Stone smirked, but then saw a shifting in that patch of shadows again. He went for the weapon at the small of his back. “Someone’s out there.”
Glock cradled in both hands, finger along the trigger guide, Canyon stalked forward, keying a mic Stone hadn’t noticed. “Legend, what’s your twenty?”
Despite his three-year stint in the Army and his short law enforcement career, Stone was not as skilled as his Green Beret brother. Pulse jacked, he moved in sync with him, letting Canyon lead. Praying to God they could handle whatever this night was about to throw at them.
“There.” Canyon hustled forward with the honed experience of the special operator that he was. With two fingers, he signaled Stone to the side. Indicated he should come up and around.
Heart thundering, he moved quickly. Thought of Brighton back in the lodge. Prayed he could make it back to her. Stop whoever was coming for her.
Branches rustled. He jerked to the right—limbs thwapped his face. Stung his cheek. He grunted as a blur collided with him. Knocked him to the ground with a thud that rattle his teeth. Sent the weapon tumbling. A weight dropped on him. He grunted and threw a punch, connecting solidly with a gut. Heard the oof of wind knocked out from his assailant.
Shots cracked the night.
“He’s going to take you apart, limb by limb,” the man hissed. “She belongs to him.”
Rage coursed through Stone. He drove an uppercut into the man’s jaw. Connected solidly with him.
“Stand down! Stand down or I’ll shoot!” Canyon’s voice echoed in the small valley of the mountain. “Down! Down!”
The man reared and aimed a weapon at Stone.
Ice poured through his veins. Froze him.
Crack!
Warmth splatted his face. The man grunted and struggled to get free … then crumpled.
“If this casserole is going to be ready and still warm by the time the biscuits are done, I should probably take it to the condo and cook it there.”
Willow nodded. “True. I can’t leave the bacon, and the eggs will need to be started before you get back.”
“Then I had better be on my way.” Mrs. Clara gathered up the casserole dish, which seemed a bit heavy.
“I can help,” Brighton said, hoping to see where Stone and his brother went. She took the dish from his mother and followed her out the door, scanning the hillside awash in predawn light. She didn’t even spot Grief.
“I’m sure they’re alright, dear.” Mrs. Clara let them into the back door of her condo. “Now,” she said, hurrying to the oven, “let’s get this warmed up. Maybe I can make some French toast. The boys sure loved that growing up. Now, Willow?—she wanted Belgian waffles. Every Saturday.”
Brighton set the dish on the island. “Stone likes French toast?”
“With powdered sugar.”
“Of course.”
“And snickerdoodles. That boy could eat me out of house and home?—well, they all could, really. Even Range.” She smiled at Brighton. “What about you? What’s your favorite cookie?”
“Guess it’s not really a cookie, but a bar??—Rocky Road. My brother, Aston, loves chocolate chunk. The bigger the better.” Aww, that tweaked her heart. She hadn’t seen him in ages. Missed him.
“Why does that make you sad?”
“The memory doesn’t,” Brighton clarified. “But I haven’t seen him in almost a year. We used to be close.”
“Oh sweetheart. I hope you see him soon. Nothing hurts more than bitterness in a family. Rots the soul and fabric of the family.” She shook her finger. “Trust me. I saw it with my boys. Range and Canyon especially.”
Mrs. Clara was moving around the kitchen, pulling out pans, cracking eggs in a bowl. She invited Brighton to help and the two of them made quick work of an entire loaf of French toast by the time the casserole was done.
After gathering the cooked food, Mrs. Clara suddenly stopped. “Oh no.”
“What?”
