Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Nora
The Spring Rescue Auction looks less like a fundraiser and more like a small-town riot with beer.
By the time I walk into Devil’s Peak Lodge, the place is already packed wall to wall with flannel, denim, and loud laughter bouncing off the timber ceilings.
Strings of white lights hang across the rafters, country music blasts from old speakers near the bar, and somewhere near the back of the room somebody’s yelling over a bidding war involving a fishing trip and a chainsaw sculpture.
I stop just inside the entrance, taking it all in.
“This is insane,” I mutter.
A woman carrying a tray of beers brushes past me and grins. “You haven’t seen anything yet, honey.”
Apparently not.
A group of women near the stage shriek as a tall blond man in a black henley winks at them while flexing theatrically beside an auction table.
“That’s Rune West,” the woman beside me says knowingly. “Land developer. Professional flirt. Margie’s been trying to marry him off for years.”
“Margie?”
“The woman currently threatening the auctioneer with a wooden spoon.”
I glance toward the stage and immediately spot an older woman with bright red lipstick aggressively shoving a stack of papers at a laughing man holding a microphone.
“Lord help us,” the woman sighs fondly.
“I’m starting to think everyone in this town knows everyone.”
“They do.”
That doesn’t exactly comfort me.
I move deeper into the lodge, camera bag hanging against my hip while I scan the room automatically, watching conversations stop and restart as people notice me. Some of the looks are curious. Some annoyed. A few openly suspicious.
Reporter from Seattle.
Trouble from the city.
The woman asking questions about missing hikers.
News travels fast in Devil’s Peak.
I head toward the bar, slipping onto an empty stool just as the bartender slides a whiskey toward a dark-haired man beside me.
“Another?” the bartender asks me.
“Tequila,” I answer.
The bartender nods approvingly. “You’ll survive longer up here drinking that.”
I’m halfway through the first sip when someone drops onto the stool beside mine.
“Careful,” a deep voice says. “They’ll eat you alive if they smell fear.”
Dark hair. Scar near his jaw. The kind of face that looks permanently amused by chaos.
“I thought sharks smelled blood,” I reply.
“Mountain people smell weakness faster.”
“Good thing I’m not weak.”
His grin widens slightly. “That’s exactly what Rhett said you’d say. I’m Jace, Search & Rescue.”
My grip tightens faintly around the glass. “Rhett talks about me?”
“Not much.” Jace takes a drink. “That’s how we know he’s interested.”
“I’m not interested in Rhett.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
I glare at him.
He laughs outright this time.
“You city girls are fun.”
“I’m not a city girl.”
“You’re drinking tequila at a mountain bachelor auction while wearing boots that cost more than my truck tires,” he says calmly. “You’re definitely a city girl.”
Before I can answer, the microphone squeals loudly overhead.
“Alright, ladies,” the auctioneer booms. “Who’s ready to spend irresponsible amounts of money for mountain men and women and make some questionable life decisions?”
The crowd erupts.
A woman near the front yells, “Take your shirt off, Rune!”
Rune points toward her dramatically. “Buy me dinner first, sweetheart.”
The room explodes into laughter.
I can’t help smiling despite myself.
The energy here is infectious. Loud and chaotic and warm in a way Seattle never is.
Until it shifts.
It happens slowly at first.
A few glances.
A whisper behind me.
Then another.
The back of my neck prickles instantly.
I turn slightly on the stool, scanning the room.
And there he is.
Dark baseball cap.
Tourist jacket.
Too focused on me.
Cold unease slides through my stomach.
“You alright?” Jace asks quietly.
Before I can answer, a drunk voice cuts across the room.
“Well, look who showed up.”
The entire lodge quiets just slightly.
I turn toward the sound and spot a broad man near the stage holding a beer bottle loosely in one hand. Tourist. Late forties. Red-faced already.
He points directly at me.
“Seattle reporter lady,” he says loudly. “Come to write another hit piece about the mountain folk?”
Several people shift uncomfortably.
I straighten slowly. “Just asking questions.”
“Yeah?” he slurs. “That what you people call it now?”
“Tom,” someone warns quietly.
But he keeps going.
“You reporters come up here acting like vultures every damn year. Missing hikers, corrupt land deals, scary mountain stories.” He laughs harshly. “You people don’t care who gets hurt as long as you get clicks.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
Every eye in the lodge lands on me.
“I’m doing my job,” I say evenly.
“You’re making money off dead people.”
The room goes quieter.
Tighter.
I set my glass down carefully. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know your kind.”
“Then you should know I don’t scare easily.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says with a mean grin. “You should.”
Something flickers behind the crowd near the projector screen.
Movement.
Then suddenly the lights dim.
A photograph flashes across the giant auction screen overhead.
My stomach drops so hard it physically hurts.
It’s me.
Sleeping inside my cabin.
Taken through the window.
The entire room goes dead silent.
No laughter.
No music.
Nothing.
My pulse roars in my ears as another photo appears.
Me unloading groceries earlier that afternoon.
Another.
Me standing outside Devil’s Brew last night.
Close enough to see my face clearly.
Humiliation slams into me first.
Then panic.
Then pure cold fear.
People start murmuring immediately.
“What the hell…”
“Who took those?”
“Jesus Christ…”
I can’t breathe properly.
I stare at the screen while heat floods my face and my chest tightens hard enough to hurt.
The drunk tourist laughs nervously. “Well damn, sweetheart. Looks like somebody likes you.”
The room shifts instantly after that.
Dangerous.
Wrong.
Because now everyone sees it too.
I force myself to move, grabbing my bag and stepping away from the bar.
I need air.
I need out.
But before I make it two steps, the entire room changes again.
Silence spreads outward in a wave.
Not awkward silence.
Respect.
The kind men fall into when something dangerous enters the room.
I turn instinctively.
And there’s Rhett.
He stands near the back entrance, broad shoulders filling the doorway, dark thermal stretched across his chest, Spring snow still melting off his boots. His expression doesn’t change as he takes in the projector screen.
But his eyes do.
Cold.
Violently cold.
The auctioneer clears his throat nervously. “Rhett…”
Rhett doesn’t answer him.
He walks straight toward me instead.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Every person in the lodge moves aside automatically.
The crowd parts for him without being asked.
I should feel relieved seeing him.
Instead my pulse kicks harder.
Because the look on his face?
That’s not calm.
That’s control barely holding itself together.
He stops directly in front of me, gaze scanning my face once before shifting toward the screen again.
“Who touched the projector?” he asks quietly.
Nobody answers.
Rhett looks toward the drunk tourist next.
The man visibly swallows.
“I didn’t do anything,” he says quickly.
Rhett keeps staring at him.
Then he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and drops it onto the auction table hard enough to make everyone jump.
“Ten thousand.”
The auctioneer blinks. “For what exactly?”
Rhett’s eyes stay on mine when he answers.
“Her.”
The room erupts instantly.
“Oh my God.”
“No damn way.”
“Rhett Maddox finally bid?”
Margie practically smacks Rune in excitement.
Jace starts laughing into his beer beside the bar.
Liam mutters, “Told you he was gone.”
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
Rhett ignores me completely.
“She’s with me,” he says to the room.
And somehow that’s worse.
Because everyone in Devil’s Peak immediately knows what those words mean.
Possession.
Protection.
Claiming.
A local woman near the front gasps dramatically. “Holy hell.”
Margie looks ready to cry from happiness.
“You cannot be serious,” I snap under my breath.
Rhett finally looks down at me fully.
Up close, he smells like snow and cedar and something painfully male that immediately tangles my thoughts.
“You want to stay here tonight?” he asks quietly.
“No.”
“Good.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re coming with me.”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before lifting again.
“Yeah,” he says calmly. “I do.”
I should argue harder.
I should tell him exactly where to shove his possessive mountain-man routine.
Instead, my pulse jumps when his hand settles lightly against my lower back.
Protective.
Possessive.
Certain.
And the worst part?
For the first time since those photographs hit the screen, I actually feel safe.
Which is dangerous all by itself.