Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
O phelia watched Brock’s expression closely, noting no difference. Yeah. Well trained.
“Dunno about the sheriff’s file except he determined that some idiot out hunting outside of season killed Hank. As for me, I didn’t see it as relevant,” Brock said smoothly.
Nice try. “You found Hank early in the morning, correct?”
“Yeah. I got hungry and decided to ride to town on my snowmobile to get breakfast.” His eyes darkened and pain lurked in their deep depths. “Saw him in the creek, blood everywhere, his eyes open in death. Didn’t see anybody else around.”
“What then?” She tried to keep her own emotion at bay. His filled the room, pulsing with hurt.
He shrugged. “I drove into town to notify Sheriff Blazerton so he could head out to the scene. Then I called my brothers.”
“So you never tried to find out who’d shot him?”
“Nope. Nobody wanted Hank dead.” Brock’s jaw looked like it turned to stone. “Blazerton agreed, and the file is closed. Done. Over.”
Not even close. But his closed off expression promised he had finished talking about Hank’s death. For now, anyway. “Are there any other relevant facts you’ve left out?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Fine. She’d wait to question him again. “Should we talk about the fact that you almost kissed me?” The moment had occurred, and they needed to deal with it. The problem? She couldn’t say for certain that she hadn’t wanted him to kiss her. Sure, she’d had a few drinks, but nobody she’d ever met compared to Brock Osprey. Something about him—tough, intriguing, and somehow sweet. Frankly, the guy probably knew how to kiss. But she worked for the FBI, sent to Knife’s Edge on assignment, and at best, he counted as a witness in her case. At worst, he landed squarely on the suspect list. “Brock?”
“Yeah, Ophelia. I almost kissed you, and you almost kissed me back.” He held up a hand to stop her from protesting. “We don’t need to play games here. We almost made a mistake, and we both know it.”
Well. She did know that, but come on. Her ego might be taking a bit of a beating, but at least they’d landed on the same page. If he could act casual, so could she. For now, she’d get a base measurement on him when he told the truth for the next time she questioned him. Her gut feeling whispered that he was no killer. But again, he was hot and sexy, so could she trust her gut? “Tell me about Knife’s Edge.”
If her switch of topic surprised him, he didn’t let it show. “The town was named for Knife’s Edge Mountain, which is to the north. The peaks form what looks like a blade’s edge thickening to a handle. When the snow clears, I’ll show you.”
Made sense, and she warmed from the nice room and not from the fact that he just made plans for the future. Nope, not at all. “Why don’t you want to work as the sheriff?”
“That’s my business.”
Ouch. But fair. Unless his reason had something to do with the fact that he didn’t follow the law. Every question that popped into her head centered on Brock Osprey, and she had to realign her focus. “Who’s Amos, and why does he live in the basement of the sheriff’s station?”
“Amos is our resident genius who calls the weather. He’s amazing, and that’s where he wants to live, so that’s where he lives.” Brock leaned toward her and snatched a scone.
Perhaps the man shouldn’t be on his own. “How old is Amos?”
“Heck if I know. He lived out toward the northern peaks with his aunt, who passed away a few years ago. The town took him in after that because that’s what we do. Plus, we need him. He’s great at his job, which you’ll learn if you stick it out very long.”
Was that a challenge? “Oh, I’m sticking it out until I solve my cases, Sheriff.” Yeah, she’d baited him with the title, but he deserved it. Plus, from what she could see, he excelled at the job. Except he didn’t want it.
She reached for a scone and savored its delicious flavor. After finishing it off, she eyed another, but it probably wasn’t a good idea considering the probable calorie count. “Why did you get so tense when I asked about the EVE facility?” The intriguing place wouldn’t leave her mind.
He smiled, the sight almost charming. “Is that a technique you learned at the FBI?”
“Yes.” She sipped her coffee. “Though, frankly, it’s how my mind works. I move between topics quickly. I didn’t mean to throw you off.” Not much, anyway. She cleared her throat. “Where did you learn your technique?” At his raised eyebrows, she cut him a look. “The changing of the topic technique combined with answering a question by asking one.”
“By dating a prosecuting attorney back east.” He shrugged, drinking from the thick mug.
Curiosity took Ophelia. As usual. “I take it you’re not still dating. Why not?”
“I shipped out.” He took another scone, apparently just fine with the sugar. “We both knew it would be temporary and casual, and I haven’t seen her in years.” He looked Ophelia over, his gaze lingering on her mouth. “We lack single women in Knife’s Edge. You’re going to be in great demand.”
Amusement bubbled through her, even though she should probably be a mite irritated at the comment. “Is that an offer, Brock Osprey?” Her voice came out flirtier than intended, but she did enjoy the slight pinkening of his rugged cheekbones.
His grunt didn’t reveal much. “Well, if it looks like you’re dating someone, you will be left alone. Mostly.”
Was he offering a fake-boyfriend scenario? “What is this? A Lifetime for ladies movie?” She took another strong pull on her coffee, humming as her body finally began to warm. “You’re offering to be my pretend boyfriend to help me out?”
His upper lip quirked. “No. I’d want quid pro quo.”
Her mouth opened, and she quickly snapped it shut. “Excuse me?”
He finished his drink and placed his cup on the matching saucer. “Listen. We’re attracted to each other, and the nights get mighty cold in Alaska. I don’t need complications, and neither do you. So, I’m all in if you want a relationship with me, a casual one, and I’ll definitely provide cover for you. You’re gonna need it.”
She blinked, and her mind slowed briefly. Had he just offered sex? Man, he had. Yeah, he had a hot body, and those eyes could warm the coldest of hearts, but just how arrogant could one guy be? “I’m not sure, but I think you might be a complete jerk.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to say so.” He stood, an intimidating presence in the ultra-feminine room. “But give my offer some thought.”
She stood, unwilling to let him tower over her too much as her brain and temper kicked right back into gear. “I think, Sheriff, that you’ve underestimated me if you think I can’t provide both my own cover and my own orgasms.” What an ass.
He coughed out a surprised chuckle. “Damn, woman. I’d like to watch you do both.” He strode across the room, stepped into his boots, and opened the door, partially turning. “David Laurence will most likely pick up Flossy in the plow truck tomorrow to head to Sam’s Tavern. If you want to help out at the tavern’s search headquarters, come with her. As for tonight, get some sleep and think about you and me.” He left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
She swallowed several times, staring at the closed door. Her body flushed hot and then cold. She felt rightfully insulted and embarrassingly intrigued.
It took her several moments to realize that he’d never answered her question about the EVE facility.
The brutal snow storm nearly made him miss his turnoff. Visibility truly sucked.
By the time Brock drove the snowmobile down his driveway and pulled to a stop by his large metal shop, he wanted to slam his head into the nearest snowbank. What had he been thinking propositioning an FBI agent? He parked the machine and levered off, ducking to shove up the door, and ignoring the shadow to the side of the building. He drove the snowmobile inside and then returned, pulling down the heavy metal door. The wind whistled through the snow-covered trees, spreading flakes in every direction. “You coming inside?” he asked, kicking through the snow to the front door and not looking back, the freezing air stealing his breath.
Christian appeared at his side, long and lean, his boots thick and a black knit hat covered in snow protecting his head. “Yeah. When did you spot me?”
“Not sure I did.” Brock twisted the doorknob and stepped inside the instant warmth as his brother followed. “Just felt you close.”
“Huh.” Christian tugged off the hat and partially turned, whistling softly.
A sleek animal, its coat white as the snow, bounded from behind the shop. He stopped at the doorway, shook wetness off, and then gracefully stepped inside.
Brock dropped to his haunches and waited for the animal to sit and grant permission, keeping his face clear just in case. When the animal waited, he ran both hands through the thick fur along his flanks. “Well. You’re new.” He leaned back, studying the animal as it studied him right back. All-white fur with one blue eye and one bluish-brown, the animal was probably around a year old. “Who is this?”
Christian kicked out of his boots and hung his jacket on the peg by the door. “I’ve been calling him Tikaani, although he might want another name. Will probably shorten it to Tika. Found him last month down at Sawyer’s Crick with his leg caught in a trap. He’s been hanging close since.”
“A trap?” Irritation caught in Brock’s throat, heating him. He lifted the animal’s front left paw and then checked the others. “He healed well. What do you think? Husky and wolf?”
Christian nodded. “Best guess. Arctic wolf and Siberian Husky mix, and he’s gonna be big. The paws are huge.”
Beyond big. Tikaani served the little guy well. It meant wolf warrior. “So, puppy. Where did you come from?”
The animal, appearing bored, turned and loped over to the fireplace, where embers still glowed. He sneezed and flopped onto the rug, closing his eyes.
For a wild animal, he’d settled in quickly. Brock stood, studying the other wild animal in his life. “You hungry?”
“No.” Christian loped as gracefully as the hybrid had and sat on one of the two patchwork sofas. “Ace is drinking too much.” He leaned back and plopped his thick socks on the sturdy coffee table, turning to stare at the dying embers. “It’s time to get him to Smitty’s.”
“Look who’s talking.” Brock toed off his boots and removed his outerwear, instantly heading to stoke the fire and pile on a few more logs from the stack in the alcove by the fireplace. He was as careful and quiet as he could be, and the wolf-dog didn’t twitch. “You smell like fabric softener, brother. Not my brand.” While Christian often let himself in to use the laundry room, he obviously hadn’t recently.
“You want to talk about spring-fresh scents?” Christian asked dryly, his gruff voice edged with humor.
“No.” Brock moved to the stall bar near the floor-to-ceiling windows and poured himself three fingers of scotch. “You still not drinking?”
Christian cleared his throat. “I have enough demons.”
Didn’t they all? Brock took a deep breath and turned, sitting on the other sofa across from his brother. Christian’s dual eyes, one black and one green, remained clear and veiled, as usual. Should they talk this out finally? If so, finding the words felt impossible. Brock took a generous drink of the single-barrel brew.
For once, Christian spoke first. “I saw the blue flare.”
Brock swirled the caramel-colored liquid in his glass, watching the firelight catch its depths. “Wyatt Yankovich went fishing and didn’t come home. The storm is worse, so we need to wait until daybreak.”
“Missing ain’t dead.”
Brock studied his brother. “No. We both know that dead is dead.”
Christian’s expression didn’t change. As they aged into their thirties, he looked more and more like Damian, with his angular face and high cheekbones, an intriguing fact given how opposite they seemed as brothers. Christian had tied his black hair at the nape, lacking even a hint of a highlight like Ace’s hair, yet he and Ace shared the same jawline.
“You ever think about a DNA test just to see what exactly we are to each other?” Brock surprised himself by asking the question.
“God, no. The government doesn’t get another shot at my DNA. We gave it up in the service, and I think they should destroy any samples after we get out.” Christian scratched a bruise across his wrist. “Besides, we’re brothers. That’s all that really matters, right?” The question held weight.
Brock nodded. “Yeah. That’s all.”
“Is that why you won’t be the sheriff?”
Brock paused with his drink halfway to his mouth. “No.”
“Right.” Christian dropped his feet to the floor. “You hear from Damian?”
Brock took another gulp before answering. “No, but Christmas is in a few weeks. He usually tries to call around that time if he can.”
“It’s time he came home. It’s time we all did,” Christian mused.
Brock’s eyebrows lifted of their own accord. “You going to rejoin the land of the humans and stop being a nomad?” Even as a kid, Christian liked his solitude. Hank had to bribe him to join the local hockey team, where he excelled at defense, of course. “What’s going on with you, C?”
“You have a week, Brock.” Christian stood silently, and somehow, the pup heard him and stretched to his feet. Man, they moved in perfect sync with each other. How intriguing that they shared dual-colored eyes.
Brock stood. “A week for what?”
The wolf-dog looked from one to the other of them.
“To get Ace to Smitty for help.” Christian strode to the doorway and pulled on his boots, the pup following him.
“Or what?” Brock asked, tipping back the rest of his scotch.
Christian shrugged into his jacket and turned to face him. While always muscled, he’d filled out even more in the last couple months while braving the elements or whatever the hell he’d been doing in the wilderness all by himself and now with his wolf. “Or I’m taking Ace to dry out where he has no choice, regardless of the consequences.”
The two would probably kill each other.
Brock placed his glass down and then straightened. “Getting him help might mean talking about Hank’s death. You ready to do that?”
Christian’s expression slid away faster than an avalanche off Meyer’s Peak. “Anytime, brother. Are you?”
Was he? Brock wasn’t sure.
“That’s what I thought. See you at daybreak.” Christian slipped outside into the storm as if he belonged there. Maybe he did.