Chapter 15
Cole crouched beside the porch steps of his granddad’s cabin. Carefully, he worked two fingers into the gap between the bottom riser and the frozen ground and found the front door key. The metal was cold enough to burn, but he held on until it came loose.
The skeleton key was tarnished with age and threaded through an old shoelace. When he was ten years old, Earl Morrison had pressed the key into Cole’s palm with a smile that made him feel special.
The bottom step, left side, his granddad had told him. In case you or your brother ever need the place and I’m not around.
His granddad hadn’t been around for more than fifty years, but the key still had the power to make his heart pound with a mixture of grief and gratitude.
The front door swung inward on stiff hinges. As Cole stepped inside the cabin, he let his eyes adjust to the gloomy interior.
He hadn’t been here in a long time. The single main room was smaller than he remembered.
The wood stove still sat in the far corner, its iron legs planted on the square of hearthstone his granddad had laid.
Two windows flanked either side of the door.
The glass was cloudy with dust and the residue of hard winters.
Cole’s gaze wandered along the back wall. A narrow kitchen filled the end of the cabin. Overhead was the loft where he’d slept with James, his brother.
He ran his hand along the rungs of the ladder. Two generations of hands had worn the wood as smooth as a silk shirt.
He smiled as he remembered racing his brother up and down the ladder like two over-excited monkeys. Over the years, they’d enjoyed carefree summers, harsh winters, and lots of weekend getaways with their family in this small cabin.
Crossing to the shelf beside the stove, he picked up his granddad’s tin of matches.
Most of what sat next to it was practical.
There was a folded emergency blanket still in its packaging and a hand-drawn map of the surrounding trails.
Whenever they’d discovered a new trail, his granddad had marked it on the map with a red ballpoint pen.
After fifteen years of careful additions, it looked like a severe case of the measles had attacked the paper.
Beside the map was a framed photograph. The glass had a hairline crack along one corner, but the image beneath it was undamaged.
Earl Morrison was standing on the deck of the fishing cabin, his arms draped across the shoulders of two boys who bore a strong resemblance to him. Cole was gap-toothed and nine. James was fifteen going on twenty, and already taller than their grandfather.
Cole remembered the smell of the lake and the weight of a fish he’d caught that morning. And the way his granddad had called him capable before any adult in his life had thought to say it.
Cole’s dad had taken the photo. A part of him wished he could step back in time to the carefree weekends they’d spent together. He’d tell himself to enjoy each moment, to savor his grandfather’s wise words, and to be present in his family’s life.
As an adult, Cole measured his success by how many hours he worked and how much money he made. What he hadn’t realized was that the life he led was a roadmap for regrets and missed opportunities.
If his grandfather were here to see him now, Cole didn’t know what he’d think.
Setting the photograph on the table, he took a deep breath and sat in a chair.
Outside, the pines absorbed the wind without protest. Flathead Lake was a quarter mile through the trees in one direction, the Finley Point site less than two miles in the other.
He pulled out his phone and called his brother.
James picked up on the second ring. “Hi, Cole. I was wondering when you’d surface.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“That’s the problem. You’re always busy.” James’s voice held the ease of a man who had a great job, a wonderful wife, and very few issues. “How’s the Montana project going?”
Cole glanced at the photo. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“Someone damaged the construction equipment a few weeks ago. They put sugar in the fuel tanks and cut the hydraulic lines. It cost us a lot of time and money.” Cole studied the joy on his granddad’s face. “And then last week, a fire destroyed the large storage shed.”
Silence came from the other end of the phone. “Was it arson?”
“That’s what the sheriff thinks. A former journalist who’s living in Sapphire Bay is helping me find who’s responsible. She’s been interviewing anyone in town who’s been associated with the project.”
“Shouldn’t you be leaving that to the sheriff?”
“In a perfect world, yes,” Cole told his brother. “But the police department is understaffed. We’re sharing everything we find with them.”
“As long as you don’t get hurt.”
Cole looked at the photo of his granddad and brother. Getting hurt when they were younger meant scraped knees or a broken bone. If the people responsible for the sabotage were determined to stop the development, the outcome could be more serious than needing a Band-Aid or a sling.
James cleared his throat. “Are you all right?”
Cole frowned. “I’m fine.”
“You said that when you had your heart attack. You aren’t overdoing things in Montana, are you?”
“I’m fine, James.” But even as he said it, Cole recognized the hollowness of his words. He was tired in ways that had nothing to do with sleep. The fire had rattled something in him. Not his resolve, but his certainty that everything would sort itself out the way his projects always had.
“I’m at Granddad’s cabin,” Cole told his brother.
Another pause. “I was wondering if you’d go there. Was the key in the same place?”
Cole turned the skeleton key over in his hand. “It was. The cabin needs work. The stove looks okay, but the weatherstripping is shot and something got into the loft at some point. Squirrels, probably.”
James laughed. “Do you remember the baby squirrel we found in the kindling box? When you told Granddad you were taking it home, we both got a lecture about not having wild creatures as pets.”
It had broken Cole’s heart not to look after the squirrel. It wasn’t until their mom promised to take it to a local wildlife center that Cole felt better. “I found the photo. The one from our last fishing trip with Dad and Granddad.”
“I haven’t seen that in years,” James said softly.
Cole picked up the frame and studied the joy on each of their faces. “I’ll send a copy of it to you.”
“Thanks.” James paused. “Granddad would have liked your latest project. You’re building something lasting in a place that matters to you. That would have made sense to him.”
Cole nodded and set the key on the table beside the photograph.
Through the nearest window, a branch swayed against the glass. Cole watched its slow, unhurried contact. Everything here seemed to move at that pace. The lake, the light, and even the seasons seemed to arrive without urgency.
“How’s Diane?” he asked.
“She’s good. The kids are—” James stopped abruptly. Cole heard his name spoken in the background, a woman’s voice, distinct and immediate. “Hold on a second.” A muffled exchange, too low to decipher, then James came back. “Hey, I have to go. Diane needs me for something. You know how it is.”
Cole looked at the photograph. “Sure.”
“Call me if anything else happens with the site. And Cole—”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t stay at the cabin for too long by yourself. Granddad would have said the same thing.” When Cole didn’t reply, James sighed. “I’ll call you next week.”
After they ended the call, Cole kept the phone in his hand. He stared at the two windows opposite him, at the porch steps barely visible through the dusty glass.
The cabin had been his sanctuary until it wasn’t, and nothing would change what had happened here.
Pushing away the tragedy clouding his mind, he walked across to the woodstove. He’d figure out how to heat the cabin. Because, despite the dust, the cobwebs, and the memories, he wasn’t ready to leave.