Chapter 2 #2
“You knew about him, too?”
“Owen told me.”
Owen ‘Ghost’ Booker was the enigmatic security expert at the Ridge who rarely spoke to anyone about anything— except for Naomi. She’d somehow slipped past all of his defenses, and they were now engaged.
“He said the kid’s mother died. Car accident in Denver.”
Greta’s stomach clenched. “Shit. Is that why he left the engagement party in such a rush last week?” She stared at the ceiling fan, watching it spin lazy circles above her head. “Ugh. I was an ass to him at that party.”
“You’re an ass to everyone at parties.”
“Not like that.” She remembered the slap, the way his hand had caught her wrist, the heat that had flashed between them. “I was drunk and hurting, and I took it out on him.”
“Did you apologize?”
“Does it count if I only thought about it?”
“No.”
“Then no.” Greta sat up and decided to change the subject before she felt worse.”How’s the campaign going?”
Naomi was running for sheriff, trying to become the first Native woman to hold the office in the county’s history. She had bigger problems than Greta’s inconvenient attraction to a neighbor.
Naomi laughed. “I crushed him in the debate last night. You should’ve been there. It was beautiful.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be. I would’ve loved to see Goodwin’s face. Corrupt asshole shouldn’t be wearing a badge.
“I didn’t say that in the debate, but I may have implied it.”
She snorted. “I’m sure you did. Good for you.”
“Thanks. And how’s the search going? Any new leads?”
Her chest tightened. The search. Alice. The endless, fruitless hunt for her twin sister, who’d disappeared fifteen years ago. Almost sixteen now.
“Nothing.” She swallowed hard. “I’ve been up and down every trail within twenty miles of the Crooked Creek campground. Nothing.”
“You’ll find her.” The certainty in Naomi’s voice was the only thing that kept Greta going some days. “I know it.”
“Yeah.” She didn’t have the energy to argue. “Hey, I should go. Client hike at seven tomorrow.”
“Call me if you need anything. And Greta?”
“What?”
“Take the man some banana bread or something sweet. Be neighborly.”
“I don’t bake.”
“You could always roll in some sugar and—”
“Goodbye, Naomi.” Her best friend’s delighted laugh came through the speaker just as she hung up.
She got up and forced herself to shower, then plodded to the kitchen to make a sandwich, which she ate standing at the counter while she stared out the kitchen window at Bear’s house.
The lights were on downstairs in what she guessed was the living room.
Upstairs, a single lamp burned in what must be Logan’s bedroom.
Bear fucking McKenna. Right across the street.
This was going to be a problem.
She closed the curtain with a decisive yank. “We are not thinking about the Sasquatch across the street anymore,” she told Atlas firmly.
Atlas yawned, showing all his teeth in what looked suspiciously like skepticism.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She grabbed it, expecting Naomi again, but it was a security alert for her shop.
“What the hell?” She threw on a hooded sweatshirt over her pajama top and grabbed her Maglite and gun from the kitchen drawer, then shoved her feet into her boots. “Atlas. Let’s go, buddy. Someone’s fucking with my stuff.”
She backed the Jeep out of the driveway, checking Bear’s house as she did. All quiet, lights still on, but no movement behind the windows.
Good.
The last thing she needed was Sasquatch trying to be a hero.
Summit Outfitters was a ten-minute drive from Maple Street, located on the edge of town near the Bitterroot trailhead.
She’d bought the property five years ago after her father died and left behind a decent life insurance policy—one of the only good things her awful parents had ever done for her.
It wasn’t much. A weathered log building that housed her gear shop and office, with a large lot behind for her trailer and equipment.
But it was hers, and it pissed her off that someone was messing with it.
The place was closed for the night, the front windows dark, security lights casting long shadows across the parking lot.
She pulled around back, cutting the engine and lights before she reached the gate. Atlas growled softly in the passenger seat.
“Easy, boy,” she murmured, reaching over to scratch behind his ears. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with first.”
She climbed out, Maglite in one hand, her other resting on the pepper spray clipped to her belt.
The night air bit at her cheeks, the temperature having dropped into the low forties.
Her breath clouded in front of her as she approached the gate, sweeping the beam of the flashlight across the ground.
The padlock hung open, the hasp bent where someone had forced it. Dammit. She pushed through, Atlas at her heels, and made a quick circuit of the property. The main building was secure with no signs of forced entry. The supply shed was secure. The kayak rack was undisturbed.
But the horse trailer...
It sat lopsided.
She crouched beside it, running her hand along the inside of the rear tire. A clean slash ran along the sidewall, the rubber puckered where the blade had gone in.
She straightened, swinging the flashlight back toward the equipment shed. The heavy padlock was still secure, but fresh pry marks scored the metal where someone had tried to force it open.
“Shit.” Atlas pressed against her leg, his body tense, amber eyes scanning the darkness. “Someone was looking for something, buddy.”
Headlights swept across the parking lot as a vehicle turned in from the main road. Greta straightened, hand dropping to the pepper spray. The truck—a late-model Ford with a Goodwin Outfitting decal on the door—slowed, then stopped as the driver spotted her.
Daniel Goodwin rolled down his window. “Greta? Everything okay?”
She relaxed marginally. Daniel owned a hunting outfitter in Hamilton and had been in business almost as long as she had.
They weren’t friends, exactly, but they’d shared coffee at Nessie’s once, and he’d been professional enough when she’d gently shut down his suggestion of dinner.
Even though she had little love for the Goodwin family, Daniel wasn’t the worst of them.
“Fine,” she called back, keeping her voice light. “Just some asshole tourist who doesn’t understand ‘closed’ means ‘go the fuck away.’”
He parked and climbed out, crossing to where she stood. Daniel was tall, with the weathered good looks of a man who spent most of his time outdoors.
“You sure?” He frowned, following her flashlight beam to the slashed tire. “That doesn’t look like random vandalism.”
“Nah, just some drunk looking for easy gear to steal.” She shrugged, trying for casual. “Nothing taken. I’ll report it in the morning.”
He studied the damage, then the pry marks on the shed. “I don’t like this. Someone was specifically targeting your equipment.” His voice softened. “Look, why don’t I stay with you tonight? I’ve got a sleeping bag in my truck. I can camp out here, make sure no one comes back.”
The offer was reasonable enough, but something about the intensity of his focus made her skin crawl. “Thanks, but I’m good. Atlas and I have got it covered.”
“Greta.” He stepped closer. “I’m worried about you. This isn’t random. Someone’s sending a message.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.” She kept her tone firm but polite. “Really. I’ve got the security system, and Atlas here has a bite that could take off a hand.”
Daniel’s expression didn’t change. “I’d feel better if you’d let me walk you home, at least.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ve got my Jeep.”
“Then I’ll follow you.” It wasn’t a question. “Make sure you get there safe.”
She wanted to argue, but the set of his jaw told her it would be pointless. “Suit yourself.”
The drive back to Maple Street was tense, Daniel’s headlights a constant presence in her rearview mirror. She was grateful for the escort—she wouldn’t admit that out loud—but the way he’d inserted himself into the situation left a bad taste in her mouth.
She turned into her driveway, killing the engine. Daniel pulled up to the curb, rolling down his window.
“All good?” he called.
“All good. Thanks for the escort.” She gave him a thumbs up. “See you around.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Lock your doors, Greta.”
She waited until his taillights disappeared around the corner before she climbed out, Atlas jumping down beside her. The night had grown colder, her breath clouding in front of her face as she grabbed her bag from the back seat.
Movement across the street caught her eye.
Bear sat on his front step in the dark, no light behind him, just a massive silhouette against the night sky.
He stood as she turned, crossing the street in bare feet despite the forty-degree temperature.
He wore gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination and a thin t-shirt, like he didn’t feel the cold at all.
“You okay?” he asked without preamble, stopping at the edge of her driveway. “It’s after eleven.”
“I’m fine.” She hoisted her bag higher. “Just had to check on something at the shop.”
His eyes narrowed. “At midnight? In your pajamas?”
“I was already in bed when I got the alert.” She shrugged. “Some asshole tourist was messing with my trailer. Slashed a tire, tried to break into the equipment shed. No big deal.”
Bear didn’t buy it for a second. “That’s not random vandalism. That’s targeted.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “You report it?”
“Not yet. I will tomorrow.”
“You should call it in now.” He was close enough now that she could see the worry etched into the lines around his eyes. “This kind of thing can escalate if not dealt with.”
“I know how to handle myself, Bear.” The protectiveness in his voice should have annoyed her—she’d spent her whole life proving she didn’t need looking after—but instead, it sent an unwelcome warmth through her chest. “I’ve been running that business for five years. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“I’m not saying you can’t handle it.” His voice gentled. “I’m saying you shouldn’t have to. Not alone.”
The simple statement knocked the wind out of her. No one had ever put it that way before—not as a weakness on her part, but as a basic right. To not have to face everything alone.
She found herself wanting to tell him everything—about the flat tire, the pry marks, the way Daniel had looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. About how sometimes, in the dead of night, the weight of everything she carried felt too heavy for one person.
Instead, she said, “I’m good, Sasquatch. Really. But thanks.”
He studied her face, looking for the lie, then nodded. “If you need anything, I’m right across the street.”
“I know.” The words came out softer than she’d intended. “Get some sleep.”
He hesitated, then turned and crossed back to his house, his massive form moving with surprising grace. She watched him go, a strange tightness in her chest.
Inside, lights off, Atlas already curled on the bed, Greta stared at the ceiling and wondered why Bear’s protectiveness had felt safe—even sexy—while Daniel’s had made her skin crawl.
The difference was in the asking, she decided.
Daniel had told her what she needed. Bear had offered, then stepped back when she said no.
She rolled onto her side, punching her pillow into shape. It had to be a tourist. Some drunk looking for easy gear to steal, who’d gotten spooked when her security system tripped. Nothing more sinister than that.
But as she closed her eyes, all she could see was Bear’s face in the darkness, concern etched into the lines around his eyes.
And despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to have those strong arms around her, to feel the solid wall of his chest against her back, to—
“Nope,” she told the empty room. “Not going there.”
But sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of a giant with gentle hands and eyes that saw right through her walls.