.

Jensen’s eyes scan the darkness behind us. “I passed him not thirty seconds ago.” His beam sweeps the tunnel. “Hank!” he calls out, his voice echoing off the stone walls, returning to us in diminishing repetitions. Hank… hank… ank…

Nothing answers but the steady drip of water.

“We need to go back,” I say.

“No. We keep moving forward.”

“We can’t just leave him.”

“He probably fell behind to take a leak. We’ll wait for him at the tunnel exit.” His voice leaves no room for argument, but there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Something that looks disconcertingly like fear.

Suddenly a sound echoes through the tunnel—a distant shout, cut off abruptly.

Jensen’s head snaps around, staring into the darkness. “Ride,” he orders, voice tight. “Now!”

He doesn’t wait for my response, already urging Jeopardy forward, past Duke, toward the growing light ahead, clucking in a way that prompts both horses into a canter, one that has my hands in a death grip around the saddle horn.

Another sound reaches me, too distant to identify clearly, but raising the hair on the back of my neck nonetheless.

It’s low and echoing.

Sinister laughter.