by Dani Collins
“Oh,” she breathed, expression softening.
He’d already seen two bears this season. That one was on the smaller side and rather pretty with her burnt-red coat. The color wasn’t unlike Glory’s hair, he realized as she hitched closer, extending her phone toward his open window.
Rolf covered her hand and pressed it away from him.
Hurt and offense flashed in her eyes as she snatched her phone into her chest, jerking back into her seat, chin setting with belligerence. He leaned into her space, making her recoil against her door as he bent to reach under her legs, to the floor of the passenger seat.
He brought up his own camera, a digital SLR with a zoom lens already attached. He flicked it to video and pointed it out his window.
Glory leaned toward him again, watching as he got the bears in the shot and clicked to record, then zoomed in while keeping all of them still in the frame.
One of the cubs was rooting and pawing at the ground like its mother. The other was being a brat, trying to climb its mother then tackling its twin before charging into its mother again.
Glory chuckled softly. A strand of her hair lifted on the breeze and tickled his cheek, but he didn’t move, just kept filming.
They watched for a solid minute and a half before the sow grew nervous. She looked at them for the third time, stood briefly, then dropped onto all fours and ambled into a hollow beneath a tree, cubs tumbling along behind her and out of sight.
Glory released a sigh that his inner animal felt. In another world, that kind of feminine noise was breathed against his ear after a really satisfying orgasm.
He was becoming obsessive and it was seriously uncomfortable. His groin was aching for adjustment and a compulsion to put his hands all over her gripped him.
She hated his guts.
He turned off the recording and handed the camera to her, then started the truck and put it in gear, rolling up the window as he went.
She played the video, watching the back of the camera. Her chuckle sounded in the middle of it and her sigh rang at the end, making his scalp tingle.
“Can I post this?”
“I’ll send it to you later.”
They were the only words they exchanged for the rest of the drive. Fifteen minutes later, they were at the lodge. He parked, she said, “Thanks,” gathered her things and went inside.
He went to his office and sent the video, then went looking for Trigg and Nate, to relay his talk with the cop. He hadn’t learned much, but a file was open. Hopefully, they would have nothing more to add to it.
That evening, he picked up another email from Glory. It was two words. ‘Thank you,’ in response to forwarding the video. Not even a signature or a ‘G,’ to close.
Purely out of curiosity, he went to her profile to view it.
I saw these cubs with their mom today, while I was catching a lift with my dad’s business associate.
Her father’s associate?
You treat me like I work for you.
He’d consciously been trying not to act like she was his personal assistant, which wasn’t easy because even though she rarely talked to him, she got shit done. That’s why he preferred to go to her, rather than Marvin.
Even if she was still mad at him, it surprised him she didn’t drop his name or the Wikinger connection into her post. Everyone used him that way, given the chance.
Despite not invoking his celebrity, there was a ton of engagement. A surprising amount. Hundreds of likes and hearts and wows. He skimmed through the comment section. Where are you? Where was this?
A veritable clamor for more info. She replied to each one, often with a personal comment, as if she knew them, but the gist was, My dad bought a lodge. More in the next newsletter.
What newsletter? He clicked around, found himself on the fan page for her mother’s books and clicked the button to sign up as one of Kat’s Kittens, whatever the hell that was.
His email pinged and he was offered a free book as a thank you for joining. Huh. He downloaded it. What the hell.
Then he went back to her mother’s fan page to see the video of the bears was there, too. Glory was replying to comments right now, in real time, from across the hall. They were a lot of the same types of comments, many tagging her and asking how she was doing and where she was.
Staying with my dad for now, she replied.
The page clearly stated that Kathleen Cormer had passed away and that this page was maintained by her daughter, but people had still posted things like: I just found your books! Jamie is my new book boyfriend.
Glory replied to every single one. Hi Patty. My mother is no longer with us, but I know she would have loved to hear that you adore Jamie as much as she did…
Rolf clicked to the photo albums, seeing a pretty older woman who gave an indication of how Glory would age—beautifully, it would seem. Kathleen was well-dressed and always beaming, if painfully thin in the final shots. She was pictured under a lot of banners for various romance events, holding awards. There were innumerable selfies, presumably with her fans, since there was a stack of books in front of her in nearly every shot. There were other selfies with Glory, but even more shots where Glory hovered in the background, caught mid-motion taking books from a box or holding a clipboard.
He went back to her mother’s bio. Twenty million books sold? Really?
He went to her website again and scrolled through the covers, trying to see the appeal in the shirtless men—some didn’t even have faces—and the titles full of words like ‘forbidden’ and ‘secret.’
The top twenty or thirty had asterisks beside the titles. He scrolled for the footnote. Scrolled and scrolled past dozens of covers—easily over a hundred, and there, at the very bottom, was a tiny notation that blew his mind.
*During Kathleen’s lengthy battle with cancer, her daughter Gloria helped her revise her earliest works and reissue them. If she did it right, you won’t be able to tell her words from her mother’s.
Chapter Eleven
Spring had finally arrived. Not a brilliant spring day. Clouds kept scudding across the sun, threatening to gather into something more ominous. The breeze was cool and she could still see her breath when she stood in the shadows, but in those short bursts of sunshine, the joy of rebirth beckoned. Birds twittered and green was poking through the brown stalks and leaves that had been revealed as the snow melted.
Winter, Glory decided, was over. Cabin fever was upon her and she went outside.
Despite rumors to the contrary, she didn’t hate the outdoors. That was her father’s impression based on the fact he had too often surprised her with a frog-march into the wilderness to be eaten alive by insects and lie awake in wet sleeping bags, convinced the howls of coyotes were getting closer and the snap of a twig was a serial killer escaped from a nearby prison that didn’t exist.
Glory had wanted to like camping, but had way too vivid an imagination for it. So did her father because he believed he was good at it when he was actually horrible. Something vital was always left at home, like matches or toilet paper.
When she packed herself a protein bar and a water bottle, however, and smeared herself with sunscreen and bug repellant, and only went out for half a day, she had a fairly high tolerance for the outdoors. If she could also take pretty photos and post them on her mother’s page, so she didn’t have to think of fresh content, hashtag winning.
That bear video had been gold. She wasn’t hoping to stumble upon another one, not on foot, but a minute or two of that goofy dog, Murphy, chasing a stick might be almost as good. Who didn’t love photos of a dog rolling in wildflowers? Evil-doers. That’s who.
She took him with her, hoping he would save her if she did come upon a bear. Or a cougar. One of the guys in the dining room had said the other morning that he’d spotted a mountain lion near the washout. She hadn’t been able to tell if he was pulling her leg, but there were enough locals in the room who treated such a sighting as normal that she believed it was a true ac
count.
She didn’t let trepidation stop her. She wasn’t going to tromp into the bush anyway. She was just going to wander up the trail on the far side of the pond, the one skiers would take when returning for the day. A crew had freshly cleared it last week for some of Gerald’s surveyors.
It wasn’t even a quarter of a mile, but it was all uphill and she couldn’t even call the dog when she got up there. She stood with her hands on her hips, trying to catch her breath with lungs aching from the cold air she was gasping. Her jaw hurt and spit gathered in her mouth.
When she looked back, however, the effort was worth it. From this distance, the stains on the siding and the disrepair weren’t visible. Blue Spruce Lodge looked charming, situated next to the glassy pond that held a mirror finish under the flat gray sky. Leaves on the surrounding shrubs were starting to bud, smudging pastel greens over the dull granites and charcoals of winter. With smoke puffing out of the chimney, it looked like a dollhouse. Like the kind of place a little girl dreamed of living.
She did live there. How surreal.
She took a photo, not sure when she would post it. She had begun working on a website for the lodge, but she wanted to wait until it was renovated and open before making an announcement to her mother’s fans. Partly it was a branding issue. She didn’t want to attach her mother’s name to something that might fail. The other side of it was a fear of success. Her mother’s fans were an enthusiastic lot. It wouldn’t surprise Glory a bit if people showed up simply because it was owned by Kathleen Cormer’s husband. She had even started thinking about retreats and other events she could host to exploit that excitement and help ensure the viability of her father’s dream.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, making her whimper. That wasn’t a Sweet-you whistle Trigg might toss her way as a tease. Nope, it was the command to heel that Rolf used on Murphy.
Brilliant.
She turned, hands still on her hips, lungs still working to chew the thin air.
Rolf was near the old lift line, judging by the mangled metal pole bent like a broken flower stalk beside him. He had his camera in his hand and leaned to scrub the dog’s ear before starting toward her.
It took way too long, making her heart begin hammering for a new reason. His jeans were faded down the thighs from hugging the muscles of his long-legged stride. He wore a hard hat and a safety vest along with a radio like Nate always had. He stomped over in heavy, no-nonsense boots that probably had steel toes. He was not looking happy.
“What’s wrong?” he said as soon as he was close enough to be heard over the drone of the machinery down below. An excavator was digging a big hole next to a white tent. A blue outhouse was set off to the side. Trigg and Nate were shoulders deep beneath the hood of Trigg’s recently purchased, well-used, off-road pick-up truck. He was super proud of it, mostly—Glory suspected—because the purchase irritated his brother.
“Nothing. I felt like a walk. I didn’t realize the dog would be in the way.” Now she felt like an idiot. “That you would be working.”
It was Saturday, but of course they were working. She’d seen him and Trigg leave this morning in their work gear. She and her dad worked weekends. Even Devon’s crew worked half days on the weekends. They were all under the gun to get this place making money instead of eating it. She should be working on the lodge’s website right now, not playing Hansel and Gretel up here.
“He’s fine up here. And he knows to stay in the tent when he’s down there.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.” She looked for a way to get out of this scintillating conversation. Was the sky clearing? Or getting worse? “Busy down there,” she said, because stating the obvious was always fascinating.
Trucks had been carrying twisted metal out of here all week. Rolf, Nate, and Trigg were spending most of their days there, rather than returning to the lodge for chunks of the morning and afternoon.
She was not missing them. Maybe Rolf had been almost nice, giving her a lift from Haven and letting her post that video from the other day, but she didn’t read much into it.
“Did Trigg say he’d take you to the top?” Rolf frowned at the little point-and-shoot in her hand.
“No, I just felt like a walk. But I was curious about the lookout. How far is it?” She looked up at where the avalanche had come down. The swath was peppered with a couple of shallow holes where the old lift towers might have stood. Tracks had been carved around them by ATVs.
“I’ll take you.”
“What? Oh, no. You don’t have to.”
“You shouldn’t go alone.”
“You’re up here alone.”
“I have this.” He touched the radio mic clipped to his shoulder.
She didn’t know whether to argue that it looked like rain or say she had changed her mind.
He didn’t give her a chance to say anything, telling Murphy, “Find your stick,” before he walked back to where he’d been standing, snagging a camera bag off the ground and shouldering it. The dog took off ahead of him and she had no choice but to follow.
Her thighs began screaming almost immediately. Rolf set a hard pace, eating up the climb like it was flat ground. Just when she was about to vomit or beg, he paused and looked back, catching her glaring at him for trying to kill her.
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Less yoga, more cardio,” he suggested.
She was about to tell him what he could do with his advice when Murphy ran up with his stick. She absently reached to pry it from his mouth, realizing at the last second—“Oh my gawd. That’s not a stick, you insane animal.”
It was the leg bone of a deer or some other long-gone creature. It was clean and dry, at least, picked clean by birds and weathered by winter, but disgusting all the same.
“Drop it,” she said.
The dog did, then looked at her, waiting for her to pick it up and throw it.
She hesitated, able to see how that would turn out.
She thought she heard Rolf snicker.
“You deal with it.” She started up the track ahead of him.
A moment later, something landed off to her right. The dog ran up to get it. It was a real stick. Smart aleck.
Rolf came up behind her, adding pressure as she grittily set one foot in front of the other. Rain began to spit and her brain said, Fuck this shit with every step, but she made herself keep climbing. She was committed now.
“Oh, dear God,” she gasped as they arrived at a rundown hut on stilts standing guard over a small plateau. She leaned her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. Her chest was going to explode and she willed the pain in her legs to fade along with the stitch in her side.
Rolf glanced at his watch. “Not my best time.” The usual hardness in his expression was absent as he gazed out over the view.
He was having fun with her. Him. Mr. Mean Jeans. He was teasing her for being out of breath.
“It’s the elevation.”
He threw the stick for the dog.
She stood and took in the panorama. Even with the darkening clouds, it was stunning. Actually, it was better because of the clouds. She loved sunny days and blue skies and flowers, but there was something exhilarating in signs of a coming storm. Mother nature in all her magnificence.
The wind was kicking up, carrying both warm and cold layers. She wanted to smile, liking the energy that gathered around her.
They both took several photos, then lowered their cameras.
“It’s even better up there,” he said, pointing further up the slope toward a copse of trees that had survived above the track of the old avalanche.
“Forget that.”
He shrugged and clicked off his camera, squinted at the sky, then stowed the camera in its bag. “Gonna rain soon anyway.”
“How far?” she asked.
“Five minutes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Your legs or mine?”
His mouth slid sideways. “Mine. Ten minutes,” he allowed with a pithy blink at her jeans a
nd dirty sneakers.
Ugh. She’d come this far.
“Fine.” She jerked her chin, waiting until he was ahead of her before she let her mouth twitch. This wasn’t supposed to be fun, but for some reason it was.
She followed him into the trees. A more determined rain began to patter through the branches to hit the forest floor around them. She zipped her jacket to its limit under her chin and pulled her hood over her hair, thankful she was working so hard because the temperature was dropping.
A few minutes later, they arrived at a boulder taller than Rolf. It might have been rolled there by the avalanche or some other slide. It was surrounded by smaller ones they had to climb, which was not her most athletic moment, but when she stood on the big one, her stomach did a flip-flop at the height. They were on top of the world.
“Wow.” She could see where the avalanche had started on a slope off to her right, cut alongside the trees they had walked through, then swept the hill clean to the bottom. Way down at the base, the backhoe worked in silence, looking like a toy. The lodge was off to the left and way, way in the distance, Haven was nestled next to the glinting expanse of Clearwater Lake.
All around them, the peaks of the Rockies stood guard, jagged and eternal.
The wind was trying to cut her in half. Her hood wouldn’t stay on and her hair wouldn’t stay off her face. Her camera was getting wet from the fat drops being thrown sideways at her, but she didn’t care. The moment was elemental and thrilling, urging her to capture it. Savor it.
She took several shots, then lowered her camera, breathing in earth’s majesty before her. She felt small, yet alive. Ruled by nature and empowered by it at the same time. Insignificant, but a part of the whole.
She was glad she’d made the effort to come up here and breathe the fragrance of pine and new life and wet earth. It was kind of sexy.
Oh gads. This wasn’t cabin fever. It was spring fever.
She glanced at Rolf, hoping like hell he hadn’t noticed—
He was staring right at her, expression inscrutable.
Her heart lurched. “What?” She blushed and glanced down, expecting to see a coffee stain in the middle of her chest. Had she picked up a spider? Moss? Bird poop?
