“Really.”
It was the way she said it, drawing it out with a small singsong tone, that made him pause, frown.
Jericho sipped his coffee and waved goodbye to Echo, the midday light glaring off the bakery’s windows as he headed back to his truck.
Here went nothing.
The drive to the Bowie family resort on the Copper River took him down the street, past the pizza joint, the sheriff’s office, and even the family’s outfitter’s store. Good for Hudson, expanding their brand. He always knew his younger brother was the right one to carry the mantle.
Behind him, clouds hung low, the mountain peaks and especially Denali rising above them, a hazy outline. The scent of a blizzard burdened the air.
The resort lodge’s steep, dark metal roof caught the sun’s rays, and smoke curled from the stone chimney, the scent of burning cedar faint in the air. A covered porch jutted from the main doors of the resort. On the other side, the expansive porch was dotted with rocking chairs and lantern lights, and maybe even guests sitting under blankets.
Pine trees framed the property, their needles rustling in the breeze, and the river’s hum sounded, ever alive against the will of winter.
He’d spent enough time fixing plumbing, shoveling the parking lot and front entry, and even greeting guests with his dad, that the place still harbored brutal memories.
Even so, it was one thing to show up here, at the lodge.
Quite another to go all the way up the road to the Bowie estate where the real ghosts lived.
He pulled up to the family quarters on the far end of the resort, a separate log home that sat just away from the main lodge. A former four-bedroom rental cottage, Hudson had converted it to a private home after...
Well, Jericho supposed his brother needed to be on-site, and the old house probably felt just as haunted to him as it did to Jericho.
He parked the Chevy, gravel crunching under the tires, then sat a moment, his hand in Orlando’s soft fur. “Okay, this gets easier every time, right?”
The dog’s tail thumped.
Right.
He got out, then opened the back and hauled out his duffel. With Orlando trotting beside him, he headed to the family quarters.
The warmth of the family’s lodge hit him with the sharp tang of ...Is something burning?
He dropped his duffel by the door, glanced at the tall stone hearth, the flames there flickering—
No. Because right then, an alarm sounded—
He dashed across the living room still wearing his boots and pushed into the kitchen.
A pot sat on the stove, smoke curling from the edges, the acrid stench stinging his nose.What—?
He yanked it off the heat, the handle searing his palm through his gloves, set the entire pan in the sink, took off the lid and turned the faucet full on.
Whatever burnt offering sat inside sizzled, hissing, steam billowing.
He grabbed a towel from the granite counter and waved it toward the smoke alarm, still piercing.
“What’s burning?”
Hudson stormed into the room, breathing hard. He was justfour years Jericho’s junior, but the stress of running the resorts had carved lines around his hazel-blue eyes—eyes that matched Jericho’s own. Hudson’s dark hair, a shade lighter than Jericho’s, stuck up in messy tufts, and his flannel shirt hung loose over a lean, yet solid frame. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and the faint scent of diesel clung to him. Maybe he’d been tinkering with the lodge’s generator again.
“Lunch?” Jericho indicated toward the cooling pan.
Hudson stopped, his gaze on Jericho. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” Jericho said. And that’s when he noticed Orlando, his ears back, leaning hard against his leg. “It’s okay, buddy.”
