Ophelia picked her way around boxes and cartons to his side, craning her neck to see down the hallway. “Care to explain why this place hasn’t been visited in months?”
“No.” He turned and thrust the key into her hand. “There’s nobody about, but lock the door behind me.” Well, almost nobody. But she wouldn’t find the steps to the basement, so why worry about it? He’d given her the truth about Hank, that he had no clue who’d shot him, but the idea still sat like a rock in his gut. Besides. Her fresh strawberry scent drove him nuts, and he had enough to deal with right now.
She grasped his coat by the arm, and he halted. “There has to be somebody we can hire for sheriff.” Puzzlement, as well as determination, glittered in her pretty eyes.
“Don’t need one, but you can try to find one.” In fact, that might be a good idea. When she released him, he moved toward the door. “Lock this. I’ll be back in a couple of hours to drive you to Flossy’s.” Ophelia should be safe with the storm outside keeping everyone away, but it never hurt to be doubly careful. A lot of folks didn’t like the idea of the federal government getting involved in local matters.
The wind fought him when he opened the door, and he quickly shut the heavy metal before jogging down the icy steps to his sturdy truck. The storm strengthened around him, but he’d already chained his tires, so he easily maneuvered down the snowy road, past the one hardware store, to turn along the river road and drive up the mountain.
The world was white with a hint of glacial blue. With Ophelia out of the vehicle, he turned off the heat. The snow grew thicker as he reached his brother’s drive, noting it hadn’t been shoveled in way too long. Soon they’d have to switch to snowmobiles to travel anywhere but the town’s main drag. He tried to hold on to his temper, but after a morning dealing with the scent of strawberries, he failed to keep the heat from rising inside him.
He stopped the truck in front of the sturdy hand-cut log cabin, relaxing a mite at seeing smoke curling from the stone chimney. At least Ace managed to keep warm this time.
Ice encrusted the snow piled near the front door, and Brock looked around for a shovel. The fucking thing had to be buried somewhere in the bushes. Enough of this crap. He pounded on the door, his gloved fist not making enough sound, so he ripped it off and pounded harder, ignoring the ensuing pain.
“Go the hell away,” came from inside.
Enough. He twisted the knob, unsurprised to find it unlocked. He had to use his shoulder to force it open, pushing gloves, boots, and various items of snow gear across the entryway and out of the way. “If that’s wet, it’ll ruin the wood,” he muttered in a mantra Hank had issued at least a million times through the years, then slammed the door shut.
Expansive windows offered a snowy view of Knife’s Edge Mountain outside. To the left of the windows, a log fell off another in the massive cast-iron wood-burning stove, knocking against the amber glass that obviously hadn’t been cleaned in eons. His brother lay face down on the sofa directly across from the stove, his arm hanging off the side. His lower legs and feet extended over the end of the threadbare edge, several holes showing in his frayed socks.
An empty bottle of homemade rye—probably from Lefty’s still—had rolled beneath the hand-carved coffee table. A couple of drops marred the wood, but they just matched the other stains.
“At least you’re dressed,” Brock grunted. Although who knew when the jeans and black flannel had been washed last?
A low snore came from somewhere in the cushions.
“First thing, we get you into a shower.” Maybe that’d sober him up. Brock reached for his brother’s shoulder, gripped it tightly, and began to lift.
Ace instantly grabbed Brock’s wrist, pivoted on the sofa, and yanked him toward the floor while twisting onto his back and throwing his now-free shoulder into Brock’s gut as gravity took over.
Brock went down and hit the table, his cheekbone smashing a leg. He shoved it across the floor and ripped free of the hold. He shot both arms up to defend a punch, threw one, and connected with Ace’s jaw. “Wake the fuck up, Ace.” He rolled free and stood, settling his stance in case his brother charged.
Ace sat up, his light green eyes bloodshot and his dark brown hair sticking up in every direction. His beard was long enough that he looked like one of the mountain men who lived alone up in the peaks. He blinked. Once and again. “What are you doing here?” His voice, while always rough, now went beyond raw to the abrasive tone only excessive alcohol could create.
“That was a nice move.” Brock relaxed his stance. His brother’s time in the Navy hadn’t gone to waste. Even half-asleep, he could fight. “My patience with you is about gone.”
Ace snorted and prodded his jaw where Brock had hit him, his fingers tangling in the long beard. “Right. I heard you got back into town last week. Did you have a nice walkabout?”
“Yes.” Brock left town in May, needing time to deal with Hank’s death, his former career, and his future life. He’d explored the mountains of Alaska, often by himself, spending time on the ocean, rivers, and in forest land not touched by human beings. Finally, a week ago, he’d figured it was time to come home. “Thanks for asking. Rumor has it you’re drinking your liver to death.”
Ace snorted. “My liver is fine. How’s your new job going? Getting to it after the nightmares finish with you?”
The breath Brock sucked in felt hot. The words, from Ace, cut deep, and he had to clench his hand into a fist to keep frompunching out again. “If you don’t get into the shower, I’ll take you.”
Ace stiffened. “Think it’d be that easy?”
“No.” Didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. “Seriously. I’m done with this.”
This time, Ace’s snort held derision. For himself. “You’re not the only one.” He nodded toward a dead, frozen deer on the deck outside. “Last month, Christian dressed out and harvested a small part of a buck for me. Now, he leaves doe carcasses without dressing them. Next month, he’ll probably drop a squirrel out there and stop trying to feed me.”
Brock stilled. “You’ve seen Christian?”
“Nope. Of course not.” Ace tugged on his stained shirt, muscles rippling. At least he hadn’t gone soft. Yet.
Brock could only deal with one problem and one brother at a time. “Go take a shower. I’ll rustle up something for breakfast.” At Ace’s lifted eyebrows, he shook his head. “No. I’m not working that deer for you. You’re on your own.”
Ace rolled his eyes and stood, wavering slightly. He looked around the cabin as if seeing it for the first time in days. “Huh.” Then he turned and headed toward his bedroom with attached bath, calling over his shoulder, “I wouldn’t mind a delivery from Lefty’s, if you need to be helpful. Just so you know, I’m not taking a lecture from you, bro.” Then he disappeared.
