Chapter 2 #2
He stepped out of his skis and picked them up, then crunched through the snow to his Chevy Silverado. He packed his skis and his boots into the covered back, then pulled out a bowl and poured water for Orlando. The dog lapped it up, then jumped onto the front seat, his tail wagging.
Jericho’s heart had stopped thundering, his pulse back to normal. So, clearly, getting off the mountain did them both good.
“I need some coffee, pal, and then it’s time to face the music.” He got into the truck and pulled out, heading for Copper Mountain.
Aka, the place he just couldn’t seem to forget.
Early afternoon sun slanted through the storefront windows as Jericho pulled up to the Last Frontier Bakery. He left Orlando in the truck, curled up on the passenger seat with a chew toy, the windows cracked to let in the crisp air. Five minutes in, five minutes out.
And oh, he’d forgotten how much he loved the scent of cinnamon rolls and fresh espresso. Even now, the place hummed with conversation, and the warmth hit him like a wave, thawing the chill in his bones.
Jericho ordered a black coffee.
“Jericho Bowie, as I live and breathe.”
He turned to see Echo Kingston standing by the counter, her golden hair braided over her shoulder, a little boy on her hip. He couldn’t remember the kid’s name.
“Echo. What’s going on?”
“You first. When did you get back?”
Her green eyes looked to the window, back at him, her smile almost conspiratorial.
Whatever. So he was back. Big whoop. Not for long.
And besides, he doubted anyone would notice.
Or care.
“Just passing through.” The barista handed him his coffee, the heat of the cup seeping into his hand. He added a cardboard sleeve. “I’m helping the sheriff with a case.”
“Really.”
It was the way she said it, drawing it out with a small singsong tone, that made him pause, frown.
Jericho sipped his coffee and waved goodbye to Echo, the midday light glaring off the bakery’s windows as he headed back to his truck.
Here went nothing.
The drive to the Bowie family resort on the Copper River took him down the street, past the pizza joint, the sheriff’s office, and even the family’s outfitter’s store. Good for Hudson, expanding their brand. He always knew his younger brother was the right one to carry the mantle.
Behind him, clouds hung low, the mountain peaks and especially Denali rising above them, a hazy outline. The scent of a blizzard burdened the air.
The resort lodge’s steep, dark metal roof caught the sun’s rays, and smoke curled from the stone chimney, the scent of burning cedar faint in the air.
A covered porch jutted from the main doors of the resort.
On the other side, the expansive porch was dotted with rocking chairs and lantern lights, and maybe even guests sitting under blankets.
Pine trees framed the property, their needles rustling in the breeze, and the river’s hum sounded, ever alive against the will of winter.
He’d spent enough time fixing plumbing, shoveling the parking lot and front entry, and even greeting guests with his dad, that the place still harbored brutal memories.
Even so, it was one thing to show up here, at the lodge.
Quite another to go all the way up the road to the Bowie estate where the real ghosts lived.
He pulled up to the family quarters on the far end of the resort, a separate log home that sat just away from the main lodge. A former four-bedroom rental cottage, Hudson had converted it to a private home after . . .
Well, Jericho supposed his brother needed to be on-site, and the old house probably felt just as haunted to him as it did to Jericho.
He parked the Chevy, gravel crunching under the tires, then sat a moment, his hand in Orlando’s soft fur. “Okay, this gets easier every time, right?”
The dog’s tail thumped.
Right.
He got out, then opened the back and hauled out his duffel. With Orlando trotting beside him, he headed to the family quarters.
The warmth of the family’s lodge hit him with the sharp tang of . . . Is something burning?
He dropped his duffel by the door, glanced at the tall stone hearth, the flames there flickering—
No. Because right then, an alarm sounded—
He dashed across the living room still wearing his boots and pushed into the kitchen.
A pot sat on the stove, smoke curling from the edges, the acrid stench stinging his nose. What—?
He yanked it off the heat, the handle searing his palm through his gloves, set the entire pan in the sink, took off the lid and turned the faucet full on.
Whatever burnt offering sat inside sizzled, hissing, steam billowing.
He grabbed a towel from the granite counter and waved it toward the smoke alarm, still piercing.
“What’s burning?”
Hudson stormed into the room, breathing hard.
He was just four years Jericho’s junior, but the stress of running the resorts had carved lines around his hazel-blue eyes—eyes that matched Jericho’s own.
Hudson’s dark hair, a shade lighter than Jericho’s, stuck up in messy tufts, and his flannel shirt hung loose over a lean, yet solid frame.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, and the faint scent of diesel clung to him.
Maybe he’d been tinkering with the lodge’s generator again.
“Lunch?” Jericho indicated toward the cooling pan.
Hudson stopped, his gaze on Jericho. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” Jericho said. And that’s when he noticed Orlando, his ears back, leaning hard against his leg. “It’s okay, buddy.”
Hudson frowned, but Jericho cut him off before he could ask. “I’ll spring for pizza.”
Hudson sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his fingers smudged with grease.
“Only if it’s takeout. I’m buried in work.
I just got back from the Eagle’s Nest. They’re installing the new boiler, but I got a call from Malachi and apparently the generator is acting up again.
He’s worried about the blizzard. We don’t have many guests right now, but the last thing we want is for them to freeze to death. ”
“Yeah, for some reason death always nets a negative review.”
Hudson offered a grim smile. “Listen, feel free to pick up a wrench.”
His phone buzzed, and it saved him, really. He wasn’t the family handyman.
He pulled out his phone. A text from Sheriff Deke Starr.
Need you at the office. Now.
“I’ve got to run. Don’t burn the place down.”
“Five minutes back and you’re already bossing me around.” Hudson walked over to the sink. “That was a fine piece of venison.”
Jericho couldn’t tell if his little brother might be kidding. “I’ll be back. Maybe with pizza—”
“It’s okay.” He glanced at Jericho. Then at Orlando. Wore an expression that Jericho couldn’t interpret. “I don’t have time to eat.”
Sounded like his father, really, once upon a time.
“We’ll see if you have time when I come home with a Starlight meat lovers.”
He finally got a full grin out of Hudson. Jericho patted his leg. Orlando stepped up, then followed him out.
The sun had started a slow melt into the granite-white mountains to the west, a molten puddle across the darkening horizon. He drove to the sheriff’s office, a small former house on Main Street, its weathered clapboard siding painted a faded gray.
The floor creaked under his boots as Jericho stepped inside, Orlando on his tail. A couple desks cramped the area behind a long reception desk, and beyond that sat Deke’s windowed office. A coffee maker gurgled in the corner, burning the contents that had probably turned to sludge in the pot.
A couple stale donuts sat on a plate, turning to stone, he guessed.
“Hey Shasta,” he said to the dispatcher. She was in her mid-twenties, had her dark hair pulled back. She wore street clothing, so not a cop, but stood up when he entered. “Oh.”
Oh? “I’m here to see Deke.”
“He’s in the conference room.” She gestured to the closed door. “Um . . .”
Um? He frowned at her.
She offered a smile, but it wavered on the sides. Weird.
“Thanks.” He headed through the swinging gate and down the hall, his boots thudding on the creaky floorboards. Through the windowed door at the end of the hall, he spotted a guy in a grimy jacket in one of the two holding cells in the back. Maybe that accounted for her expression?
Jericho didn’t bother to knock as he pushed the door open.
A larger room held three tables set up in a U-shape. At the front, maps scattered over a corkboard—red pushpins marking the last known sightings of the Sons of Revolution.
The air smelled of more stale coffee, and a cracked window let in the crisp scent of pine.
Sheriff Deke Starr stood by the map, his broad shoulders filling out a tan uniform.
At thirty-four, same as Jericho, Deke carried the weight of the job in the lines around his eyes.
He turned as Jericho came in and walked up.
His handshake was still firm, his voice a low rumble. “Glad you made it.”
At the board, a woman stood with her back to them. She studied the map, her long blond hair spilling in waves over a black coat, the collar turned up against the chill.
She turned.
Jericho’s breath caught.
What? No . . . What?
Seven years looked good on her, and just like that, the past swept over him and latched on.
Harley Tatum.
And that’s when he got Shasta’s Oh. And the Um. Because the exact words rumbled inside him.
Oh. Um . . . “Hey.”
Harley cocked her head. Her golden-brown eyes locked on his, sharp as a blade and, yes, he’d read the weather right.
Here’s Trouble was back in town.
And he was about to be in a world of hurt.