Bearing His Sins (Valor Ridge #4)

Chapter 1

one

Bear backed the U-Haul trailer into the driveway of the Maple Street rental and killed the engine.

The steering wheel creaked as he released his grip, his palms damp with sweat despite the chill in the air.

In Montana, even in early June, the air could bite.

Winter wouldn’t give up her grip on the state until she was good and ready.

Same could be said for the kid sitting in icy silence in the passenger seat of his truck. Bear had a feeling winter would give up to summer long before his son thawed to him.

Across the cab, Logan hadn’t moved. Hadn’t said a word since they’d crossed the Montana state line. He just stared out the passenger window with his earbuds in and his jaw set hard enough to crack a tooth.

Christ, it was like looking in a mirror, seeing his own teenage self.

The same stubborn set of the shoulders, the same dark eyes that could cut you with a look.

Logan was as tall as Bear had been at fifteen, already over six feet, all lanky limbs and sharp angles, growing into the broad shoulders that would eventually match his father’s.

It was hard being the tallest person in any room, standing out even when you’d rather blend in.

It was harder when you were fifteen and angry at the world.

Sorry for that, kid.

Bear was sorry for a lot of things. Logan inheriting his obscene height was the least of it.

King whined from the back seat, a trail of drool marking the upholstery where he’d been resting his massive head. The Leonberger was better at reading moods than most humans, and he’d been picking up on Logan’s tension for the entire drive.

“It’s okay, boy,” Bear said, though he wasn’t sure if he was reassuring the dog or himself. “Hey, Logan. We’re here.”

No response. Silence had become Logan’s default since that first terrible night in Denver when Bear had walked into the emergency foster home, and the boy had looked at him with such hatred that it had cracked his heart.

The drive from Colorado to Montana—nearly a thousand miles of truck stops and roadkill—had been marked by one-word answers, aggressive music blaring through earbuds, and the silence that expanded to fill every inch of the truck’s cab until Bear thought he might suffocate.

He turned from his son and sat for a moment, studying the house Walker Nash had helped him find.

Maple Street was on the north edge of Solace, far enough from the center of town to offer privacy but close enough that they could walk to Nessie’s Place if they needed coffee or the general store for groceries.

A fresh start for them both.

The house looked rougher than in the photos Walker had sent. Peeling paint, a porch that listed left, a kitchen window with a curtain rod that was already bowing. It was supposed to be the place where he figured out how to be Logan’s father.

Now that they were here, the whole thing looked impossibly small for everything it was supposed to hold.

But it came furnished, had three bedrooms, a fenced yard for King, and it was the best he could afford on a ranch hand’s salary with his credit and his prison record.

“This is it?” Logan finally spoke, voice flat as he yanked out his earbuds. “This dump?”

Bear bit back his first response—that it was a hell of a lot better than prison—and instead said, “It’s not much, but we can fix it up.”

Logan snorted and shoved his phone into his pocket. “Whatever.”

Bear gritted his teeth. That word. Everything was “whatever.” Did he want to stop for a bathroom break? Whatever. Was he hungry? Whatever.

Logan wielded it like a weapon and a shield.

He opened his mouth to say… hell, he didn’t even know, but movement on the porch caught his attention, and he turned.

Margery Pendry stood there, wrapped in a wool coat older than Bear, a leather purse the size of a suitcase on her arm, a tin of something in her hands.

She raised one hand in greeting, her smile crinkling the weathered skin around her eyes.

“Right on time,” she called out as Bear opened his door. “I made cookies. Oatmeal raisin. Your boy likes those?”

Bear glanced at Logan, who was still staring out the window, earbuds firmly back in place. “Hard to say. We’re still figuring things out.”

“Ah.” Marge’s expression softened with understanding. “Well, boys his age like cookies regardless. It’s a universal truth.”

Yeah, but maybe not oatmeal raisin.

He kept that thought to himself.

King bounded out of the truck toward the porch with ears flattened in excitement, tongue trailing drool.

Fuck.

He had flashes of his dog, who had no idea how big he was, plowing over Margery and breaking every bone in the octogenarian’s body. “King, no!”

But King skidded to a halt just inches from Margery, dropped his head, and wagged his tail with such enthusiasm that his entire body wiggled, and Margery just laughed. She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by his size, even though his head came up to her chest.

“Hello, you big, beautiful thing,” she cooed and gave a delighted grin when he nuzzled against her hand. She scratched behind his ears, and the dog melted against her, drool pooling by her foot on the porch boards. “You look like a lion, you know that?”

“Sorry about that,” Bear said, climbing the steps. “He thinks he’s a lap dog.”

She straightened and waved away his apology. “Don’t apologize. I’ve had dogs my whole life. This one’s a sweetheart.”

Yeah, sometimes. Other times, he was a mammoth, furry pain in the ass.

Margery straightened up and fixed him with a look that seemed to take his measure in one glance. “So you’re Dane McKenna. Walker’s told me all about you.”

“Everyone calls me Bear, ma’am.” He extended his hand, and she clasped it with surprising strength. “Thank you for renting to us.”

“Pfft. None of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense. I’m Marge to everyone.” She sized him up again. “Walker didn’t mention you were mountain-sized.”

Bear shrugged. “I get that a lot.”

She frowned. “The shower is going to be a squeeze for you.”

He was used to it. The world wasn’t made for 6-foot-7 men. “I’ll make do.”

Margery’s attention shifted to the truck, where Logan sat motionless. “That your boy?”

“Yeah. That’s Logan.” Bear raised his voice. “Logan! Come meet Marge.”

Logan didn’t move.

“Logan!”

The kid finally yanked out his earbuds and glared. “What?”

“Come say hello.”

Logan dragged himself out of the truck like he was being led to execution. His hoodie was pulled up over his dark hair, and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets as he shuffled across the gravel driveway.

“This is Margery Pendry,” Bear said. “She owns the house.”

Logan nodded once. “Hey.”

Marge didn’t seem bothered by his attitude. She just studied him with the same assessing look she’d given Bear. “I brought cookies.” She shoved the tin into Logan’s hands, then added. “You’ll be needing curtains for your room. The street light shines right through that window. I have curtains.”

Logan blinked, thrown by the non sequitur. “Okay?”

Marge smiled. “I’ll bring them over later. Now, be a good boy and help your dad with unpacking that truck.”

Bear expected Logan to argue, but the boy just shrugged, set the tin down on the porch rail, and headed for the back of the U-Haul.

Progress.

Maybe.

“Thanks for the cookies,” Bear said. “And for not asking a million questions.”

Marge waved her hand dismissively. “Walker told me enough, and I trust him. You’re a good man who made mistakes. Your boy needs time and a safe place to heal after losing his mama. I understand that.”

The knot of anxiety that had been choking him for days loosened a fraction.

It was good to be home. Or home-ish, since he’d rather be back at the Ridge.

But the bunkhouse was no place to raise a kid, and the inhabitable cabins were already taken.

The rest of the cabins were either being razed or rebuilt this summer by Maggie Rowe and her team for her home improvement show.

“Still, I appreciate it, ma’am—uh, Marge.”

“And Walker says you’ll fix things up around here that need fixin’.”

The sparkle in her eyes told him Walker said no such thing, but he was too charmed by the fiesty old woman to call her out on the manipulation. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good. Now go on. Get moved in before that storm rolls in.” She nodded toward the western sky, where dark clouds were gathering. “Montana weather changes faster than a teenager’s mood.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

Bear thanked Margery again and watched to make sure she made it down the rickety porch steps safely—he’d definitely be fixing that death trap masquerading as stairs first—then followed Logan to the truck.

“Can’t we just leave it for now?” Logan asked, staring glumly at everything left from his life in Denver, shoved into the trailer. “I’m tired.”

Bear heard the unspoken part: I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be with you. I want my mom back.

“Look,” he said, keeping his voice even, “I know you’re tired. I know this sucks. But we need to get the bed frames and mattresses inside tonight. The house is furnished except for the beds. Once we find those, everything else can wait.”

Logan grumbled, but stepped forward and picked up a box. Despite his lanky frame, the kid was strong.

Just like his old man.

The thought made Bear’s throat tighten. If Logan had both his strength and his temper…

Fuck.

They made three trips between the truck and the porch, with him carrying the heavier furniture pieces while Logan handled the boxes.

They didn’t speak, but the silence felt less hostile than before.

He was about to suggest they take a break for some of Margery’s cookies when a car door slammed across the street, and a skitter of awareness worked up the back of his neck.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Greta Dougherty was wrestling a kayak off the roof of her mud-spattered red Jeep.

She had her back to him, but he’d know that wild strawberry blonde hair anywhere, the determined set of her spine, the way she moved—all fierce, concentrated energy, a live wire trapped in a petite body.

Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face as she strained against the weight of the kayak.

Of all the houses in Solace. Of all the streets. Of all the neighbors.

Walker did not warn him about this. Walker, Bear was now sure, knew. The bastard had probably arranged it.

Bear stood frozen, the forty-pound box of Logan’s books suddenly feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds as he watched Greta wrestle with the kayak. He should look away. Should finish unloading. Should pretend he hadn’t seen her.

But then the kayak won.

It slid off the roof rack, Greta lost her grip on the bow, and ten feet of polyethylene came down on her with the inevitability of physics.

She went flat on her back in her own driveway under the kayak, arms still up like she was holding it off her face, and from across the street Bear heard, very clearly: “Son of a—”

He was moving before he’d decided to move. He dropped the box and was across Maple Street in seven strides, King bounding ahead of him.

A black Lab appeared from nowhere, circling Greta with ears flat, whining anxiously. Atlas. Her search and rescue dog.

“Off, buddy,” Bear told Atlas, who immediately stepped back. At least he was well-trained, unlike King, who still stood there wagging his tail, completely oblivious to the emergency.

Bear lifted the kayak off her with one hand, as if it weighed nothing.

He set the kayak down on her lawn, then turned back to look at her still sprawled in the gravel driveway.

Her hair was full of grit, coffee splattered up the side of her parka, and a fresh scrape marked her cheekbone. “Greta. Always getting into trouble.”

“Sasquatch.” She blinked up at him, surprise flashing across her features before settling into something more guarded. “You moved out of the ranch.”

“I moved.”

“Across the street from me.”

Bear felt his ears grow hot. “Apparently.”

“Huh.” A long pause. “Well. Are you just going to stand there, or put those big, sexy arms to use and help me up?”