Alaskan Hero

by Teri Wilson

  “That’s probably a few more members of our team. We’re expecting another pair of hands.” Zoey searched for a spot to set down her cup.

  “Finish your coffee. I’ll get the door.” Anya crossed the room and swung the door open, expecting to find another familiar face on the other side.

  She did. Only this particular familiar face belonged to the last person she ever dreamed she’d see standing on her mother’s front porch.

  “Brock?” She was so confused and disoriented at the sight of him that she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  Brock appeared equally surprised by the turn of events. He stared at her for a few silent, awkward seconds before finally speaking. “Anya? What are you doing here?”

  “I grew up here. This is my mom’s house. What are you doing here?”

  “Cole asked me to come. Actually, he pretty much begged. I don’t know why I agreed. The last time he asked me to show up somewhere mysterious, I ended up in danger of being gored by a reindeer.” He frowned. “I had no idea you’d be here.”

  Anya had to force herself to smile. For the briefest moment she’d somehow convinced herself Brock had had a change of heart—that he’d come looking for her to tell her he wasn’t leaving after all. That he was staying. For her.

  How could she have been so foolish? And so wrong?

  She was mortified. She almost wished she could dive under the nearest bed, Dolce-style.

  Get yourself together.

  “Cole is up on the roof.” She pointed toward the ceiling. “With the others.”

  “I should probably head on up there,” he mumbled in such a low tone she almost didn’t hear.

  He’d barely turned to go when his gaze wandered to Anya’s backpack. “Now there’s a familiar face I’m happy to see.”

  He gave Dolce a grin as big as Alaska itself. Anya’s stomach fluttered. And her heart. Pretty much all her insides took flight when he smiled like that.

  “I’ve begun carrying her around with me.” Anya shrugged. “You know...socialization and all that.”

  “I’m familiar with the concept.” His smile grew broader, and she felt as though she might float right out of her shoes.

  This had to stop. It really did.

  She opened her mouth, prepared to send Brock outside to climb up on the roof, shovel snow or perform some other manly task for which he was so perfectly suited. But instead, she found herself saying, “Come inside for a bit?”

  He lingered in the doorway with a barely discernible look of longing in his eyes. Then he took a step toward her. Just a step. Anya held her breath as he stood there, suspended between two worlds. Then some unseen force seemed to stop him.

  “I think I’ll just head on out and give Cole a hand.” He nodded, and before Anya even realized what had happened, he was gone.

  It was the closest they’d come to having any sort of real interaction since that day in the snow cave. And it had lasted less than a minute.

  * * *

  An hour later Brock had shed his parka, hat, gloves and scarf. And he was still sweating. He’d shoveled a path through shoulder-deep snow in Anya’s mother’s backyard and picked away at enough ice on the roof to make a hockey rink.

  Not that he was complaining.

  He’d needed an outlet for the frustration that had found its way into his muscles when he’d realized he’d been set up.

  Cole had acted so nonchalant when he’d asked Brock to come help him out with a church project. He’d never once mentioned they’d be working on the house where Anya grew up.

  Brock sighed and heaved another shovelful of snow off the edge of the roof. So Cole had noticed the sparks bouncing off the walls of the snow cave when he’d crawled inside. It was the only explanation. He’d suspected there was something going on between Brock and Anya, and now he wanted to play matchmaker.

  Well, it wasn’t going to work.

  “Brock,” Cole panted. “Let’s take a break.”

  “A break?”

  “Yes, a break. We’re just about done here. We’ve been at this for more than two hours.” Cole handed off his hammer and chisel to one of his fellow church members.

  Two hours? Had that much time passed already?

  “Okay. I’ll see you down below.” Brock speared his shovel into the snow, wiped his hands on his coveralls and shimmied down the ladder.

  A group of folks stood sipping coffee on the porch, but Brock didn’t have it in him to socialize. Coffee sounded good, though—Anya’s coffee, in particular.

  He headed inside, where he’d seen the cardboard box emblazoned with the insignia from the Northern Lights Inn’s coffee bar. He was relieved to find the living room empty, save for a few people headed back out to the porch. And Anya.

  She smiled at him as he approached. “Do you need to warm up? It’s awfully cold out there today.”

  He was already warm. Even more so now that he was in her presence again. “Actually, I’d love some coffee.”

  “Sure.” She began pouring him a cup, even though that wasn’t his intention.

  This wasn’t the coffee bar. He didn’t expect her to wait on him. “I can get that.”

  “I’ve got it. No problem.” She held a full cup toward him.

  “Thank you,” he said and took a sip.

  It was outlandishly good, even better than he’d remembered. Cole was right. The whole town would probably rise up in protest once they found out Anya would be leaving the coffee business to join the search and rescue team.

  “Have you told anyone yet?” he asked.

  “Told anyone?” She tilted her head, and a lock of silky hair fell across her cheek.

  Brock’s fingers itched to reach out and smooth it back into place. He tightened his grip on his paper coffee cup and shoved his free hand in one of his pockets. “About joining the unit.”

  “I told Zoey and my boss at the hotel. But I still need to tell my mom.” She bit her lip, drawing his attention at once to her mouth.

  He looked pointedly away.

  This was insane. He was going to have to start focusing on her forehead again. He glanced at it and frowned. It was no use. Even her forehead was beautiful.

  “Where is your mom?”

  “In her sewing room. She’s not exactly social.” Anya released a sigh.

  The frustration behind it reminded Brock of how upset she’d appeared that night back at her cottage after she’d visited her mother. Apparently, that hadn’t been a one-time thing. “You and your mom don’t see eye to eye about things, do you?”

  “I guess you could say that. Sometimes I wish we were closer, but there’s a lot of history there.”

  Brock understood all about that. His own family thought his lifestyle was insane. He often wondered if they were right, especially lately. “I didn’t realize you were native Alaskan.”

  “No? I can’t imagine why. Look at me—fair skin and these ridiculous eyes.” She waved a hand toward her face.

  His jaw clenched. “Your eyes are far from ridiculous. Don’t ever think that.”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks glowed pink. “Well, thank you.”

  Brock said nothing. He’d already said too much.

  “Anyway,” she continued. “I’m Russian, but I don’t feel Russian at all. I grew up looking nothing like any of the family I knew. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the differences didn’t end there.”

  He wished he could tell her just how lovely she was. The words were right there on the tip his tongue. “How do you think she’ll feel about your new job?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Anya shrugged. “I hope she won’t worry too much. She’s a worrier.”

  “For the record, I think it’s great.”

  She peered up at him through her eyelashes
and smiled—a slow, modest lift of her lips. “You do?”

  “Yes. I know my initial reaction to the news probably wasn’t what you’d expected.” The more he thought about it, the more ashamed he was. He’d acted like a jerk. “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” she said, and whatever remaining awkwardness there had been between them slipped away.

  Without thinking, Brock slipped his hand from his pocket and touched her face—just a light sweep of his fingertips across the soft skin of her cheek. “You’ll be wonderful. Just the right woman for the job.”

  “Job?”

  At the unexpected interruption, Brock jerked his hand back.

  He tore his gaze from Anya and found her mother standing on the periphery. He’d been so wrapped up in Anya—her eyes, her words, the new part of her that she’d begun to share with him—that he’d been blindly unaware of anything else.

  “What’s this about a job?” Anya’s mother furrowed her brow.

  “A new job, yes,” Anya stammered. “I’m leaving the coffee bar.”

  “What?” Her mother aimed a brief, accusatory look at Brock. “Why?”

  Brock took a step backward.

  “I’m joining the ski patrol. I’m going to work full time with the avalanche search dogs,” Anya said, her head swiveling back and forth between Brock and her mother. “Mom, this is Brock. He’s...”

  She seemed confused as to how to introduce him, how to explain his role in her life. As far as Brock was concerned, there shouldn’t be any confusion.

  To Anya, Brock was nothing more than...

  He shook his head. What was he to Anya? He didn’t know how to begin to answer that question. How could that be? Weeks ago, when he’d first arrived in Aurora, everything was so clear.

  Brock’s head throbbed. “You two obviously have some things to talk about. I think I’m going to head out.”

  He turned to go.

  “Wait,” Anya called. “Don’t leave.”

  Don’t leave.

  Her words sliced right through him. They made him want things he shouldn’t.

  He couldn’t keep doing this. It was torture. If it was this hard to walk away from Anya now, how much harder would it be two weeks from now? Three?

  He’d tried avoiding her. He’d tried not to kiss her. More and more, it was all he could think about. And now here he was, standing in her childhood home, meeting her mother. As if he was here in Aurora to stay.

  I can’t do this, he thought. If I don’t leave now, I might never be ready to go.

  He waved at Anya and her mother and slipped out the door and into the cold.

  It was time to put an end to things once and for all.

  * * *

  “He sure left in a hurry,” Anya’s mother said under her breath.

  An uneasy feeling came over Anya as she watched Brock close the door behind him. There had been something foreboding about the way he’d left so quickly. Then again, it wasn’t as though Brock had ever been much of a social butterfly. She was probably only imagining things.

  “Anya?”

  “Yes?” She blinked and tried to refocus her attention on her mother.

  “Who exactly was that again?” Her mother frowned at the empty space where Brock had so recently stood. “And what’s this about your new job?”

  “I’ve been hired as a member of the avalanche search and rescue team. I’m going to be an official part of the ski patrol.” As she said it, she realized just how much she liked the sound of it. She couldn’t help standing a little taller.

  “Oh. Well, I can’t really say I’m surprised.” Her mother’s lips curved into a wistful smile.

  “Really?”

  “It’s obvious you’ve really enjoyed your volunteer work with the search team. I haven’t seen you so happy in a long, long time.” Anya’s mother reached out and stroked a lock of Anya’s chestnut hair.

  The comforting gesture caught Anya off guard. How many times had she dreamed of those weathered hands brushing her hair, twisting it into braids like all her raven-haired cousins? To have her mother’s hands stroking her hair now, after all these years, satisfied a yearning she’d given up on long ago.

  But why was she thinking of such things now? She was a grown woman. “I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

  “Of course I’ve noticed. You’re my daughter, Anya.”

  You’re my daughter. Anya’s eyes misted over.

  “Those aren’t happy tears.” Her mother stopped stroking her hair. Her mocha hand moved to cup Anya’s cheek instead. “Are they?”

  Anya very nearly lied. A lifetime of feeling different, of sensing a wall between herself and the rest of her family had trained her to put on a happy face and pretend like everything was okay. Even when it wasn’t. Like now.

  She looked into her mother’s eyes and saw nothing but unguarded love and affection there. And she found she could do nothing but answer with complete and utter honesty. “No, these aren’t happy tears. I’m thrilled about my new job, but it means Brock will be leaving soon.”

  Her mother gave a slow, knowing nod. “Brock is the gentleman you were just speaking with? The one you were so upset about on the day of the Reindeer Run?”

  “Yes.” Anya’s hands trembled. She shoved them in the pockets of her jeans. It felt strange to be speaking so openly with her mother. Strange, but nice.

  “You care about him a great deal, don’t you?”

  That was the question, wasn’t it?

  Anya swallowed. “Yes. Very much.”

  Her mother’s dark eyes grew more intense, urgent. “Have you told him yet?”

  Yet? “Of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  Was she serious? If anyone in the world could understand how difficult relationships were for Anya, it should have been her mother. “Because, Mom, I don’t know if I can.”

  Her mother guided her to the sofa and sat down beside her. She wove their hands together—warm, brown fingers laced with Anya’s porcelain ones. “Are you going to let him leave Alaska without telling him how you feel about him?”

  Tears stung Anya’s eyes. As much as she wanted to break free from the past and move on, one question haunted her. A question she’d never allowed herself to ask anyone. Not even God.

  She leveled her gaze at her mother. It was time—at last—to get to the heart of the matter, the crux of everything. “Why does everyone leave me?”

  A sob escaped her, and her mother wrapped her in her arms.

  “Sweetheart,” she whispered. “You’ve never been alone. I’m right here. And your father left me, not you. We were kids. He didn’t realize what he was doing to you. I’m sure not a day goes by that he doesn’t think about you and wonder what could have been.”

  Her words hummed through Anya’s consciousness, growing louder and louder.

  What could have been...

  Her mother pulled back, held on firmly to Anya’s chin and looked her square in the eyes. “Don’t let the pain of your past make you wonder the same thing—what could have been—a month from now, a year from now. Don’t do what I’ve done and shut yourself off from the world. You need to tell Brock how you feel. You owe it to yourself.”

  The humming grew louder, more forceful, pounding in time with her heart. “What if he leaves anyway?”

  “You’ll survive. I promise.”

  Such a modest answer, beautiful in all its simplicity. And undeniably true. All these years of guarding her heart. Where had it gotten her? Alone. That’s where.

  Anya squeezed her mother’s hand. “Why haven’t we ever talked like this before, Mom?”

  “I don’t know. But I think it’s high time we did. What have we been waiting for?”

  What have we been waiting for
?

  What have I been waiting for?

  She had to tell him. She had to tell Brock how she felt before it was too late. He would probably still go, but at least she would have no regrets after he was gone.

  And deep down, Anya knew it was far too late to worry about getting hurt.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anya stood on Brock’s porch and took a deep, fortifying breath.

  You can do this. He’s the same man who bared his soul to you in a snow cave. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  She was back at the place where it had all started. As her hand wavered, poised to knock, she thought about the first time she’d found herself at Brock’s door. Who knew she’d end up falling for the man in the bear suit? It was crazy.

  She made her knuckles rap on the door before she chickened out. Three quick knocks.

  The church group had left her mother’s house barely an hour earlier. She’d cleaned up the coffee, placed the paper cups in the recycling bin and showed her mom all the work that had been done outside. Her mother had grown a little teary-eyed when she’d seen the roof and the neat paths they’d shoveled through the snow in the yard. Anya had suggested she might want to accompany her to church on Sunday to thank everyone for their efforts. To her shock, her mother said she would. It would be the first time Anya had gotten her out of the house in as long as she could remember. Perhaps they were both ready to move on.

  Still aglow with the success of the morning, Anya had taken Dolce back to the cottage and picked up the hat she’d knitted for Brock. Now seemed like right time to give it to him. It sat nestled in the inside pocket of her parka, right against her heart—which, at the moment, was beating quite out of control.

  You can do this. Just say it—Brock, I have feelings for you.

  She’d kissed him, for goodness’ sake! Surely she could talk to the man.

  The door swung open. The instant she saw Brock’s face, she knew something was wrong.

  “Anya,” he said without a hint of pleasure in his voice. In fact, there was a particular brand of sadness in his tone that she’d never heard from him before.