What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3

by Cherise Sinclair

  She’d better try for salesclerk jobs.

  Hmm. What if she ran into Obadiah? Would he recognize her?

  She pulled on her lip. Nah, probably not. The only time she’d met him was a moment in the reception line after his and Kit’s wedding ceremony. He’d already been swamped with introductions to all of Kit’s co-workers at the garden nursery. Honestly, why hadn’t Kit seen that as a big red flag—that the guy hadn’t made the effort to meet any of her friends?

  No way would Obadiah remember her face.

  So, first step, find a place to stay. Tomorrow, get a job. She rolled her eyes. Mannaggia. Damn me, for sure. This so wouldn’t go over well with Mama, who’d thrown a fit about Frankie taking vacation time. “You’re needed to be the liaison with the runway show next week. Some of our girls need your handholding. And who will deal with the fighting backstage? And that new photographer has everyone in tears. How can you just walk off and leave me saddled with all these problems?”

  Frankie’s jaw firmed. All those problems could be handled by a perfectly capable staff. No one was indispensable.

  And I haven’t had a vacation…well, ever.

  It hurt that her mother thought she was being selfish.

  Of course, she didn’t know that Frankie was here to help Kit. That Kit was in trouble. She wouldn’t understand. Over the years, Mama had cut Kit to the quick with valid, but tactless comments about her poor taste in men. Kit was sensitive to criticism—and when this was over, she wouldn’t need Mama’s “helpful” remarks reminding her of another mistake.

  At least Papà had been supportive of Frankie taking time off and had chided Mama about treating Frankie more like an employee than a daughter. But that was Papà; he had a soft heart. When she was little, she’d wished he’d been home more. But famous photographers traveled.

  And took pictures of gorgeous Norwegian models and fell in love. The thought still made Frankie laugh. Two more unsuited people could never be found, yet, somehow, they were still married.

  Frankie sighed. It’d be nice to have someone she could talk to about this mess. Someone to cuddle with at night. Someone who might even reassure her that everything would be all right.

  Because right now, she was feeling really alone—and drowning in doubt.

  What might those people do to Kit if Frankie made too many waves?

  Chapter Three

  Be the person your dog thinks you are. ~ JW Stephens

  * * *

  Blood singing in his veins, Bull was on the cooling-off portion of his run. This was his favorite place to jog—from his roadhouse, down to the lakeshore, through the town park to Dante’s cabins and back. It was off-season with the number of tourists beginning to pick up.

  Dante’s pickup and a sedan had been parked by the four cabins, so the old Okie might have a new renter.

  Gorgeous Friday. Under a vivid blue sky, the sun glinted off the bold line of the Kenai Mountains. Bear Mountain and Russian Mountain to the south were spectacular and so white he had to squint his eyes.

  The temp was mid-thirties with air crisp enough to crackle—exactly what he needed to clear away the remnants of battle nightmares from the night before.

  Pulling his attention from the view, he checked his surroundings again since bears leaving hibernation tended to be irritable as were winter-skinny moose. He’d started wearing his bear spray belt.

  Voices near the trail caught his attention.

  “Yeah, just bought the damn dog. Bernese mountain and German shepherd mix. Its owner died, and the son didn’t want the mutt, so it was cheap. He said the brute fights like a demon, but, Jesus, look at it cringe. I was robbed.”

  Another man spoke. “Good thing you brought him here to test him first, or you would’ve been fucking embarrassed at the fights.”

  Two other voices joined in, agreeing.

  “Let’s try this again,” one said. “Maybe it’ll do better this time.”

  Bull slowed, an ugly feeling crawling up his spine. Fights?

  “And go!” Growls and snarls mixed with shouts. “Get him, you fucking mutt. Attack!”

  Oh hell, no. Not in my park. Not in my town.

  In a slushy clearing, two dogs circled each other while several men watched.

  One dog attacked, the other yelped, then the two were fighting for real.

  Only four guys. He could probably take them, although it’d be nice to have one of his brothers at his back.

  Moving closer, Bull eyed a pile of old buckets someone had forgotten last fall. The melting snow had revealed them—and left them filled them with water. That’ll work.

  He picked up a bucket and tossed the icy water at the dogs.

  Shocked, the mutts broke apart.

  Still pissed off, Bull tossed the second bucket of water at the men.

  “What the fuck!” The yells were satisfying. And then all four charged Bull.

  Fine. He was warmed up and ready to fight.

  He sidestepped the leading man. A hard punch to the guy’s gut folded him over, and he started puking. Jesus.

  Retreating to keep from getting splattered, Bull tripped the second one, so he could concentrate on the third. Twisting to take the third’s punch on his shoulder, Bull hit his chin hard.

  Laid him out cold.

  The second man scrambled to his feet just in time to get Bull’s boot in his gut, leaving him curled up like an armadillo.

  Good enough.

  The last one was the asshole who’d bought a dog for the sole purpose of fighting it. The one who hadn’t even jumped into the brawl. The man’s eyes widened like he suddenly realized he was the only one standing, and he backpedaled rapidly.

  “You wanted a fight,” Bull growled as he advanced. “Try doing it yourself, you cowardly bastard.”

  Even as Bull slapped aside the man’s wimpy punch, his buddies abandoned ship, staggering away. One dog followed them. The other stood, paw in the air.

  Seeing his friends fleeing, the cowardly owner yelled a protest.

  Bull raised his fist and smiled. “Happens we like dogs here. Assholes, not so much.”

  “Fuck you.” The guy retreated a step, then sprinted after his friends. Leaving his dog behind.

  Rather than following, the dog whimpered, lay down, and watched Bull warily. Obviously, there was no bond between the dog and the owner.

  Dammit, I don’t have time for a dog, let alone a fighting dog.

  The mud-covered fur appeared to be long—a mix of reddish brown and black. Bleeding from a couple of bites, the dog whined at Bull, appearing more bewildered than vicious. Hell.

  Bull went down on one knee and held his hand out, speaking slow and low. “I don’t know much about the Bernese part, but shepherds are good working dogs. You want to come interview for a job at the Hermitage? We’ve got chickens and a kid you can guard. You’d have to set up a truce with the cat.”

  At Bull’s quiet words, the dog’s ears perked up, and its bedraggled tail moved back and forth tentatively.

  “Then again, the shape you’re in, the cat might win a fight,” Bull murmured as the dog rose and took a few steps forward. The black fur over his back and sides didn’t hide sunken flanks. Bull spotted a dick. No balls.

  The dumbass owner had thought to fight a neutered dog?

  “You’ll be better off with us,” he said. “Guess a name for you might help.”

  The dog inched closer.

  “My niece, she’s into those Harry Potter stories. Named her cat Sirius.” Bull reached out slowly. The dog’s thick fur was patterned like a shepherd. Black over his back and tail, dark muzzle and ears, russet around the eyes, cheeks, ruff, and legs. A white blotch of fur marked the center of his chest.

  After a second, the dog wagged his tail, bowing his head so Bull could ruffle the soft flopped-over ears. “How about we name you something Potterish to get Regan on our side. Maybe Gryffindor—and call you Gryff for short. If Regan pushes for you to stay, Caz and JJ won’t argue—not that Ca
z would anyway. Audrey has a soft heart, so Gabe will be in.”

  It was amazing how the Hermitage had gone from being just Mako’s sons to adding in women and even a kid.

  “Now Hawk, he might be a trickier sell on the surface, but if you whine and show him your injuries, he’ll go belly-up. He knows what it’s like to get beat up.”

  A black nose lifted to sniff Bull’s neck. A quick lick told him he had himself a dog. Not what he needed in the least.

  Ah, well. At least he got to punch some assholes.

  Standing in the slush-filled parking lot on Friday, Frankie unhappily studied the restaurant-bar in front of her. It was a massive building made of logs with a sign on the front: Bull’s Moose Roadhouse. Thankfully, there was a HELP WANTED sign in a front window.

  This was her last chance to get a job.

  Over the last day, she’d worked on the items on her to-do list: Gather information, secure a place to stay, and find work.

  The information gathering would be an ongoing and long process. With her first attempt, the postmistress and other store owners had been easy to lead into gossiping about the Patriot Zealots, commonly called PZs. It seemed that the men from the compound showed up in Rescue often enough. The women didn’t get out much except for shopping at the grocery store—with male escorts. The women weren’t allowed to drive, and the children didn’t attend public school.

  Anger burned in Frankie’s stomach at the thought of little Aric being subjected to the fanatics. Damned if she’d let that continue.

  List item two was easily achieved. Dante, the grocery store owner, had several lakeside cabins he rented to fishermen, but the season hadn’t started yet. She questioned her sanity about living in a rustic log cabin, but Dante’d assured her that the Chicago woman he’d rented to last year had loved the place.

  Frankie shook her head. Whenever one of the locals looked at her, she knew they were thinking city girl.

  At least she’d managed to avoid a thick New York accent. Growing up with a Norwegian mother and Italian father, being around models from everywhere had helped. If anything, she sounded Italian, thanks to spending summers in Italy with her grandmother—and imitating Nonna. Having discarded her own Norwegian language like last year’s apparel, Mama didn’t approve.

  Papà had laughed and taught her new swear words.

  Her mother would be even more appalled about Frankie applying for a job in a bar. However, waitressing was something Frankie knew how to do. Thank you, Kit. When Kit first arrived at college and started work in a restaurant, the quiet, shy eighteen-year-old had been overwhelmed. So, Frankie’d gotten a job at the same place, thinking she’d work there long enough for Kit to relax. Even after Kit grew comfortable with the restaurant, Frankie remained—because she’d loved it. Loved everything from washing dishes, bussing tables, waitressing and hostessing, to working in the kitchen on the line. She’d even graduated to being one of the chefs, now and then. A restaurant was a totally different atmosphere than her mama’s image-happy modeling company.

  Frankie shook her head, wistfully longing for a return to those years and the wonder of learning and exploring new ideas. The drunken nights where they’d sit in the dorm hallways and debate politics. The camaraderie of working in a restaurant. The joy of having friends who liked the same things she did, who saw who she really was—and liked her that way.

  Those years were long past.

  She eyed the roadhouse and was quite sure that working in a restaurant now wouldn’t be nearly as fun as when she was a college student.

  But she wasn’t here for fun now, was she? This place would serve her purpose, since the postmistress said the PZs were often at the bar.

  Time to hit the runway and walk the walk. Pulling in a fortifying breath, she crossed the lot, pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

  The place was nicer than it appeared from outside, and she was glad she’d worn nice black slacks and her favorite royal blue sweater.

  The restaurant and bar were spotless, and the air held the tempting aroma of grilled meat. With golden-stained log walls and wagon wheel chandeliers, the rooms held an Alaskan hunting-lodge ambiance. The nightclub took up about half of the right side of the building with a glossy, wooden bar along the back and distressed-wood tables and chairs in the center. Mounted on the log walls were huge antlers interspersed with wild animal photos.

  Although only mid-afternoon, there were a couple of guys at the bar, and a few people seated in the restaurant.

  Frankie stopped at the hostess station and waited for someone to notice her arrival.

  “Oh, hey.” A slim, young man in a pink button-up shirt walked over. His nametag said Felix. “Bar or restaurant?”

  “Actually, I saw the help wanted sign in the window.”

  His face lit up. “Awesomeness. We’re already short-handed. The ski season might be ending, but the summer tourist season will be kicking in soon. Help we need.”

  She smiled. “Perfect. Do you have an application or—”

  “Wylie can talk with you now.” Felix motioned her into the room. “He’s a good guy. Maybe a bit grumpy today. Night owls hate working lunch shifts. Given the choice, I don’t think he’d get up until mid-afternoon.”

  Great. An interview with a grumpy guy. Ah, well, this Wylie couldn’t be worse than diva models, screaming photographers, and irritable event organizers.

  A few minutes later, she sat across from the middle-aged chef being interviewed. Thankfully, she’d already worked out her evasions about why she was in Rescue and could answer the question he’d asked.

  “It’s one of those things. I’ve only lived in cities”—true enough except for her summers in rural Italy—“and I want to try something different for a while.” If she was here for reasons other than rescuing Kit, she would’ve been delighted to visit Alaska. And meeting new people was always wonderful.

  However, even if she had to hide her complete reason for being in this state, an employer deserved as much honesty as she could give him. “I doubt I’ll stay permanently. Do you hire seasonal workers?”

  “Yes, we do. Absolutely.” Wylie was clean-shaven, had a bit of a gut, typical of chefs, but otherwise was in fair shape. “Right now, we’ve barely begun hiring for the longer summer hours and will have more positions open in the restaurant in a couple of weeks. If you don’t want to wait until then, I currently have an opening for wait staff at the bar, Wednesday through Saturday nights.”

  Exactly where she wanted to be. Frankie grinned. “Sold. When do I start?”

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  Chapter Four

  Sometimes it’s not the people who change, it’s the mask that falls off. ~ Haruki Murakami

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, Bull’s family was hard at work. Winter on the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska was winding down with spring on its way. Seemed like breakup came earlier every year, and the lakes and rivers were almost ice free. Time to assess snow damage and put things to rights.

  It was also time to inventory the freezer and pantry so he could finish off last year’s meat and fish before the new harvest season. They’d all dealt with their own freezers, but Bull had volunteered to go through the one at Mako’s cabin.

  Stopping on the deck, Bull took off his muddy, Xtratuf rubber boots. “Yo, Gryff. Come on in, buddy. You might as well get familiar with this place, too.”

  Still favoring his sore paw, Gryff bounded up the steps into the big two-story cabin. Bright, open, and all one room, the house was vastly different from the tiny, off-the-grid log cabin where the sarge had hidden after his discharge from the military. A decorated Green Beret, Vietnam vet, and drill sergeant, Mako had put in his twenty years, then disappeared into the wilderness to deal with his PTSD and paranoia on his own.

  Bull shook his head. No one in their right mind would’ve approved a crazy survivalist for adoption—not that Mako had wanted kids. However, nearly twenty-five years ago, when the sarge was in LA for
a teammate’s funeral, he’d heard screams from the next-door foster care home and entered to find an unconscious man with his pants around his ankles and four terrified boys. Caz was still holding the baseball bat. Figuring no one would take their word against their foster father’s, the four had planned to run and live on the streets—where most of them had been before. Mako offered to take the boys to Alaska and raise them himself.

  Bull shook his head at the memory. That pretty much summed up Mako’s core belief—a man protected the weak.

  The sarge kept his word and raised them to stand on their own. To be strong and honorable. To fight together as a team and then as brothers.

  After his “sons” left to enlist, Mako’s PTSD and paranoia worsened, and eventually, they’d convinced him to move to Rescue where he had an old military buddy. His paranoia wouldn’t let him live in town, so they’d pooled their resources and bought up a good portion of the lakefront. Their five homes formed a half-circle around a communal space that faced the lake.

  Mako built his place, planning to live upstairs and use the downstairs for family. He’d wanted room for them all to gather for meals and evenings. The equipment in the weight room and dojo rivaled some gyms.

  He ruffled Gryff’s fur. “I miss that tough old guy.”

  Gryff whined in sympathy and licked Bull’s hand.

  A year and a half ago, Mako had chosen a quick death rather than a slow one to cancer, but damn, Bull would’ve liked to have said goodbye. To have told the sarge how much he meant to him. To all of them.

  But hell, Mako had known. He might have been a crazy survivalist, but he could also read people. Miss you, Sarge.

  Time to work—Mako’s answer for all ills.

  A couple of hours later, Bull had a list of what needed to be eaten soon and what should be restocked. Odd how all the packages of salmon steak and chicken were gone, leaving less popular items like soup bones—which, come to think of it…