Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
T he last morning of August carried a hint of fall in the air, and Wyatt let the quiet wash over him. His peaceful mornings would soon be overrun with tourists eager to photograph the northern lights, but for now, the crystal-clear lake was his to enjoy. Well, almost his.
“Would ye look at that beauty!” Darrow’s voice carried across the water as he reeled in yet another fish. “That’s four to your...what was it again? Oh right. Zero.”
Wyatt bit back a smile, refusing to give his friend the satisfaction. The Irishman had spent half the morning extolling the virtues of fishing like they’d done in the old country—no fancy rods, just line and skill. His enthusiasm was infectious, even when he was being deliberately annoying. Wyatt couldn’t argue with his results.
“Some of us fish for the peace and quiet,” Wyatt said, though there wasn’t any real bite to it. Four years of friendship had taught him to appreciate Darrow’s particular brand of chaos.
“Ah, is that what ye call it?” Darrow’s eyes sparkled with that familiar mischief as his hand drifted to the scars running down his arm. “Here I thought ye were just terrible at it.”
Wyatt watched the unconscious gesture, knowing what was coming. He’d heard the bear story at least a hundred times by now—how Darrow had saved an entire camp from a charging grizzly, earning both his scars and his wife’s admiration in one dramatic swoop.
Before Darrow could launch into it again, Wyatt redirected. “Speaking of terrible, did you hear about the tourist yesterday? The one who managed to spray himself with his own bear spray?”
Darrow’s laughter echoed across the water, deep and genuine. “Aye! Turned himself into his own personal pepper bomb right there in the parking lot. What was it he kept yelling?”
“The safety’s broken!” They said it together, their shared amusement rippling across the still morning air.
“The safety was broken in his brain,” Darrow added, hauling in yet another fish with fluid grace. His fingers traced the longest scar, a habit that surfaced whenever bears entered the conversation. “Though I can’t say much. This beauty right here,” he tapped the mark, “she’s my lucky charm now. Got me my Whitney, didn’t she? And hasn’t let another bear near me since.”
“Please don’t tell the story again.” Wyatt’s words came out more plea than command.
“What? It’s a good story! There I was, facing down eight hundred pounds of angry grizzly...” Darrow’s hands moved with practiced efficiency as he gutted his catch, not missing a beat in his storytelling.
“Save it for the tourists.” Wyatt focused on his line, which had snagged on something underwater. His movements were careful, methodical, as he remembered last week’s lost pike.
“Speaking of which,” Darrow’s grin widened, “ye can’t tell me ye don’t prefer the autumn crowd. At least they’re usually looking up at the sky instead of trying to pet the moose.”
A muscle twitched in Wyatt’s jaw. “True. Though watch the gift shop get flooded with people wanting aurora-themed everything.”
“Better than them asking for bear spray they don’t know how to use.” Darrow’s expression turned sly. “Speaking of the lights, did ye see that new display they’re putting up at the museum? All about the aurora’s connection to local legends.”
Dread settled in Wyatt’s stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t?—”
“I might’ve shared a story or two with the curator.” Darrow’s eyes danced with barely contained glee. “About a few of the ghosts I’ve known in my day and the strange goings on around here. Reminds me of the tales we used to tell in the Highlands.”
Movement in the bushes cut through their conversation. Both men stilled as a massive brown bear emerged, its nose lifted to the wind. Years of shared experience let them communicate without words as they watched its body language. The bear sniffed, clearly catching the scent of Darrow’s cleaned fish.
Wyatt kept his breathing steady. Beside him, Darrow straightened, unconsciously shifting his scarred arm forward like some kind of credential. The bear huffed once and turned away, apparently deciding they weren’t worth the effort. It disappeared back into the brush with surprising grace for such a large animal.
“See?” Darrow said cheerfully, returning to his work. He patted his scarred arm with smug satisfaction. “Told ye these beauties keep me safe. Lucky Irishman, that’s what I am.”
“Wouldn’t a lucky Irishman be without scars?”
Darrow laughed and before he could start another retelling of his famous encounter, Wyatt’s phone buzzed. He ignored it, focused on his now-freed line, but it buzzed again. And again.
“Must be important,” Darrow said, far too innocent as he stacked his impressive catch.
The phone kept up its assault. Wyatt’s jaw clenched as he pulled it out, Mayor Anderson’s name flashing on the screen along with three missed calls. His stomach dropped—nothing good ever came from multiple calls from the mayor.
“Sir?” He answered, already mourning the death of his peaceful morning.
“Wyatt! Glad I caught you. I need a favor.”
Something in the mayor’s too-cheerful tone made Wyatt’s shoulders tense. The last time he’d heard that tone, he’d ended up chaperoning a group of enthusiastic bird watchers who thought eagle nests would make great selfie backgrounds—and nearly gotten dive-bombed for his trouble. He wanted to tell the mayor that he wasn’t his boss, but he knew exactly how that would go. The mayor would just call his boss, and his boss—who had no interest in small-town politics but plenty of interest in keeping the peace between federal and state—would tell him to do whatever the mayor wanted.
“What kind of favor?” His words came out clipped, wary.
“We’ve got a social media influencer coming in today. Sophie Marlow. She’s doing a piece on ghost hunting and the northern lights. I need you to pick her up from the airport and take her to Kirkham Lodge.”
Heat crawled up Wyatt’s neck. “I’m not a taxi service.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration building behind his eyes. “And I’m definitely not a tour guide for ghost hunters.”
“This isn’t a request, son. Miss Marlow has a lot of followers. The exposure could bring in serious tourism dollars this winter. Besides, Whitney specifically requested you.”
His phone pinged with a text. Speaking of Whitney...
Be nice to Sophie! First impressions matter. She’s not what you’d expect.
The pieces clicked into place, sending a surge of irritation through his chest. “How long have you known about this?”
The mayor’s hesitation said it all. “She lands at two. Don’t be late.” The line went dead.
Another text from Whitney lit up his screen: And try to smile! You might actually like her.
“Let me guess,” Darrow said, barely containing his delight as he snapped a photo of his catch. “The mayor finally told ye about the ghost hunter?”
Wyatt’s head snapped up, anger flaring hot in his chest. “You knew?”
“Whitney might’ve mentioned it.” Darrow’s grin threatened to split his face. “Last week. Or the week before. Don’t look at me like that, boyo. Ye know how the mayor operates by now. Always waiting until the last possible moment to spring things on ye. Who am I to ruin his fun?”
“I don’t need some influencer creating chaos right when the aurora season’s starting.” Wyatt began packing up his gear, his movements sharp with frustration. The peaceful morning he’d been savoring felt like a distant memory now.
“Too late for that, I’d say.” Darrow’s eyes crinkled with affection as he watched his friend’s mounting irritation. “Try to smile when ye meet her! Though from what Whitney’s told me, I doubt even your legendary scowl will put her off.”
Wyatt didn’t bother responding as he continued packing. He had enough problems dealing with the living tourists who came through Skagway. The last thing he needed was someone stirring up stories about the dead ones. But it seemed he didn’t have much choice in the matter. At least Darrow was getting entertainment value out of his misery—the Irishman’s barely suppressed laughter followed him all the way back to his car.