8. Juniper
CHAPTER 8
JUNIPER
Griff stood in front of the stove, shirtless, his broad back to me, his impressive muscles shifting as he cracked eggs into a hot skillet. The scent of woodsmoke clung to the air, mingling with the savory sizzle of whatever was in the pan. My mouth watered, and not just from hunger.
He glanced over his shoulder and gave me a soft grin. “Morning.”
I smiled sleepily, pulling his flannel shirt from the night before tighter around me. “You cook. You chop wood. You rescue damsels in distress. What don’t you do?”
He laughed. “Make small talk before coffee.”
I grinned and poured myself a mug of coffee. Scout thumped his tail and shoved his head under my hand for an ear scratch. Appie wound through the dog’s legs, his purrs so loud I could hear them over the light rain. For a cat who was used to spending his days moving from one pillow to another and following the sunlight every day, he seemed to have acclimated.
I reached for my camera, wanting to capture the warmth inside my heart and frame it through my lens. Snapping pictures of a shirtless Griff standing in front of the stove, I sighed with contentment.
He turned around and set two plates onto the small table. “Eat.”
I took a chair and dug into my breakfast. It was simple, just scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, but it tasted like comfort and safety. Like something I could get used to.
After we cleaned up, I reached for my camera. “I took some great shots of you this morning.”
He raised a brow.
“Not like that.” I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks flushed. “Just… cooking. You looked peaceful.”
“Doubtful.”
“I’m serious. You should see them. I’ll pull them up on my laptop.”
I reached into my bag, searching for the cord to connect my camera to my computer. “Shoot. I must have left the cable at the lodge. Do you have one here?”
He stood at the sink, his arms up to the elbows in soapy water. “Check my bag by the door. Top pocket.”
“Thank you.” I skipped over to him then rose to my tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. Thankfully his hands were occupied, or I might not have had the willpower to pull away. Then I crossed the room, unzipped the front flap… and froze.
The cord was there. But behind it was a manila folder with my uncle’s name scrawled across the top in bold, black letters.
Caleb Blake – Incident Reports.
I hesitated. Then I pulled it out and opened it.
Inside were printed sheriff’s reports. Harassment complaints. Descriptions of threats made. Caleb’s signature at the bottom. The dates were from months before he died.
My stomach churned, and I regretted downing those eggs. I flipped to the next page—and there was Griff’s name. He’d been the one to find Caleb’s body. He’d been interviewed by the sheriff. He’d known.
“Juniper? Did you find it, baby?”
I whirled around, the folder in my hands. “How long have you been holding onto this?”
His jaw tensed. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“It looks like you knew my uncle was scared for his life. It looks like you’ve been sitting on information that might explain what really happened to him.”
“I wasn’t hiding it.” He dried his hands on a towel, his voice low and guarded. “I was trying to figure out how to tell you.”
“How long, Griff?”
He looked away. “Since the week he died.”
“That was months ago.”
“I didn’t think it mattered. Not until you showed up.”
“Not until I showed up?” I let out a hollow laugh. “You’ve been acting like you’re protecting me, but all this time you’ve been protecting your secrets.”
He stepped forward, palms open. “I didn’t know how deep it went. Caleb told me someone was bothering him, yeah, but he brushed it off. Said he could handle it.”
“And he died.”
His face twisted with guilt like I’d just slapped him. “I found him at the bottom of the ridge. I carried him back and called the sheriff. Then I stayed until they took him away.”
My throat burned. “And you didn’t think I deserved to know that?”
“I didn’t want to scare you.”
“You don’t get to decide how much I can handle.” Silence hung heavy between us. I could feel the heat of the fire behind me, but I was cold all over. “You should’ve told me the day you showed up on my porch. Hell, or at least the night you kissed me. Especially after that.”
His jaw tightened, making his expression unreadable. “You’re right.”
That was way too little, and his admission came way too late. I shoved my feet into my boots, grabbed my bag, and reached for Appie. The cat yowled and tried to get back to where he’d been curled up by Scout, but I held tight.
“Juniper,” Griff took a step toward me, but I shook my head, not willing to look at him.
“Don’t.” Then I left. Without a coat, and without a plan, his betrayal stinging so much worse than the rain pelting down on my shoulders as I made my way back to the lodge.
I didn’t cry.
Not when I trudged back to the lodge alone. Not when I stepped onto the porch and saw the stain where the rabbit had been. Not even when I realized my hands were shaking as I fumbled with the key.
The tears might come later, but I was too angry. Too hurt. Too determined.
Inside, the lodge felt colder than I remembered. I started a fire with one of Griff’s fire starters and wrapped myself in a blanket, but the chill stayed buried under my skin.
I didn’t understand how Griff could let me fall for him—could let himself fall back—when he’d been keeping something so important from me. This wasn’t some little secret or innocent omission. This was about my uncle’s death. About threats, danger, and the very strong possibility that whoever had wanted this land might still be watching.
I pulled out Caleb’s journal again and flipped through the pages. The last few entries were more erratic than the others—less about the weather or animals, more about unease. Paranoia.
But it hadn’t been paranoia, had it?
It had been real.
Whoever had left that rabbit on my porch wanted me gone. It was a clear message, and I needed to figure out who the hell had sent it.
I booted up my laptop again, this time searching for any mention of Deever Jones or his California business partner. There wasn’t much. A failed listing for a luxury hunting lodge. An LLC tied to another project in Arizona that had been abandoned. And a news blip about his partner: a former reality TV producer named Rafe Mitchell.
Rafe Mitchell… Why did that name sound familiar?
I dug deeper, clicking through old articles, social media pages, anything I could find. Nothing screamed “danger,” but the connections to outdoor properties and trophy hunting were real and too many of them were recent. There were even mentions of Rafe attending a wildlife gala in Denver a few months ago. They were making connections, laying groundwork.
I rubbed my eyes. This was bigger than I thought.
The lodge wasn’t just a sentimental piece of land. It was prime real estate. And someone wanted it badly enough to harass an old man—and now, maybe, to come after me.
The door rattled. I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. It was just Appie rubbing against it from the inside. I blew out a breath, missing Scout. “You're no watchdog.”
I double-checked the locks and jammed a chair under the front door handle, just in case. Then I grabbed my camera bag and started laying out my gear on the table. If someone wanted to scare me off, they’d have to do more than leave roadkill on my doorstep.
I was going to document everything. I’d never been able to reach that trail cam, so it was still there. I could get the footage from Griff, either once we started talking to each other again or through the sheriff if I had to. I’d take pictures of everything else…tracks around the lodge or any other threats nailed to my porch posts. Hell, if I could catch Deever Jones or someone else doing his dirty work on my land, I’d photograph their faces and post flyers all over town.
I looked around at the cracked beams and dusty bookshelves, at the way the firelight danced across the wide planks of the floor. This wasn’t just land. This was my home now. I wasn’t going to let anyone take it from me or scare me away. Not a coward hiding behind threats. And definitely not a man too scared to tell me the truth.