“There’s no ice sculpture,” Bear growled.
“Metaphorically speaking.” River wiggled his eyebrows. “So, what’s it gonna be? Clothes or faces?”
“Neither.” Greta snatched her plate from the counter, eyes deliberately avoiding Bear’s. “I was just leaving.”
“Running away, you mean,” River said.
“Call it whatever you want.” She pushed past him, flask abandoned on the counter. “I have an early start tomorrow.”
“Greta—” Bear started after her, but she was already gone, the front door slamming behind her with enough force to rattle the windows.
“Smooth, very smooth.” River slow-clapped. “You have such a way with women, Bear. It’s like watching a grizzly trying to dance ballet. Very entertaining.”
“Fuck off.” Bear stalked past him, King following closely. He needed air, space, something to cool the heat crawling up his neck and the anger pulsing in his veins.
He didn’t make it to the door. Walker intercepted him, one eyebrow raised in silent question.
“Just getting some air.”
Walker studied him. “Everything okay with Greta?”
“Fine.” The lie tasted sour. “She’s just having a rough day.”
“Uh-huh. Well, don’t be long.” Walker clapped him on the shoulder. “Johanna’s about to make a toast.”
Bear nodded and slipped out the back door, grateful for the cool night air against his flushed skin. King bounded ahead, disappearing into the darkness for a moment before circling back, his massive form a shadow among shadows.
“What the hell was that?” Bear muttered to himself. He hadn’t meant to push Greta’s buttons. Hadn’t meant to let her push his. But something about her always set him off—her recklessness, her stubbornness, the way she drank like it was a challenge.
Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was just that she was beautiful and broken and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of her. Maybe it was that when she looked at him, he felt seen in a way that was both terrifying and addictive.
“Come on, King.” He started toward the bunkhouse, the party forgotten. “Let’s get out of here.”
The dog followed, faithful shadow, as Bear pushed through the door of the bunkhouse and into the quiet sanctuary of his room. The engagement party wasn’t far enough away. He could still hear the laughter, the music, the sounds of people who had figured out how to be happy again.
He dropped onto the edge of his bed, head in his hands. King settled at his feet, chin resting on his knee, eyes watching with canine concern.
“I’m fine, buddy.” He scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Just need a minute.”
His phone vibrated in his pocket, the harsh buzz making him jump. Unknown number with a Denver area code. Probably aspam call. He almost ignored it, but something—instinct, maybe, or just the need for distraction—made him answer.
“McKenna.”
“Mr. McKenna? This is Elaine Winters from Denver Child Protective Services.” A woman’s voice, professional but with an undercurrent of urgency. “I’m trying to reach a Dane McKenna regarding his son, Logan.”
His heart stuttered to a stop, then kicked back into gear at double speed. “This is Dane McKenna.”
“Mr. McKenna, I’m sorry to inform you that Amber McKenna was killed in a car accident yesterday evening.”
The room tilted sideways. Amber. Dead. The mother of his son. His ex-wife who’d refused to bring Logan to visit, who’d threatened to terminate his parental rights, who’d moved on with her life while he rotted in prison.
Dead.
“Mr. McKenna? Are you there?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. “I’m here.”
“As I was saying, Ms. McKenna named you as Logan’s only living relative in her will. He’s currently in emergency foster placement, but we need you to come to Denver as soon as possible to take custody. Otherwise, he’ll be placed in the foster system permanently.”
