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I look up. “Bear Donovan?”

“Big bastard. Bakes cupcakes like somebody’s suburban aunt.”

“I know who Bear is.”

“Then you know he’s got enough weird connections to accidentally perform a small government takeover.”

I consider that.

Bear keeps things close to the chest. Half the town still thinks he just does remote accounting work or something equally forgettable. Meanwhile, the man owns property in three states and somehow always knows somebody who knows somebody.

“You think he’d help?”

Saint gives me a look. “It’s Ben’s family.”

Right.

That’s the thing about grief inside the club. It never leaves cleanly. It settles into the beams. Gets folded into jokes and routines and Friday beers. Nobody says Ben’s name less now time has passed. If anything, they say it more intentionally.

Keeping him alive requires maintenance.

Saint wipes his hands on a napkin. “Bear’s over at the lodge property today checking on some contractor issue. Go talk to him.”

“You volunteering me now?”

“You’ve been idling rough since you walked in.”

“What?”

“I know that look where you pretend this is about helping an old friend while obviously wanting an excuse to see a woman again.”

I stare at him.

Saint shrugs. “I tow broken things for a living. Pattern recognition.”

“Maybe I should run you over on principle.”

“You’d feel guilty halfway through.”

I toss cash on the table and stand, tucking the sketchbook under my arm.

Saint watches me pull my jacket on.

“You know,” he says casually, “for somebody who acts emotionally unavailable, you sure do dramatic metaphors when it concerns women.”

I point at him. “You’re becoming intolerable.”

“I’m working on it. Tell Bear I said hi.”

Rain hits cold immediately outside, soaking through denim at the knees while I cross Main Street. Scents of wet cedar and chimney smoke hang in the air this time of year.

The lodge property sits near the edge of town where the trees start crowding closer together. Half-restored cabins shine amber through the rain, warm against all the gray.

Bear’s impossible to miss.

He’s standing beneath an awning talking to a contractor who looks increasingly terrified despite Bear speaking in an almost conversational tone. Six foot five of broad shoulders and pure muscle tends to do that to people.

Bear notices me before I reach them. “Torin.”