Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
B rock’s feet hurt, his ears burned, and his temper was so close to fraying that he should go bury his head in the snow and just avoid people. The darkness of Knife’s Edge cloaked a gleeful danger, and just when he’d forgotten its power, a damn nineteen-year-old went and got himself missing with temperatures plummeting below zero, matching the current visibility. As in there was none.
Searching more tonight would lead to certain disaster. Hopefully Wyatt had found shelter.
Seeing Ace and Ophelia still at the diner, cozied around the table with Janet and Gus, drinking Gus’s famous homemade spiked cider, didn’t help Brock’s mood any. The restaurant was obviously closed since it was nearly midnight, and didn’t Ace seem to be having a good time?
Brock shoved open the door.
Ace took one look at his face before standing. “Ah, shit, Brock. You didn’t find him?”
Brock shook his head, yanking off his gloves and letting the heat force more feeling into his hands. “Nope. Janet? Start the phone and radio tree.”
Janet nodded, her face pale, and stood to walk toward the kitchen. “Monica has a new satellite phone and I’ll call her first.” She glanced at Ophelia. “She’s my niece and is a lucky tall girl like you. I’ll see if she has an extra pair of snow pants in case you go on the search tomorrow morning.” Janet disappeared into the kitchen.
Gus also stood, his flannel dotted with grease and his deep eyes somber. “You want the blue flare or the red one?”
Brock wiped snow off the scruff on his jaw. He wasn’t the sheriff, damn it. “Blue. The wind and snow make it impossible to see right now, and several areas of the crick haven’t frozen over enough to walk on, so we’d just lose more people if we search tonight.” He hated having to wait until dawn.
“I have the flares from the police station since it’s, ah, been empty for a bit. I’ll get a blue one.” Gus turned and headed back into the kitchen and storage areas beyond the counter.
Ophelia stood, her intelligent eyes serious, and her skin enticingly smooth over her angled features. “What’s happening?”
“Lost moron,” Brock said shortly.
Gus exited the kitchen with the flare gun. “Got blue. If you fire one, I’ll fire the second before dawn.” He turned and bellowed over his shoulder. “Jan-Jan? Call Amos and find out what time dawn will fall.”
“Already did.” Janet’s voice emerged muffled from the kitchen area. “He said dawn at eight-thirty a.m. and sunrise afterward at nine-forty.”
Brock nodded. “Good enough.”
Ace moved around the table, his gaze serious. “I could go out with you tonight.”
Brock studied him and then shook his head. “The wind and snow are too heavy. No visibility at all. We wouldn’t see the guy if he stood right in front of us.” He accepted the flare gun from Gus. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Striding back outside, he struggled through the storm to the center of the street, pointed up, and fired the flare. It shot high through the snow and blasted out a bright blue the wind quickly swallowed. Hopefully Gus would have a better result in the morning.
Brock ducked his head against the chill and hustled back inside, handing the empty flare gun to Gus. “Thanks. I’ll be here before dawn.” He jerked his head toward Ace. “I’ll take Ophelia to Flossy’s and return for you on the snowmobile. I’d like to leave the truck in town.”
Gus reached for car keys beneath the counter. “We’ll drop Ace off on the way home. Brought the truck today.”
“Thanks,” Brock replied. “Ophelia? Let’s get going.”
Her eyes wide, she surprisingly didn’t argue and instead plunked the knit cap onto her head and shoved on her mittens and jacket.
Ace turned. “Bye, Olly. See you tomorrow.” He brushed by Brock. “Take your time. I’ll help Janet get out provisions for tomorrow.”
Was there a hint of prodding in his brother’s tone? Brock ignored it and escorted Ophelia outside, grasping her elbow to lead her to the quiet machine. He should’ve grabbed a helmet on the way back. It was a good thing they only had to go a few blocks, just down Main Street. “You ever ride one of these?”
“No.” Her chin jutted out a fraction.
“You’ll be fine. Just hold on behind me, and we’ll be there in a second.” He straddled the seat and held out a hand to help her into place behind him.
She settled in, instantly grasping the sides of his jacket.
He started the engine, planted his feet on the warm slides, and pulled her arms all the way around his waist to clasp at his belly. The last thing he needed was her slipping sideways or off. She didn’t fight him. Instead, she let him position her the way he wanted. Was she always this pliable? Something told him there was no way in hell.
The feeling of her behind him, her chest against his back, her thighs tight against his legs, propelled warmth through him stronger than a good shot of Lefty’s whiskey. Even though the wind pelted sharp stabs of ice onto his face, he could swear he caught a hint of strawberries.
Then, just to make his life a living hell, she turned her head to the side, pressed her cheek against his shoulder blade, and sighed, her body relaxing and going soft against his.
Every nerve he had flared wide awake, his body taking over his brain with raw hunger. He tightened his grip on the handles and then opened the throttle, easing into the street and taking a wide U-turn. She held on tighter, and he felt her breasts against his back, even through her jacket and his.
Or maybe that was his imagination.
The sweet scent of strawberries wafted up, and he twisted the throttle, opening the engine and driving down the middle of the street, where berms would stay out of his way. He thought he’d experienced hell a couple of years previous in a desert with heat and pain, but this was worse. Cold and ominous with the forbidden smell of strawberries that he would never be able to taste. No matter how much his mouth watered, even in this blazing cold.
He drew abreast of Flossy’s B&B, smoothly reached for Ophelia’s arm, and gently tugged her out from behind him. “Have a nice night, Agent.” His back was suddenly freezing, and the scent of snowmobile fuel made him want to cough.
She blinked snow from her pretty eyes and secured his jacket sleeve with two gloved fingers, the snow reaching the middle of her boots. “You have got to be kidding me.” More snow landed across her dark hair, and standing in the storm, she looked like an avenging winter goddess.
Holy crap, his imagination was totally fucking with him. He had to get away from her. “Excuse me?”
She pulled on his arm. “You are coming inside and explaining all of this to me. I’ve been patient with you so far, but if I have to pull the FBI card, I will.”
FBI card? His temper, aligned with the urgency of the missing kid, uncoiled like a live wire. “Your card doesn’t mean diddly out here, and you know it.” Except it did. If she called in reinforcements, the town would be crawling with federal agents, and wouldn’t that just piss everyone off? He’d be on everyone’s shit list, considering he brought her here, and when a guy lived in the middle of nowhere, he had to work with his neighbors. Even if they wanted to bury him beneath an avalanche. “Tomorrow.”
“Tonight.” She pulled harder, her nose turning red from the cold.
He looked through the murk toward the other end of town. It’d be a suicide mission to go back out to search for Wyatt before the storm broke, or at least before natural light arrived, but he’d been considering it. With a curse that wasn’t quite muffled, he swung off the Polaris and stood so suddenly she took an instinctive step back, slipping on the ice.
He caught her arm before she could go down, tugging her and fighting gravity. She skidded across the icy walk toward him this time, colliding with his body. She clutched his arms for balance, her jeans against his.
God, she really was going to kill him.
He warmed from his toes to his ears, the fire much hotter in certain parts of his body. She looked up, snow on her dark lashes, confusion in her sapphire eyes. Her lips, full and lush, parted.
Would she taste like strawberries? The thought tortured him, unbidden and unwanted.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and inevitability caught him. He leaned toward her, his head lowering, and the front porch lights snapped on, wide and bright.
Ophelia jumped. “Oh.” Red infused her face. She released his arms and turned, carefully picking her way across the snowy walk and up the three stairs, pausing and partially turning at the top. Tension showed in the line of her shoulders. “I mean it, Brock. I have a right to know what’s going on. Either you tell me now, or I’m calling DC.”
He’d almost kissed her, and she’d almost let him, and now she issued orders safely from the snowy porch. He willed all arousal into the abyss and decided to go with temper instead. “Fine.” He stomped up the steps.
Flossy opened the door and squinted out. “I just got off the phone with Delores. Many folks saw the blue flare, and the phone and radio tree is in full effect. Monica’s new sat phone is very helpful.” She opened the door wider, and heat spilled out. “Come inside. I have fresh scones and will make coffee, Sheriff.”
His stomach growled, and he gestured the stubborn agent inside before him. They shed their wet outerwear in the front alcove, hanging up their coats and moving into the floral living room in stockinged feet.
Ophelia sat on the sofa, drawing one leg up under the other and tugging a pillow onto her lap. Her gaze sharpened. “What does a blue flare mean as opposed to a red?”
He dropped onto a dainty chair, his entire body beginning to ache for too many reasons, including healed combat injuries that didn’t like the cold, as well as unfulfilled arousal. The agent had more on her mind than the town customs, but he’d play her game. “Blue means meet at first light for a search, red means come right now.”
She leaned back, her gaze serious. “How many people would’ve seen the flare in that storm?”
He shrugged. “No way to know. For folks we can reach by phone or high frequency radio, the phone tree will get them. Others, those who saw the flare, will notify their nearest neighbors. It’s what we’ve got, and it has worked for years.”
“So, the whole town will show at first light to go searching?”
He nodded. “The town and anybody in outlying areas will come in—anybody who can, that is. We’ll perform a standard grid search until we find him—if he doesn’t make it home sometime between now and dawn.”
She breathed out. “How old is Wyatt?”
“Nineteen. He and his new wife moved out here a year ago, saying they wanted to live the simple life they’d seen on some television show about living in the wild. Nice kids, pretty smart. But I searched all over that crick and didn’t see hide nor hair of him.” Frustration coated Brock’s throat.
Ophelia pressed her lips together and exhaled. “In this weather, with these temps, what are his odds of survival?”
Brock dipped his head. “Not great and not horrible. If he found shelter from the storm, he’s waiting it out. If he was injured and unable to find shelter, we’ll have another funeral to plan for the spring when the ground isn’t frozen—unless he wants a Viking burial, which is easier.” Brock leaned forward and clasped his hands together between his relaxed legs. “We’re not going there yet, though. We’ll find him.”
Flossy bustled in with a coffee set on a tray decorated with holiday elves and piled high with raspberry scones. “You kids serve yourselves. I’m helping in the kitchen with the phone and radio tree, and I’m trying to reach everyone who has a high frequency radio, which isn’t that many people. We need more of those.” She placed the tray on the polished table and stood, her housecoat brushing the spotless floor. “You’re doing a good job as sheriff, Brock.”
His nostrils flared on their own. “I’m not the sheriff, Floss. I’m just helping out.” His voice roughened as he tried to keep from snapping at the elderly woman.
“Keep telling yourself that. Olly? Talk some sense into him, would you?” She turned, lifted her white and frilly housecoat, and trotted back into the kitchen.
He sighed. “Olly?”
Ophelia glanced toward the now-closed kitchen door. “Janet gave me the nickname at the diner a few hours ago, but I don’t know how Flossy heard it.”
“If it was hours ago, everyone has heard it by now.” Especially with the phone and radio tree being employed. Olly. Interesting. It fit her in a cute and sweet kind of way. “I take it nobody has ever called you that?”
“Oh, no.” She ducked her head and poured two mugs of coffee that smelled like licorice.
Was he reading into her tone, or did she sound, well…off about that? He accepted the coffee when she leaned toward him. “Thanks. Did you have any nicknames?”
She sipped delicately, her face thoughtful. “My mom wasn’t big on nicknames, and she liked Ophelia for me. Thought it sounded classy and royal. Like a princess.”
“You were a princess?” She didn’t seem like the tiara and high heels type, but what did he know?
Her smile softened the harder angles of her face. “No. I was a tomboy through and through. Which was a good thing, really. We didn’t exactly live in a castle.”
Who did? When had he ever asked a woman so many personal questions? What was it about this one that had him turning into a guy who tried to connect? The last—the very last—thing that could happen with this FBI agent, this smart woman looking into Hank’s death, was a connection. Brock took a deep drink of the smooth brew and let it warm his insides.
She glanced at the wild storm outside. “I feel weird just sitting here when there’s a lost teenager out in that.”
God, did he understand that feeling. “I know. But the safest course for everyone is to wait until the storm either dies down or until first light, or we’ll end up with a lot more missing people. We can only hope that Wyatt reached shelter.” He waited for her to get to the point she’d been mulling over since he’d picked her up. What was it?
She turned toward him again. “Ace said you found Hank’s body the morning of his death. How about you explain why neither you nor the sheriff’s case file revealed that fact?”
Ah, fuck Ace. He had to go and open his damn mouth.