“No.” Christian held out a large hand between the woman and the animal. “He’s wild, Amka. Keep your face out of reach, just in case.” His voice stayed low and rough, but his gaze remained soft as he held her arm and helped her up.
She patted the animal’s head and handed over the thermos. “Coffee. Strong. Are you going on the search?”
He nodded, glancing at Ophelia and then at the fluorescent pink pants. Amusement tilted his full lips for a second before he turned back to Amka and accepted the coffee. “Thanks.”
“You’re supposed to have a partner,” Amka said, pressing a hand to her hip.
“Got one.” Christian jerked his head toward the now-standing animal.
Ophelia cleared her throat. “I’d like to interview you about the death of Hank Osprey, Christian. When will you be available?”
He took a step back. “Nice to meet you, Olly.” Then he was gone. Fast and graceful.
Ophelia stilled. “He seems rather…blunt.”
“That’s Christian.” Amka shut the door and grabbed a black jacket lined with light purple fur from another box. “This one will keep you warm.” She tossed it over.
Ophelia caught the heavy coat, her gaze remaining on the closed door. “Do you have any idea what happened to Hank?”
“Nope. Just know that somebody probably accidentally shot him while hunting out of season.”
Well. She’d heard that line before, now hadn’t she? Had there been a meeting to get the story straight? Ophelia switched tactics. “Does Christian drop by for coffee often?”
Amka turned back around and shrugged. “He checks in once in a while and often brings fresh meat. He’s not good around crowds or people. Yet.”
Jarod pushing the door open and strutting into the room stopped Ophelia from asking additional questions. “The sheriff is ready to go, lady agent.” He paused, looking at the wet floor by the door from Christian’s snowy boots. “Don’t tell me that freak came by again.”
Amka rolled her eyes. “You should suit up if you’re going out.” She handed Ophelia a pair of bright green gloves and then headed back through the doorway with Jarod on her heels.
Ophelia followed, slipping into the down coat and zipping it up. At least it covered some of the obnoxious pink. Her boots clunked on the wooden floor, and she had to walk heel to toe to keep from tripping.
By the bar, Jarod leaned over and said something to Amka that appeared intense.
Ophelia began walking toward them and slipped, her feet flying out from under her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brock caught Ophelia before she could hit the floor. “Don’t move quickly in those snow boots until you get accustomed.” He released her, his gaze narrowing at Jarod. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Of course.” Jarod leaned back from Amka, his smile probably charming to some. “I’ll stay here and help at the tavern.”
Amka, all business, grabbed another thermos from beneath the bar. She filled the silver flask and handed it to Brock. “For you and Olly. Keep in contact.”
“Yeah. Keep in contact.” Jarod reached for a beer in the cooler and continued around the bar to head toward the food on the pool table.
The guy had always been a jackass, but it seemed he’d gotten worse. Yet another problem to deal with later. Brock motioned toward a massive whiteboard leaning against the far wall, stained black in many areas from years of use. He raised his voice for the crowd. “We’ve separated the search area into grids. If you haven’t done so already, write your name in the grid you’ll be searching before heading out.”
He looked Ophelia over, reaching for a knit hat from his pocket. “It’s orange, which seems to go with the rest of your ensemble.” She wore a myriad of colors, from an obnoxious pink to green gloves to a dark jacket with purple fur, and somehow, she made it work, looking adorable instead of her normal sexy and edgy. He plunked the hat over her head and then pulled the coat hood over it, securing the ties at her throat.
“I look ridiculous,” she murmured.
“So long as you’re not freezing, it’s good.” His voice stayed gruff as he reminded himself that they didn’t stand on the same side of pretty much anything. Except for the search today, and even that felt iffy. Her soft skin wouldn’t take the wind well, and he didn’t have a balaclava, much less an extra one. When was the last time he’d taken the time to care for a woman? This had to end. Even so, he couldn’t help but ask, “Amka? You have any Vaseline?”
“Sure, Sheriff.” Amka blanched. “I mean, Brock.” She dug beneath the counter and stood, tossing over a small jar.
Ophelia frowned. “What are you doing?”
He dug a finger in and then reached for her cheekbone.
