Chapter
One
Bexar-Wolfe Lodge, Northern Virginia
Some days were meant to test a man; others meant to undo him.
Electric shears in hand, Stone Metcalfe palmed the bathroom counter and stared at the haggard face in the fogged mirror. The only familiar features were the Metcalfe blues as they’d been dubbed. But they were tired. Dog tired. The beard betrayed both his heritage and age with patches of rust and silver against dark blonde.
Lot of gray there.
Must be the lights.
He sniffed. Keep telling yourself that, Old Man. And he would. He’d crested the forty hill three years ago and was now sliding off the cliff toward fifty. And all he had to show for it were gray hairs as numerous as his failures.
Mom won’t like the beard.
He lined up the shave gear on the counter: shears to shed the fur, foam and razor for a clean shave. Again, he eyed the man in the mirror. The beard.
Curse it all. He wouldn’t even consider shaving it off if his sister hadn’t stepped in to rearrange Mom’s life, thereby his. Had to admit??he resented Brooke. Again. She’d convinced him and their four siblings that the Bexar-Wolfe Lodge??—now his under a private entity not easily traced to him??—was the perfect way for Mom not to feel alone or useless. He couldn’t argue it, though. Since her car accident eight years ago that required back surgery, Mom wasn’t getting around easily these days. Still, he knew his sister’s intentions weren’t altruistic. Like usual, she wanted to free herself and her conscience.
But Mom … He had to face her today, and the cards were already stacked against him with the screwup that wrecked his life and career. Did he really want the beard as another strike? She’d always hated “scruffies.” But the beard went a long way in hiding the man many knew as Governor Metcalfe. Reduced Stone to Jackson Mulroney, a pseudonym he’d adopted to survive here after the scandal. Crazy the way a beard changed a face …
Stone tightened his grip on the shears, noting the scent of coffee permeating the cabin.
A snout traced the length of his pants.
He side-eyed his black Belgian Malinois. “What do you think? Shave it?”
Grief gave a growl-huff and trotted out of the bathroom.
“Me, too, buddy.” Stone tossed the shears back in the drawer, got dressed, and made his way to the kitchen. He fed Grief and then moved to the window to relish a cup of brew and the view of the rugged terrain spanning the distance. He had no regrets buying the lodge a year ago.
Man. Only a year? A lifetime had been shorn off his heart since. When he’d made the purchase, he had no idea the nightmare waiting around the corner.
Not going down into that dark pit today.
He’d paid the price and moved on. More like hid, but it all came out the other end the same, didn’t it? He gave himself another fifteen minutes for a second mug, forcing himself to push her out of his mind. Forget her laughter. Her—
Yeah. No.
Get moving, Metcalfe. His days of running from Mom’s disapproving glower ended in a few hours, so he filled a stainless steel tumbler with backup and eyed his dog. “Ready, boy?”
Barking, Grief spun a circle. Nails scritching on the wood floor, he scrambled across the living room and planted his backside at the front door with an excited whine.
Stone retrieved his Cattle Baron from the rack, set it on his head, appreciating the comfortable fit. He opened the front door, feeling more than a little proud that Grief waited for the command. A click of Stone’s tongue sent the beast bolting into the cool morning to track down critters.
As his four-legged buddy jaunted off to take care of business, Stone started for the lodge, appreciating the progress they’d made over the last year in renovating the fifty-room lodge: new pool, fresh paint, spruced-up courtyard, and hiking trail. Rowe was likely up there clearing out brush so they could open the trail to guests. They’d been working on permits for a riding trail, but that was slow-coming these days. Thanks to a certain city inspector who had it in for him.
Accessing his office through the private rear door, Stone clicked his tongue again, summoning furry partner. Inside, he secured the door and watched Grief hauling in the scents sliding under the door. The assault of grease and sugar challenged his training.
“On your bed.” Stone doffed his hat before powering up his computer.
Grief slunk over to his bed, and with a deflated huff, stretched across the foam. He skillfully hung his snout off the side so he could sniff the crack.
“Don’t break your neck.” Stone smirked and noted Rowe’s office light wasn’t on yet. He’d hired the guy to be the front-man for the office so Stone could run beneath the radar and not blow his cover as Jackson Mulroney. Probably a little too close to his real name, but he’d learned long ago lies were best based in truth. And this lie was really a protective measure. Last thing he needed or wanted was someone connecting him to the scandal and bringing bad press to the lodge.
Over the course of the first hour he answered emails, returned calls to contractors, checked this week’s reservations?—looking a little thin—and studied his agenda for the day. Then, he spent time reviewing his six-month plan for the lodge and renovations as he did every morning, eyeballing the budget and praying for some lightbulb to go on, telling him how to make things happen better and faster. He itched to mark the coffee bar as “Complete,” but he should delay that pleasure until he paid the contractor tomorrow. Next, he studied his one- and five-year plans. Gave a nod. Not sure his bank account could fund those plans without solid growth trajectory, but he was a year in and making progress. Still …
