Chapter 6
The Bowie family home smelled like cedar and woodsmoke, sounded of laughter. Her chest ached with the familiarity of it all. After all, the boys next door had been like brothers, or at least all but one.
Maybe she could blame the bruising from the shot.
Okay, probably not.
She walked down the hall of the lodge, willing herself steady, wearing one of Kennedy’s borrowed sweatshirts. She’d taken a bath in her grand en suite tub, trying to stave off her headache with hot water.
It helped, at least a little, and maybe this wasn’t a terrible idea. And something about Jericho’s tone behind his words—“Forget it, HT. This isn’t a request”—had found its way into her heart.
Was it worry?
Now, she entered into the great room, lured a little by the smell of garlic and roasting beef in the kitchen.
Such a grand room. It soared two stories, with massive log beams crisscrossing overhead, the fading afternoon light filtering through tall windows that overlooked the half-frozen Copper River.
It was not the grand Bowie estate where they’d grown up, but Hudson and Malachi had done well recreating the feeling of their old home.
A cozy elegance paired with a towering river rock hearth that stretched to the ceiling with a crackling fire and worn comfortable leather furniture—clearly moved from the old house—formed a conversation area around a thick braided wool rug.
She’d been transported in time.
Her fingers touched her sternum, testing the tenderness. The bruise probably looked impressive by now, all purple and black where the vest had caught the shot.
“You should sit down before you fall down.”
She turned—too fast—and the room tilted. Jericho stood in the doorway that led to an expansive kitchen, holding a mug of what smelled like peppermint tea.
Orlando came to her. Sat.
“I’m fine standing.” Her voice came out scratchy, and she saw him flinch at the sound.
He didn’t argue, just walked over to the conversation area and set the mug on a heavy oak coffee table that bore the scars and water rings of family life. “Your mom’s recipe. For headaches.”
The words caught her off guard. “You remember that?”
“Hard to forget. She used to bring it to every hockey game.” His mouth quirked. “Peppermint, honey, and magic, she called it.”
Yes, she had. Her mother had a home remedy for everything, a true artist in all she touched, from her original poetry about the northern lights to her hand-knit sweaters and her belief that God’s love could fix anything.
The room swayed again, and Harley caught herself on the back of the couch. Jericho took a step forward, hands lifting, then stopped himself.
“Please sit before you crack your head open.”
She sank onto the leather couch, its cushions bearing the same worn softness she remembered. How many nights had she sat on this sofa, watching a movie with Jericho? All the time wishing, of course, he’d pull her closer.
Orlando padded over and, to her surprise, laid his chin on her knee. His brown eyes blinked up to her.
“He doesn’t usually warm up to people this quick,” Jericho said quietly, lowering himself into a chair across from her. The firelight caught his face, highlighting the sharp planes, the shadow of dark stubble on his jaw. “Especially since . . .”
“The avalanche?” She kept her voice soft, scratching behind Orlando’s ears. The dog’s tail gave a tentative wag.
“You know about that?”
“It made the PEAK K9 rescue page.”
He stared at her. “You follow PEAK K9?”
She lifted a shoulder, offered a smile. “It came into my feed one day—probably because I follow Winter. She has her own YouTube account. She posts videos from Air One Rescue, and PEAK K9 is similar content, I guess.”
He nodded. Sighed.
“What happened?” She put her hand on Orlando’s head, ran her fingers into his fur. “You mentioned him being afraid of big sounds?”
Jericho’s jaw tightened. He looked toward the fire and something dark moved through his eyes.
“Yeah. We were running a training exercise at a resort in Montana. My fault. I didn’t check the schedule, didn’t realize they were doing control work .
. .” He drew in a breath. “We got caught in a slide. Trapped for four hours.”
Oh. “And this guy got scared?”
“Hasn’t been the same. Spooks at loud noises, forgets his training.
I’ve been working on it, but . . . yeah, I think we’re back to square one.
I thought a new environment might help him, so we came up to Alaska.
I’ve been working with ski patrol in Anchorage just to get him acclimated to being back on the mountain. ”
“So that’s why you came back?”
“Partly.” He rubbed his palms on his jeans. “After the slide, I couldn’t . . . The training center was doing well, but I . . . I needed a change. And I missed active SAR work. Then I heard about my uncle’s arrest, and I needed to check on my brothers.”
“Your uncle?”
“Yeah. Turns out he was a murderer.” His mouth tightened at the edges. “Long story. But Hudson and Mal were trying to run this place on their own, and I just”—he lifted a shoulder—“needed to check in, I guess.”
He looked away, his jaw tight.
And so many questions sat inside her—like why he hadn’t returned after he got out of the military. And more, what kept him from setting up shop here?
Orlando whined softly and hopped up onto the couch beside her, settling down against her. The warmth of him seeped through her borrowed clothes, oddly comforting.
She took a sip of her tea. “Yeah, you nailed it.”
He glanced over at her, and his smile was slow but spread over her like warm honey.
Oh no. No, no—
Voices drifted from the kitchen, followed by a laugh. Sully appeared in the doorway, along with his wife.
Kennedy’s smile was warm, though concern flickered in her eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got shot.” Harley managed a smile. “But the vest did its job.”
“Hudson’s determined to cook dinner,” Sully said, his expression dubious. “We tried to talk him out of it, but—”
A clatter of pans from the kitchen punctuated his words.
“I should go supervise.” Kennedy pressed a kiss to Sully’s cheek. “Make sure he doesn’t burn anything down.”
Sully leaned against the doorframe, his gaze moving between Harley and Jericho. Something knowing flickered in his eyes. “You two good here?”
“We’re fine,” Jericho said, maybe too quickly.
Sully’s mouth quirked. “Right. Well, I’m gonna go help my wife save dinner.” He disappeared into the kitchen as well, leaving them alone with the crackle of the fire.
The silence deepened between them.
“How did you end up working as a PI?” Jericho asked finally, his voice gentle. Too gentle.
Like he wasn’t angry. Wasn’t completely frustrated at her career choice. It completely deflected the defense that stirred inside.
But maybe this was . . . a fresh start. Orlando’s warmth against her side, and the fire’s glow, and maybe the concussion all conspired to let the truth ease out from inside.
“After Gabe died,” she said, focusing on Orlando’s fur beneath her fingers, “I couldn’t stay on the force.
Not when I knew who’d sold him the drugs but couldn’t prove it.
I couldn’t touch Mars or his brothers.” She drew in a breath.
“So I quit and got my PI license. Started tracking dealers, building cases. The state prosecutor noticed my work, hired me.”
Through the windows, snow fell in thick flakes, dusting the deck that wrapped around the lodge. From this angle, the lights from Copper Mountain twinkled, the town she’d tried so hard to forget.
“I heard that you made detective,” Jericho said. “Youngest female in Anchorage PD history.”
She glanced at him, surprised. “You kept track?”
An unnamed emotion moved through his eyes, there and gone. “Hudson mentioned it.”
Of course. Not that he’d actually cared enough to—
“I should have been there,” he said quietly. “When Gabe . . .”
“You were deployed.”
“I could have come home. For the memorial, at least.”
She looked away, her throat tight. “Wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“Might have changed everything.” He looked over at her then, his eyes holding hers, regret in them maybe. “I’m sorry.”
Her throat burned and she looked away. Shoot, nope, this was a bad idea, very bad idea. And now his words hung between them, fat, like wet snow.
“I don’t know what happened to him,” he said. “I know he was clean for a couple years—”
“Yeah. He’d been clean a couple years before our parents died.
Then he had a relapse when they died and went to treatment.
Came out and it seemed all was good. Two more years clean.
He worked at a construction company and occasionally drove the Dalton Highway to bring up supplies.
He went to meetings. Reconnected with his old girlfriend.
Lived at the dome, and everything was . . . it was good, you know?”
And for a moment, she let the memory of her brother, the man he had been becoming, walk into her mind. Dark blond hair, tied back in a ponytail, green eyes like their mother’s. He’d been an artist at heart too.
“Then Mars came back to town.”
Her fingers clenched Orlando’s fur, but the dog just pressed closer. “Sunni found him two days later, in the dome. He’d OD’d. She found the needle next to him. Track marks fresh.”
She shook her head. “Thing is, he smoked his substances, like weed. He wasn’t a heroine user, and yes, sometimes he mixed fentanyl into his pot pipe, but . . . he wasn’t an IV user.”
He frowned.
“I don’t know. Maybe Mars put him up to it.” She sighed. “I was working a case in Juneau when it happened. Missing teenager. I’d been tracking her for three days, barely sleeping. When I finally found her—got her home safe—I had six missed calls from Sunni.” Her voice cracked. She closed her eyes.
She felt Jericho lean forward, felt the heat of him even across the space between them. But he didn’t touch her.
“I’m so sorry, Harley.”
She opened her eyes, blinked against the heat. A tear dropped onto her cheek, and she whisked it away.