“I know,” Brock muttered, moving into the adjacent kitchen, surprised to find fresh eggs and condiments in the fridge. Somebody was making deliveries. He’d have to tread lightly, despite the biting urge to punch his brother into knocking it off. Ace had never taken well to a lecture or a punch.
By the time Brock had finished scrambling eggs and heating deer sausage, Ace emerged from his room, dressed in clean jeans and a plain white T-shirt that pulled tight across still broad muscles. Ace’s extra inch of height on his brothers, at six-foot-six, had always amused him, but Brock was broader than the rest of the brothers. Although Ace stood as solid as the mountains around them. Even with a liver swimming in moonshine. “You shaved. I’m honored.” Brock slid the food onto two plates.
Ace pulled a chair away from the rough wooden table, his now-smooth jaw rugged, and a fairly new scar slashing across the left side down to his collarbone. “Thanks.” He immediately dug into the eggs as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
Brock took his seat, eating slower. “The wound healed nicely.” Would Ace ever tell him about his last mission?
Ace lifted his head, his eyes a bit clearer. “Have yours?”
It was useless to pretend he didn’t understand the question. “Well enough that I’m not drowning in moonshine. After we eat, I’ll take you to Smitty’s.” The guy was the closest thing to a shrink they had, considering he’d worked as a bartender for most of his life before retiring.
Ace stabbed a sausage with his fork. “I’ll lie on Smitty’s couch the hour after you do, brother.”
Heat climbed up Brock’s neck. “Smitty doesn’t have a couch.”
“Not my point,” Ace said calmly, finishing another sausage.
“Considering I’ve left my house and actually interacted with other human beings, maybe we should fix you first.” Though there probably wasn’t a fix, not a complete one, for any of them. “You do have a job. It’s time you start doing it.”
Ace finished his breakfast and sat back. “No. Winter’s coming, and the plane will be grounded. I won’t need to fly until next spring.” He swallowed, his eyes sunken. “If then. Maybe not even then.”
“You know the only way to beat a horse that’s thrown you is to get back on it. You need to fly.” He should’ve made Ace sober up and pick up the FBI lady. Right? Why didn’t that sit well with him? “I’ll go up with you in case you have problems.” Or a panic attack and tear apart the entire plane.
“No,” Ace said, crossing his arms.
What a stubborn dick. “You’re gonna want to work with me on this. If Damian ever makes it home, he’ll psychoanalyze you until you beg to pilot yourself away from him.” Christian would take things into his own hands at some point, and only God knew what he’d do to help Ace.
Ace grunted. “I’m not afraid of him. Christian, either.” Ace lifted his chin. “Are you?” The dare lumbered low and strong. The words they couldn’t say with the questions they couldn’t ask. “Brock?”
“No,” he said, meaning it. “They’re our brothers. No matter what.” He leaned in, saying the few words he could. Maybe offering comfort? “So are you. Brothers and family, like Hank said.”
Ace’s nostrils flared. “Yeah. Like Hank said.”
Brock cleared his throat. “The FBI agent wants to talk to all of us about Hank’s death.” He held up a hand to prevent Ace’s explosion. “You only have to meet with her once, and you should do it today over an early dinner. The Green Plate should be open by five. Trust me. This woman won’t stop until she interviews you.”
“Woman?” Ace drawled, his eyes clearing.
Brock nodded.
“Is she pretty?”
How did he answer that? The agent was stunning. “If you like them tall, nosy, and stubborn,” Brock muttered. “She smells like strawberries.”
“Well, now, brother. You like them tall and stubborn, and aren’t strawberries your favorite food?” Ace’s lips twitched into a smile.
For a moment, a very brief moment, they were themselves again. But Ace’s smile soon disappeared. Brock looked around the messy kitchen, ignoring the sense of loss. “I’ll help you cleanup.” It had made sense for Ace to take over Hank’s cabin since Brock had already built his own, and Christian wouldn’t ever live so close to town. Damian might return someday, but they’d figure that out later. Putting Damian and Ace in the same cabin held a certain appeal—for a bystander. Brock cleared his throat. “Hank would’ve hated the mess.”
Ace stilled. “Hank would’ve hated a lot of things, Brock.”
Brock inhaled sharply and then calmed himself. He couldn’t go there. Just couldn’t. “I’ll start with the kitchen. You take the living room.”
Ace shoved away from the table. “Whatever.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Dust, oddly chilled, billowed up from the conference table when Ophelia dropped yet another box of case files onto the scarred surface. Sheriff Blazerton had been good at his job, and most of his organized files included rather cranky-sounding notations.
She flipped off the cardboard lid and dug through yet more records of trespassing, poaching, and some crime calledbeing a jackass. There seemed to be an endless number of those type of files.
