What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3

by Cherise Sinclair

  He pulled out a package and grinned at Gryff. “Guess what you get after it thaws a bit.”

  “Hey, Bull. You in here?” That was Gabe’s voice.

  “In the pantry,” Bull called.

  Gabe’s footsteps approached the kitchen. “The chickens are laying like crazy. Maybe you could make deviled eggs? Audrey and I have older eggs in the fridge.”

  Because hardboiled eggs from fresh eggs were fucking impossible to shell.

  “Sure, I can do that.” Bull left the walk-in pantry, followed by Gryff.

  Gryff stopped dead at seeing Gabe.

  Even without wearing a uniform, Gabe had the appearance of the law—short brown hair, clean-shaven, hard-set stern jaw. And a cop’s wary cynicism in the sharp blue eyes staring at the dog. “I think you have something to share, bro.”

  Bull grinned at the order for information.

  The oldest of Mako’s sons by a year, Gabe had always been their leader. Even as youngsters, Gabe would give the orders, then Bull would muster the troops—the other boys—and resources. Sneaky, tender-hearted Caz would handle recon and deal with injuries. Always more of a loner, Hawk was their pilot—and sniper. The years in various military forces had only strengthened those roles.

  And speaking of the devils, there came his two other brothers, across the deck and into the house.

  As Hawk and Caz stepped in, Gryff caught their attention—and backed up until his hind end was against Bull’s legs.

  A year younger than Bull, shorter and slenderer than the others, Caz smiled at Gryff, his brown eyes kind. “There’s a pretty boy.”

  Bull glanced at his last brother. Beneath the scars and tats and blond beard, Hawk wore a scowl, of course, since he reacted to change the way he would a bunch of insurgents breaking into his home.

  Not a problem. There were ways to scale Hawk’s guarded castle.

  Catching the dog’s eyes, Bull made a high, almost inaudible ooo-ooo-ooo whine.

  Raising his muzzle, Gryff imitated the sound with a most pitiful, mournful howl.

  “Ay, pobrecito.” Caz went down on one knee and held out a hand. Trained as a medic by the Special Forces, now a nurse practitioner, Caz had an especially soft heart for pets.

  Still pressed against Bull, Gryff started to wag his tail.

  “Go say hi, buddy.” Bull motioned toward Caz, and Gryff advanced…carefully. A sniff, a caress, and Caz had himself a new furry friend.

  “Where’d he come from?” Gabe also knelt and held out a hand to be assessed.

  “In the park. Some assholes were trying to get him to fight another dog—and Gryff wasn’t into it. The one who bought him was told he was a great fighting dog.”

  “He’s neutered,” Caz pointed out.

  “Yep. When I broke up the fight and busted the humans up a little”—his brothers grinned—“the owner left Gryff behind. I couldn’t leave the pup there—and we could use a dog.”

  Hawk snorted his disagreement.

  Rubbing his jaw, Gabe scowled. “I’ll check around. Make sure we’re not having any dog fights around here.”

  Bull had counted on that. Rescue’s Chief of Police took his job seriously.

  “He’s torn up a bit.” Caz was already checking the dog’s injuries as Gryff nosed Gabe’s hand for more petting.

  “Yeah. The other dog ripped up Gryff’s paw, got him a few times on the neck and shoulder. He’s hurting, Doc.”

  “Sí. I’ll give you some ointment for him,” Caz said.

  “Hell. Let me know if you see the bastards again.” Hawk’s blue eyes softened, and he went down on one knee for his own introduction.

  Leaning against the kitchen island, Bull grinned at his deadly brothers. Gabe—a retired Navy SEAL like Bull and master of all weapons. Cynical, damaged Hawk—army sniper and pilot for anything that would fly. Cazador—Special Forces medic, silent and deadly with blades.

  And all three hardasses turned to putty in a dog’s fuzzy paws.

  “That whine-on-command is pretty effective,” Gabe said, having noticed that Bull instigated the I’m-a-poor-puppy sound.

  “He’s damn smart,” Bull said. “Whoever had him before the asshole did some training. It won’t take much to teach him to bark on command.”

  Caz groaned. “Don’t tell Regan how to—”

  As if summoned, Caz’s daughter trotted across the deck in a flurry of light footsteps. All of ten years old now, she had long, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and light brown skin—like a mini-me Cazador. Her mother died last fall. Discovering he was a father, Caz had brought her to the Hermitage—and now she owned all their hearts.

  “That’s a dog.” She stopped in the door.

  “Sí, mija.” Caz rose and held his hand out to her. “Bull rescued him. He has some sore spots, so be careful when you’re petting him.”

  “Oh, he’s all fluffy and pretty.” Regan walked forward cautiously—and damn, Bull hadn’t realized just how big Gryff was. The dog probably outweighed the girl by ten to twenty pounds.

  “Look to one side, not directly at him, and hold your hand out,” Caz murmured.

  When she did, Gryff walked over, tail already waving because…yeah, he could tell she was just a pup.

  Regan grinned as the dog sniffed her hand, and she squeaked with the lick of the tongue, then set to petting the happy mutt. “What’s his name?”

  “Gryff—short for Gryffindor.”

  When the Harry Potter fan squealed in delight, Bull didn’t miss the narrow-eyed stare from her father who recognized the manipulation.

  Ha. Grinning, Bull watched as Regan and Gryff bonded. Her smile was huge.

  There were days he really envied his brother. Caz not only had Regan but had found himself an incredibly strong woman with a big heart. Speaking of …

  “Where’s JJ?” Bull asked Caz, then glanced at Gabe. “And Audrey?”

  “JJ’s starting the packing process.” Caz was amused. “Two weeks away apparently requires a lot of forethought in what to take.”

  “Ah, I forgot she was leaving on Monday.” The officer was headed to Sitka to learn all the nuances of Alaska law enforcement.

  “Lillian offered Audrey a bribe of her special fertilizer mix to get help transplanting seedlings into bigger pots,” Gabe said. “She won’t be back for a couple of hours.”

  “Not if she has little seedlings to play with.” Bull grinned. Gabe’s woman, Audrey, had fallen head-over-heels in love with gardening. Lillian—whose arthritic knees weren’t happy with kneeling on cold ground—loved the young woman’s help and had taken the city girl under her wing.

  “Since you’re all here, and since I found a surplus of moose steak in the freezer, and we have too many eggs, how about chicken-fried steak and eggs?” Bull asked.

  “I’m in,” Hawk muttered. He loved everything country, from the food to the music.

  “Can I help?” Regan asked hopefully.

  Bull’s heart turned the consistency of pudding. As if anyone could say no to those big brown eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of cooking for a group without my junior sous chef.” He motioned toward the kitchen. “Let me introduce you to the wonders of cream gravy.”

  Before Regan could rise, Gabe bent over and whispered in her ear, “See if you can talk him into making biscuits.”

  Bull smiled because…no persuasion needed. There was nothing as satisfying as feeding people—especially his family.

  That night, Bull pulled into the back parking lot at his roadhouse, got out, and did his usual quick scrutiny of the surroundings. An itch tickled his monkey brain—someone was watching him—but whoever it was didn’t feel dangerous. Then again, maybe he was paranoid simply from lack of sleep. Fucking PTSD. He’d left the military a good seven years ago. Shouldn’t an escape from nightmares accompany the DD-214 discharge papers?

  At least Gryff woke him up before he’d descended too far into the abyss. Good dog.

  With narrowed eyes, Bull checked the area for movement. Seemed quiet
enough. By the roadhouse, the patio area overlooking the lake wasn’t open for dining yet. Movement caught his attention. Near the forested path to the town park, two people stood hand-in-hand, watching the water.

  Music from the bar trickled out into the night along with the clamor of voices inside. Sounded as if it was getting busy. Time to rev up to tend bar.

  Owning the roadhouse suited him, since he could alternate bartending with being a chef, or not do either on the days he needed to be in the office. Damn paperwork. Owning two other restaurants and a brewery, plus managing Mako’s trust, was getting to be too much.

  Maybe he could re-enlist?

  Off to the right, a car door opened with a creak. “Bull!”

  His muscles tightened. Oh, hell. Guess he knew who’d been watching him.

  His ex-wife Paisley hurried across the slushy, gravel lot. Her blue eyes were alight, her smile big. She clasped her hands together. “Honey, it’s so good to see you.”

  Sure, it was. His mouth flattened. Once upon a time, he hadn’t been a cynical bastard, but his first wife and various girlfriends had introduced him to disillusionment. His second wife, Paisley, had put the icing on the cake.

  Unable to avoid her hug without pushing her away, he turned his head to escape her attempted kiss. Even the wind off the snow-pack-fed lake couldn’t cool down his annoyance. “What do you want, Paisley?”

  “Oh, darling, don’t be angry with me.” Ignoring his step back, she patted his arm, then his chest.

  Irritation bit into his self-control. “For fuck’s sake, woman, when a person moves away from you, it’s a polite way of saying don’t touch. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  She stared at him with hurt on her face. “You love my touch and always want my kisses and to make love.”

  “Not. Any. More.” He took another step back and crossed his arms over his chest. Fucking-A, they’d been divorced for over two years.

  “But…”

  “Why are you here?” The struggle for patience felt as though he was slogging through the endless sands in Afghanistan with a full pack.

  She curled a strand of hair around her finger and looked up through her lashes. “I miss you, Bull. I want to get back together.” Her voice dropped to a mere whisper. “I think we made a mistake.”

  We made a mistake? He stared in disbelief. Had she forgotten so easily? He sure hadn’t.

  He’d been so in love with her. So damned blind. He’d let slide the times she said she had to show a house and been out late. He’d explained away the occasional whiff of unfamiliar aftershave when he’d kissed her neck, telling himself she’d touched her neck after shaking hands with someone. Despite knowing she was obsessive about checking her phone, he’d excused the times she didn’t answer his texts.

  Until one day.

  Until he had trouble pissing, got checked, and was told he had an STD.

  Trailing her for a few days, he’d learned that loyalty and fidelity were merely words to her, donned for appearance sake, and discarded as easily as her last month’s purse.

  Now she was here, saying they made a mistake?

  There had been no mistake, except marrying her in the first place.

  He gritted his teeth to keep from flaying her with sarcasm. What would be the point?

  After a calming breath, he said evenly, “Paisley, we’ll never be together. We had this talk.” The one where he told her that he’d never be with someone he couldn’t trust—and she’d broken that trust. Irreparably.

  “But…but I miss you. I need you.” She latched onto his arm and clung. “You love me. You said you did.”

  “It’s over. I don’t love you.” He pried her fingers off. “Go home—and don’t come back.”

  When she burst into tears, he hardened his heart and walked away.

  As he reached the back door of the roadhouse, someone cleared their throat. Aw, fuck, someone had witnessed that clusterfuck of a scene? Hell.

  “My boy, are you all right?” Lillian’s crisp British-accented voice was as clear as if she were still performing Shakespeare in London’s West End.

  “Hey, you two.” Discarding the morass of his past, Bull straightened his shoulders and brought out his smile for her and the wiry, white-haired man next to her. “I’m good, yes.”

  Lillian gave him a skeptical frown.

  Diversion time. “You look great, Lillian.” She’d gone back to London to have knee surgery and recuperate there. Alaska winters and walkers didn’t mix well. “Tell you what—if Dante isn’t treating you right, let me know, and I’ll take his place.”

  Lillian’s smile cleared the worry from her face.

  “In yer dreams, boy.” Dante, Mako’s old friend, was on the downhill slide toward seventy but as tough as old shoe leather. Absently tugging on his beard, he watched as Paisley drove her car out of the lot, spewing gravel everywhere. “Would that be your ex-wife?”

  So much for a diversion. “Yes, that’s her.” Bull ran his hand over his shaved skull. “Gotta admit, I was a fool. Her beauty shut my brain down completely; it took me a while to wise up.”

  “Happens to the best of us.” Dante slapped his shoulder. “Eventually, you learn that what you want in a spouse is just like what you want in a teammate—someone to fight at your side. A partner who’ll have your back and can be relied on.”

  The old soldier smiled down at Lillian. “A sense of humor doesn’t hurt either.”

  “You knotty-pated old fool,” the Brit murmured, but the way she leaned her head against his arm contradicted the insult.

  Envy ran through Bull. That easy affection was what he’d hoped to find with Paisley.

  And hadn’t.

  “Enjoy your evening, you two.” Bull managed a smile and pointed a finger at Dante. “Don’t you kids leave any used condoms in my parking lot.”

  He walked through the door to the sound of Dante’s sputtering and Lillian’s laughter.

  As he donned the denim vest that served as his roadhouse’s uniform, he glanced around the bar. Very nice. The wagon wheel chandeliers, the antlers, and the distressed wood all made for a friendly atmosphere. The sawdust on the floor to impart a nostalgic ambiance hadn’t lasted past the first few months. Too much of a pain to sweep up.

  Since he only hired a band on weekends, the tiny dance floor was often wasted space. However, the raised stage and sound equipment came in handy for the activities he’d tried during the long snowy winter when people needed diversions. Karaoke, poetry and fiction-reading, open mic for music had all proven popular.

  Once behind the bar, Bull called to the other bartender, “I’ll take this half, Raymond.”

  Canadian Raymond Yang was working to save for grad school next year. He gave Bull a frazzled glare. His shoulder-length black hair, which his Taiwanese mother kept telling him to cut, had come loose from the leather tie. His long-sleeved shirt had wet stains on the cuff. “It’s crazy tonight.”

  Good. Just what I need. Bull rubbed his hands together. “Fun times.”

  One of the servers, Felix, stepped between the curved rails of the waitstaff station. The blond young man—today in a flamboyant metallic print shirt that was dimmed only slightly by the vest—grinned and slid his pad of orders to Bull. “You’re late, Boss.”

  “Sorry ’bout that.” Bull used to worry about Felix, who openly played on gay stereotypes, saying he preferred that people knew exactly where he stood. He’d caused more than a few fights, but damned if there weren’t more men than Bull realized who swung that direction. Felix never lacked for partners.

  Bull kept an eye on him though. The sarge had taught him that a man watches out for the people on his team.

  With the energy in the room fizzing like champagne, tonight would be a good night. As Bull filled drink orders, he exchanged banter with some customers, handed out compliments to others, and paused to simply…check in…with the quieter ones.

  Best job in the world. Aside from cooking. And running businesses
and—

  “Bull, my favorite bartender!” A masseuse from McNally’s Resort gave him a wide smile and a toss of her hair.

  His mood soured slightly.

  The woman’s friend, also an employee of McNally’s, leaned forward, pressing her ample breasts against the bar. “Now that the ski season’s over, you’ll see us in here more often.”

  “Good to hear,” he answered. “It’s nice to have a break between tourist seasons.”

  The masseuse reached across the bar to attempt to stroke his arm.

  Pretending not to notice, he moved out of range, grateful for the bar between them.

  I like people. Really, I do. Admittedly, sometimes he wished that people didn’t include those of the female gender who touched without permission. Actually, a person’s space should be respected, no matter the genders involved. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, we’re just waiting for some nachos from the—oh, here they are now,” the woman said.

  “Ma’am, here is your order.” The brunette server set a platter of nachos on the bar top, all her attention on the customers. She didn’t even glance at Bull.

  Tilting his head, he studied her as she dealt with the payment. Wylie had mentioned he’d hired new waitstaff.

  Intriguing-looking woman. Medium height and full-bodied rather than slender. She wore the roadhouse’s denim vest over a rich blue shirt. A tooled leather belt wrapped around her black jeans. Gold earrings twinkled against dark brown hair that fell to mid-back in a long braid. She wore no makeup from what he could tell, but her gorgeous brown eyes, with stunningly long black lashes, were the color of melted dark chocolate.

  She had a strong face with an assertive chin…and her perfectly curved mouth was made for smiling.

  He wanted to see her smile.

  Unfortunately, when she glanced at him, he got nothing. In fact, her big eyes were cold. It appeared here was one beauty who wouldn’t be flirting with him. After giving him an unreadable look, she walked away.

  He rubbed a thumb and finger down the sides of his goatee as he watched her.

  Interesting. Did she dislike men with shaved heads? Or was the color of his skin a shade too dark?