Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Wow, Libby had lost a lot of blood.
Cringing, Scottie grabbed a pair of latex gloves from the box mounted above the stainless-steel sink in the basic galley.
The white kitchen towels that Chet and Libby must have used to stanch the bleeding on Libby’s wound sat in a sodden pile on the counter.
The metallic tang of blood mingled with the aroma of something delicious simmering in the pot on the stove.
The Quonset hut groaned softly as the wind swept across the sheet metal.
Four of the show’s contestants—Dawn, Sheldon, Theo, and Calista—sat at one of the tables talking in hushed voices.
“Hey, hold on,” Damian’s voice called out from behind her. “We have to follow OSHA protocol. Need a red bag for that.”
She glanced around. “Do you have one?”
“Yep, over here.” Damian crossed to the cabinet where they kept the coffee maker, opened it, pulled out something that looked like a red tackle box, and produced a red plastic bag with black letters on the outside.
Scottie took the bag. “Where’s Libby?”
“Down by the dock, waiting. We’ve hailed somebody from the clinic in Redemption. Oh, you probably know her. Caroline McGuire, one of Tate’s sisters.”
“Yeah, I heard that she worked in town.” Actually, she’d figured it out by snooping around on Lainey’s social-media posts.
She and Caroline, along with Caroline’s brothers’ girlfriends, hung out quite a bit.
At least according to the photos Lainey had posted a few weeks back.
The memory scraped at her—everyone coupled up, laughing in golden evening light—while she stood shoulder-deep in strangers and cables on the studio lot.
She battled back the lonely ache that threatened to hollow out her core. Who cared if her stepsister had good friends? Some of whom happened to be Tate’s sisters or maybe future sisters-in-law?
“Look, I know this probably freaks you out.” Damian put on a pair of disposable gloves. “Accidents happen. We’ll work through it.”
She glanced around. His assistant, Tabitha, and one of the grips stood near the door talking, eyes flicking to the smeared counter and away again. “Damian, are you sure this is safe? I can’t believe you don’t have on-site medical.”
“Wasn’t in the budget.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her, leaning in close. “I know you’re still working through what happened in Arizona, but I need you, Scottie.”
She glared at him. “Who said I was freaking out? I’m helping you clean up the blood, aren’t I? And by the way, this is your second injury in ten days. Somebody’s going to squawk about this.”
“Who?”
“The celebrity contestants are going to complain to their people that it’s not safe.”
“They all signed waivers.” Damian shrugged. “The showrunners want reality, so that’s what we’re giving them.”
“The authentic Alaskan experience,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“You’re going to be okay here. I wouldn’t have hired you on if I thought you couldn’t handle this. Besides, I promised your father that no harm would come your way.”
“I’ve barely picked up a camera.” She found a roll of paper towels. “We filmed for about five minutes before we had to stop.”
“It’s all hands on deck when somebody’s injured. As soon as Caroline gets here, examines Libby, and makes a decision about treatment, we’ll get back to business as usual.”
“So you want to keep filming?”
“Yeah, of course,” Damian said.
She turned off the stove, then squirted down the stainless-steel counter with the Damian-approved squirt bottle of industrial-strength cleaner.
The spray hit the metal in cold beads that ran pink before the foam whitened.
The smell burned the back of her throat.
She wiped up the mess, then tossed the paper towels in the red bag.
“Where’s Chet?” She gathered the knife and cutting board and tried not to look at the vivid smear before setting them both in the sink.
“He’s outside, waiting with Libby. They’re quite a pair.”
“Pretty deep cut, wasn’t it?”
Nodding, Damian tied the bag closed with a double knot and left it near the front door. “I’ll ask Caroline to take this back to town.”
“You can do that?”
“Absolutely.”
Her thoughts swung to Tate. She had the strongest urge to reach out, but funny thing, she didn’t have his number.
What was she gonna do? Revert to her high school ways?
Scribble a note on paper and shove it in his sister’s pocket?
The idea was absurd and yet painfully possible.
She pictured Caroline’s raised brow and felt heat climb her neck.
Damian’s phone chimed. He pulled it from his pocket. “Boat’s here with Caroline. I’m going to go talk to them. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to start shooting. I really want to get some footage of Elise and Theo foraging for berries.”
He left before she could respond. The door thudded and a strand of wind slid in, smelling of saltwater and diesel, rattling an open plastic bag containing paper napkins.
She stood in the middle of the kitchen. The half-chopped vegetables had been abandoned.
Onion skins curled like paper sails near the drain.
A tomato seed clung to the back of her glove.
Who would cook for them if Chet and Libby had to leave Port Frisco? She shook her head. Not her responsibility. She was here to operate a camera. And she wasn’t about to argue with Damian about how to care for the contestants or his staff.
He needed to stop worrying about her. Because honestly?
Scottie was just fine. Clearly he’d overreacted when he’d called Caroline for an update on the injured people at Port Frisco.
She’d let him know that he needed to settle down.
Tate pulled into the only empty parking spot and turned off his truck.
Sailor hopped up from the passenger seat, ears perked as he planted his paws on the center console and barked.
“I know, right? Bet you’re happy to be home from doggy daycare.” Tate tunneled his fingers through the puppy’s brown curls. “Looks like a packed house. Let’s go see what’s going on.” He clipped the leash onto Sailor’s harness, picked him up, then climbed out of the truck.
Tate walked around to the back door of the resort, stopping beside the fire pit to let Sailor sniff the ground.
“C’mon, pal.” Tate picked him up again and tucked him under his arm like a football. When he opened the back door of the resort, he bumped into his older brother Ethan.
“Good morning.” Ethan grinned. “You’re just in time.”
“For what?”
“The Ultimate Alaskan cast and crew have arrived. And they’re hungry.”
Tate frowned. “Seriously?”
“Wouldn’t joke about that,” Ethan said, stepping back so Tate and Sailor could come inside. Sailor yipped at Ethan.
“I see you, buddy.” Ethan patted Sailor’s head. “Do you have a crate for him in your truck?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re going to need it. He can’t be around when we’re serving food like this.” Ethan clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll grab it for you.”
“Thanks.” Tate stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. The aroma of eggs, coffee, and maple syrup greeted him.
Dad backed his wheelchair out of the pantry, a canister of old-fashioned oats balanced on his lap. Mom, Emma, and Tisha all talked at once as they hustled around the kitchen, gathering serving dishes, plates, and silverware.
“Whoa,” Tate said. “What is happening right now?”
“Hi, sweetie.” Mom tugged on her oven mitts. “Long story short, one of the cooks out at Port Frisco cut her hand pretty badly.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Tate said. “Radio chatter carried over to the channel I was using at work.”
“Caroline stitched her up, but they’re in a bind until the woman recovers.” Dad set the oats on the counter. “Damian asked if we could house and feed some of his staff and a few of the contestants.”
“We’re serving vegetarian egg-white omelets and there’s a waffle bar.” Tisha smiled at him. “Want to stick around for leftovers?”
“For real, Mom?” Tate angled his head out of the way to dodge Sailor’s exuberant kisses.
Mom stared at him over the top of her reading glasses. “Is there a problem, Tate?”
“That seems a bit excessive. What happened to continental breakfast?”
“A full breakfast is what Chet had on the menu. I agreed to provide something comparable.” Mom glanced down at her iPad. “That’s what the contract states as well.”
“You signed a contract already? When?”
“Couldn’t help but overhear.” Damian walked up behind him, then brushed past. “Are you concerned about allergies, Tate? Because I’ve logged almost everyone’s food preferences. Except for Scottie’s, and?—”
“She’s not allergic to anything,” Tate said quickly. Too quickly. His ears went hot.
Damian’s brows sailed upward. “Good to know. As you were saying, Mrs. McGuire?”
“Tate, honey, could you run out to the extra fridge in the shed and get me a container of almond-milk creamer? We’re going to need that.”
“I’ve got it,” Hank said. “I’m headed out that way now.”
“Hank, what’s going on?” Tate clapped the older man on his beefy shoulder. “Thought you were fishing this weekend.”
“Handling a plumbing issue first. I’ll be right back.”
As he left through the back door, Megan came in, carrying two cardboard drink carriers. Her cheeks were flushed, and raindrops dotted her green jacket.
“Wow, who ordered all that?” Tate moved out of the way, cradling Sailor against his chest.
“The guests that are staying here, I hope.” Megan crossed the kitchen and set the drinks down on the counter. She pulled her phone from her pocket. “Want to help me deliver them?”
“Sure. Let me put Sailor in his crate.”
Ethan came in with the canvas-and-mesh portable pet carrier. Tate arranged it under their family’s dining room table, away from the food preparation, added a treat he’d found tucked in his coat pocket, then settled Sailor inside.
The puppy whined, but Tate kept moving. Ethan had a valid point. Having an animal around when his family was working hard to serve food probably wouldn’t go well. For anyone.