one
Bear backed the U-Haul trailer into the driveway of the Maple Street rental and killed the engine. The steering wheel creaked as he released his grip, his palms damp with sweat despite the chill in the air. In Montana, even in early June, the air could bite. Winter wouldn’t give up her grip on the state until she was good and ready.
Same could be said for the kid sitting in icy silence in the passenger seat of his truck. Bear had a feeling winter would give up to summer long before his son thawed to him.
Across the cab, Logan hadn’t moved. Hadn’t said a word since they’d crossed the Montana state line. He just stared out the passenger window with his earbuds in and his jaw set hard enough to crack a tooth.
Christ, it was like looking in a mirror, seeing his own teenage self. The same stubborn set of the shoulders, the same dark eyes that could cut you with a look. Logan was as tall as Bear had been at fifteen, already over six feet, all lanky limbs and sharp angles, growing into the broad shoulders that would eventually match his father’s. It was hard being the tallest person in any room, standing out even when you’d rather blend in.
It was harder when you were fifteen and angry at the world.
Sorry for that, kid.
Bear was sorry for a lot of things. Logan inheriting his obscene height was the least of it.
King whined from the back seat, a trail of drool marking the upholstery where he’d been resting his massive head. The Leonberger was better at reading moods than most humans, and he’d been picking up on Logan’s tension for the entire drive.
“It’s okay, boy,” Bear said, though he wasn’t sure if he was reassuring the dog or himself. “Hey, Logan. We’re here.”
No response. Silence had become Logan’s default since that first terrible night in Denver when Bear had walked into the emergency foster home, and the boy had looked at him with such hatred that it had cracked his heart. The drive from Colorado to Montana—nearly a thousand miles of truck stops and roadkill—had been marked by one-word answers, aggressive music blaring through earbuds, and the silence that expanded to fill every inch of the truck’s cab until Bear thought he might suffocate.
He turned from his son and sat for a moment, studying the house Walker Nash had helped him find. Maple Street was on the north edge of Solace, far enough from the center of town to offer privacy but close enough that they could walk to Nessie’s Place if they needed coffee or the general store for groceries.
A fresh start for them both.
The house looked rougher than in the photos Walker had sent. Peeling paint, a porch that listed left, a kitchen window with a curtain rod that was already bowing. It was supposed to be the place where he figured out how to be Logan’s father.
Now that they were here, the whole thing looked impossibly small for everything it was supposed to hold.
But it came furnished, had three bedrooms, a fenced yard for King, and it was the best he could afford on a ranch hand’s salary with his credit and his prison record.
“This is it?” Logan finally spoke, voice flat as he yanked out his earbuds. “This dump?”
Bear bit back his first response—that it was a hell of a lot better than prison—and instead said, “It’s not much, but we can fix it up.”
Logan snorted and shoved his phone into his pocket. “Whatever.”
Bear gritted his teeth. That word. Everything was “whatever.” Did he want to stop for a bathroom break? Whatever. Was he hungry? Whatever.
Logan wielded it like a weapon and a shield.
He opened his mouth to say… hell, he didn’t even know, but movement on the porch caught his attention, and he turned. Margery Pendry stood there, wrapped in a wool coat older than Bear, a leather purse the size of a suitcase on her arm, a tin of something in her hands. She raised one hand in greeting, her smile crinkling the weathered skin around her eyes.
“Right on time,” she called out as Bear opened his door. “I made cookies. Oatmeal raisin. Your boy likes those?”
Bear glanced at Logan, who was still staring out the window, earbuds firmly back in place. “Hard to say. We’re still figuring things out.”
“Ah.” Marge’s expression softened with understanding. “Well, boys his age like cookies regardless. It’s a universal truth.”
Yeah, but maybe not oatmeal raisin.
He kept that thought to himself.
King bounded out of the truck toward the porch with ears flattened in excitement, tongue trailing drool.
Fuck.
He had flashes of his dog, who had no idea how big he was, plowing over Margery and breaking every bone in the octogenarian’s body. “King, no!”
