Chapter 3

3.

Getting from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to "Whiskey Point," Alaska, was an ordeal. It took an eight-hour flight on a C-17 Globemaster to Anchorage, a four-hour hop on a C-130 to a small inland airstrip, and finally, a two-hour bone-rattling ride in a Humvee over snow-packed mountain roads.

As I dragged my suitcase to the entrance of the legendary outpost, the setting sun was painting the distant mountains in shades of gold and red.

The wind was brutal, slicing at my face like a knife, carrying the raw, untamed scent of the wild.

The outpost was small―a few rows of gray barracks and a single American flag whipping in the wind, a stark splash of color against the vast, empty tundra.

A young soldier in camouflage ran up to me, sizing me up with curiosity. "You the new Lieutenant Miller?"

I nodded.

"I'm Casey. The Captain sent me to get you." He scratched his head and grinned. "We haven't had a female officer here in years. Especially not one from headquarters. You're a rare sight!"

I followed him inside. The outpost was quiet. The few soldiers I saw on patrol were weathered and tan, their skin chapped by the wind, but their eyes were incredibly bright.

The door to the Captain's office was open.

I knocked.

"Come in."

A deep male voice answered.

I stepped inside. A man stood with his back to me, looking over a large tactical map. He was tall, with broad shoulders, wearing a faded fleece jacket that hugged the lines of his muscles.

He turned around, and I stopped short.

He was young, maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with sun-kissed skin and sharp features. He had the piercing eyes of a hawk, but the corner of his mouth was turned up in a half-smirk, a hint of a rebellious grin.

"So you're Grace Miller?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over me without a hint of apology.

"Reporting for duty, sir. Lieutenant Grace Miller." I stood at attention and gave a crisp salute.

He returned it, then leaned lazily against his desk. "Wyatt Hayes. Captain of Whiskey Point's scout platoon."

So this was Wyatt Hayes.

I’d read his file. Wyatt came from a military dynasty. His grandfather was a World War II hero, and his father was a general at the Pentagon. But he was known as the biggest maverick at West Point. After graduating, he specifically requested a post at this godforsaken outpost and had been here for five years.

"What's a 'princess' from headquarters doing all the way out here?" he asked, an eyebrow raised in amusement. "On vacation?"

I didn't answer, just met his gaze calmly.

Wyatt seemed to lose interest. "Alright, Casey, show her to her quarters. Place is rough. We wouldn't want to give headquarters' delicate flower a frostbite."

My room was a small single at the far end of the barracks. A cot, a desk, and a locker. That was it.

The window looked out onto an endless expanse of snow. It was desolate, but it was also freeing.

That evening, the outpost held a small welcome party for me.

A bonfire crackled on the snow, and the soldiers sat around it, grilling burgers and hot dogs, and drinking bottles of Alaskan Amber ale. Wyatt was strumming a worn-out Fender acoustic guitar, singing a country song I'd never heard before. His voice was raspy, but it had a wild, free-spirited quality.

"Take me home, country roads, to the place I belong…"

The music drifted on the cold night air. I pulled my coat tighter and took a sip of my hot coffee.

Everything here was so different from Fort Bragg.

There were no fancy apartments, no perfectly pressed dress uniforms, no delicate social politics.

There was just the wind, the fire, and a group of soldiers who were unapologetically themselves.

A young soldier with a blushing face handed me a hot dog, sizzling with grease. "Lieutenant Miller, try this! Captain Wyatt's barbecue is the best!"

I took it with a word of thanks and took a bite.

It was hot, and it was delicious.

After his song, Wyatt came and sat down next to me, offering me a beer.

"Want one?"

I shook my head. "I don't drink."

He didn't press, just took a long swig himself. He looked at me. "Still thinking about him?"

I was taken aback.

"Nine times out of ten, when someone from headquarters comes here, it's because of a broken heart." He scoffed, but his eyes were clear. "But take my advice, running all the way out here for some guy isn't worth it."

"I'm not here for a man," I said softly, watching the dancing flames. "I'm here for myself."

Wyatt raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely surprised.

He studied me for a few seconds, then broke into a smile. "Interesting. Well then, I guess we'll see what kind of flower this delicate thing from headquarters turns out to be in our winter wasteland."

He stood up and walked back to the fire, laughing and joking with his men.

I watched him go, and for the first time, I felt like coming here might have been the right decision after all.