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.”
