Chapter 6 #2
She smiled as she drained her coffee. “Get used to it.”
Oh brother. She wanted to roll her eyes at her own lameness. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“You’re dry. Want more?” He reached for her cup.
“Thanks.”
He got up, and she watched him walk over to the coffeepot set up on the serving counter.
Maybe over six foot, well built, lean, wide shoulders, strong.
Sure, he walked with a small limp, but it gave him the aura of a wounded warrior.
Dark hair, cut short in the back, tousled in front.
The man could grace an outdoor edition of The Rake with his serious, focused demeanor.
Except for that smile. It reached in and loosed something inside her. Or maybe it was just his words . . . interesting.
She liked being interesting. It felt layered and authentic.
So not Bliss.
He returned, set the coffee in front of her. “I thought you might be a sugar and whole milk girl.” He set a small cup of milk beside her mug. “I’ll be right back.”
The man limped back over to the counter and grabbed his mug and a bowl of sugar.
Maybe she didn’t care why he’d made a promise to her. Just that he had.
He returned and sat down, one leg over the bench, now facing her. He handed her the sugar bowl and a spoon.
She doctored her coffee as he took a sip of his, black.
“So, what are you doing in Alaska?” he asked. “Besides fixing snowmobiles and taking care of my dog?”
Speaking of, the animal had gotten up, walked with him to the coffeepot and back, and now sat again, behind him, alert to the room. “Seems like the dog is taking care of you.”
He glanced at him. “Yeah. He does that. I don’t know why.” He reached out and petted the animal behind the ear.
And maybe it was the gesture or the warmth of the room, the sense that here, maybe her secrets didn’t have to feel so bruising, so raw and naked.
She took a breath. “I was looking for my mom.”
He raised an eyebrow as she took a sip of her coffee. Perfect. She’d just ignore the inner Goldie raising an eyebrow at the sugar intake.
“Your mom?”
“My biological mom,” she added. “I was adopted, and when my mom—the one who raised me—was dying, she told me about the woman who’d given me away.
” She hated saying it like that, but it felt that way sometimes.
Even if doing so had saved her life. “My bio mom was a cop in Chicago. She worked undercover in the gangs division, with a partner—my bio dad. Apparently, they were made and my bio dad was killed. My mom was pregnant, so she went into hiding . . . anyway, when I was born, she gave me to my parents. My dad—the one who raised me—was my uncle, on my bio dad’s side.
He was a cop in Minneapolis. She thought that I’d be safer with him.
I guess she thought the gang wouldn’t stop tracking her.
So, Vic gave me away and disappeared in Alaska. ”
“Vic, from the Midnight Sun Saloon? She’s your mom?” His voice lowered.
She shrugged. “Yep.”
“Wow. I didn’t see that coming.”
“You know her?”
“Everybody knows her. She’s like . . . well, the backbone of Copper Mountain. Has been running the Midnight Sun Saloon for as long as I can remember. Rumors said she’d been a cop in the Lower 48, but no one knows much about her. Not even her last name.”
“It’s Dalton. I had dinner at the Midnight Sun a couple nights ago, hoping to talk to her. I bought dinner and some pie, and . . . completely chickened out.”
He made a wry face. “Sorry. What happened?”
“I don’t know . . . I just thought . . .” She blew out a breath. “What if . . .” And now she made a face.
He softened his voice. “She rejects you, after all this time.”
She nodded.
“So, why even come here? Why try to meet her?”
And that was the question, wasn’t it? Maybe it didn’t matter. She let the silence sit between them. She didn’t know him well enough for the rest. And frankly, she wanted him to like her. For now.
She had no illusions that their little holiday friendship would shatter when they hit civilization.
Because even if she did get ahold of Goldie, it would only take a fan, a TikTok, or even a social media post for the press to wake up to the fact that superstar pop singer and actress Bliss had wandered into Alaska.
Which would bring more questions and maybe even answers, and any Hallmark magic this place possessed would vanish under the bright, hot lights of her fame. So, “I just wanted to know who she was, and if there was any of me in her.” That felt vulnerable enough.
He met her eyes. “I think you should give her the chance to meet you, Keely. I don’t know you well, but from what I see, there’s plenty of Vic in you,” Dawson said. “Tough, smart, capable . . . I think probably you shouldn’t leave Alaska without another go at getting what you came for.”
She looked back at him then, the kind tilt of his smile. It occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, he was the kind of guy to write a song about.
And suddenly she wondered . . . just what had she come to Alaska looking for?
Tinkerbell was Vic’s daughter.
Vic Dalton, who could wrestle a polar bear away from a beer and throw him out into the snow if she had to.
Yeah, he hadn’t seen that coming, not from her petite frame, the aura of city that radiated off Keely.
But she’d been tough enough and survived a plane crash and sure, he could see a steely thread, a strength inside her.
Huh.
“We have one set of the nickel alloy plugs.” Griffin’s voice. He emerged from a room inside the machine barn. “And a socket wrench.”
The blizzard still howled, but in the machine shed, lit by kerosene lanterns and battery-powered lights, Donald and a couple other men, along with Dawson and Griffin, attempted to fix the broken sleds.
He hadn’t yet mentioned Keely’s offer to look at the snowmobiles. Honestly, he didn’t know what to think.
Daughter of a Minnesota cop too. Interesting.
He’d spent the night tossing in the bunk. Maybe even disturbed Caspian, because the dog nosed him twice, waking him. No wonder he felt like he’d slept in his car after a long stakeout.
“Daws?”
“I got it all cleaned up.” He set down the wire brush from where he’d scrubbed the spark plug area, then reached for the replacements and the socket wrench.
“Where’d you learn to fix snowmobiles?” Griffin asked. “That’s a trick they don’t teach us Florida boys.” He crouched next to Dawson and wiped his hands with a shop rag. He’d spent most of the morning repairing the broken motion sensor light and the lock on the machine shed.
“My grandfather. He loved to tinker with old machines. Kept a garage full on his farm.”
“Here in Alaska?”
“Mm-hmm.” Dawson added a small amount of anti-seize compound to the plug. “How’s the head?”
Griffin still wore a bandage over his wound but he’d put a cap down over it, so only a hint of bandage peeked out. “I’m more angry than hurt. Can’t believe the guy got the drop on me. That’ll teach me. Train hard, fight easy.”
Dawson hand-threaded one of the plugs into the socket. Glanced at him. “Which branch?”
“Army. Rangers.”
“Had a friend here who served with them.” He grabbed the socket wrench. “Colt Kingston.”
“I know Colt,” Griffin said. “Got out about the same time he did.” He looked away then. “Knew some of the guys on his team. Rough.”
Dawson looked up at him. Frowned.
“It’s probably classified, but let’s say an op went south.”
Dawson replaced the spark plug boots. “Doesn’t it always. Feels like no matter how much you try, things go wrong.”
Griffin looked at him, his mouth tight.
“Why’d you get out?” Dawson asked.
A beat, then, “I got shot.” He pulled off his hat and turned his head, held up his hair. A thin scar ran across the back of his head. “Metal plate. Brain bleed.” He put the hat back on. “I still have seizures but not as often. Missing about two years of my life too.”
Dawson reached for another plug. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s for the good. No PTSD memories from all the less than spectacular missions. I was medically discharged and decided to fulfill a lifelong dream of working on a longliner fishing boat. Came up to Kodiak. Met River. All good.”
Dawson finished hand-screwing a spark plug. Turned to him. “Seriously?”
“Absolutely. I’m convinced that nothing can happen to me in this life that isn’t used or designed by God to know him better.”
Interesting. Dawson finished torquing down the spark plug. “Yeah, I dunno.” His knee still burned, swollen from yesterday’s exertion.
Griffin closed the box. “Consider it this way. If some jerk hadn’t destroyed our snow machines, we’d never have found that leaky gas line.
” He pointed to one of the other machines.
“Who knows. This man’s evil saved us from disaster out on some below-freezing trail.
” He tossed Dawson his rag. “That’s what I call grace. ”
He got up, and Dawson watched him head toward the door.
The door slid open, and as snow blew into the opening, Keely came in. She wore her puffer jacket and a borrowed pair of boots and sweatpants, her blond hair down and wispy around her hat.
She peered over his shoulder. “Did you check the gap on the plugs?”
He looked up at her. “Thanks, Edd. Yes.”
“What torque setting did you use?”
“13.6 Nm.”
She gave him a satisfied smile, a nod.
“You were serious. I’m impressed.”
“Of course. I’d never joke about a spark plug.” She winked, then sat down where Griffin had been. “Still blowing pretty good out there.” Her voice emerged just above a whisper, roughened, but it seemed it might be stronger.
The blizzard became a hum behind him.
“Reminds me of working with my grandfather. He had a barn full of used vehicles he was constantly stealing parts from.” He tightened down the other plug.
“He lived in Alaska?”