Ophelia sat on the sofa, drawing one leg up under the other and tugging a pillow onto her lap. Her gaze sharpened. “What does a blue flare mean as opposed to a red?”
He dropped onto a dainty chair, his entire body beginning to ache for too many reasons, including healed combat injuries that didn’t like the cold, as well as unfulfilled arousal. The agent had more on her mind than the town customs, but he’d play her game. “Blue means meet at first light for a search, red means come right now.”
She leaned back, her gaze serious. “How many people would’ve seen the flare in that storm?”
He shrugged. “No way to know. For folks we can reach by phone or high frequency radio, the phone tree will get them. Others, those who saw the flare, will notify their nearest neighbors. It’s what we’ve got, and it has worked for years.”
“So, the whole town will show at first light to go searching?”
He nodded. “The town and anybody in outlying areas will come in—anybody who can, that is. We’ll perform a standard grid search until we find him—if he doesn’t make it home sometime between now and dawn.”
She breathed out. “How old is Wyatt?”
“Nineteen. He and his new wife moved out here a year ago, saying they wanted to live the simple life they’d seen on some television show about living in the wild. Nice kids, pretty smart. But I searched all over that crick and didn’t see hide nor hair of him.” Frustration coated Brock’s throat.
Ophelia pressed her lips together and exhaled. “In this weather, with these temps, what are his odds of survival?”
Brock dipped his head. “Not great and not horrible. If he found shelter from the storm, he’s waiting it out. If he was injured and unable to find shelter, we’ll have another funeral to plan for the spring when the ground isn’t frozen—unless he wants a Viking burial, which is easier.” Brock leaned forward and clasped his hands together between his relaxed legs. “We’re not going there yet, though. We’ll find him.”
Flossy bustled in with a coffee set on a tray decorated with holiday elves and piled high with raspberry scones. “You kids serve yourselves. I’m helping in the kitchen with the phone and radio tree, and I’m trying to reach everyone who has a high frequency radio, which isn’t that many people. We need more of those.” She placed the tray on the polished table and stood, her housecoat brushing the spotless floor. “You’re doing a good job as sheriff, Brock.”
His nostrils flared on their own. “I’m not the sheriff, Floss. I’m just helping out.” His voice roughened as he tried to keep from snapping at the elderly woman.
“Keep telling yourself that. Olly? Talk some sense into him, would you?” She turned, lifted her white and frilly housecoat, and trotted back into the kitchen.
He sighed. “Olly?”
Ophelia glanced toward the now-closed kitchen door. “Janet gave me the nickname at the diner a few hours ago, but I don’t know how Flossy heard it.”
“If it was hours ago, everyone has heard it by now.” Especially with the phone and radio tree being employed. Olly. Interesting. It fit her in a cute and sweet kind of way. “I take it nobody has ever called you that?”
“Oh, no.” She ducked her head and poured two mugs of coffee that smelled like licorice.
Was he reading into her tone, or did she sound, well…off about that? He accepted the coffee when she leaned toward him. “Thanks. Did you have any nicknames?”
She sipped delicately, her face thoughtful. “My mom wasn’t big on nicknames, and she liked Ophelia for me. Thought it sounded classy and royal. Like a princess.”
“You were a princess?” She didn’t seem like the tiara and high heels type, but what did he know?
Her smile softened the harder angles of her face. “No. I was a tomboy through and through. Which was a good thing, really. We didn’t exactly live in a castle.”
Who did? When had he ever asked a woman so many personal questions? What was it about this one that had him turning into a guy who tried to connect? The last—the very last—thing that could happen with this FBI agent, this smart woman looking into Hank’s death, was a connection. Brock took a deep drink of the smooth brew and let it warm his insides.
She glanced at the wild storm outside. “I feel weird just sitting here when there’s a lost teenager out in that.”
God, did he understand that feeling. “I know. But the safest course for everyone is to wait until the storm either dies down or until first light, or we’ll end up with a lot more missing people. We can only hope that Wyatt reached shelter.” He waited for her to get to the point she’d been mulling over since he’d picked her up. What was it?
She turned toward him again. “Ace said you found Hank’s body the morning of his death. How about you explain why neither you nor the sheriff’s case file revealed that fact?”
Ah, fuck Ace. He had to go and open his damn mouth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ophelia watched Brock’s expression closely, noting no difference. Yeah. Well trained.
“Dunno about the sheriff’s file except he determined that some idiot out hunting outside of season killed Hank. As for me, I didn’t see it as relevant,” Brock said smoothly.
Nice try. “You found Hank early in the morning, correct?”
