“And Walker says you’ll fix things up around here that need fixin’.”
The sparkle in her eyes told him Walker said no such thing, but he was too charmed by the fiesty old woman to call her out on the manipulation. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Good. Now go on. Get moved in before that storm rolls in.” She nodded toward the western sky, where dark clouds were gathering. “Montana weather changes faster than a teenager’s mood.”
Wasn’t that the truth?
Bear thanked Margery again and watched to make sure she made it down the rickety porch steps safely—he’d definitely be fixing that death trap masquerading as stairs first—then followed Logan to the truck.
“Can’t we just leave it for now?” Logan asked, staring glumly at everything left from his life in Denver, shoved into the trailer. “I’m tired.”
Bear heard the unspoken part:I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be with you. I want my mom back.
“Look,” he said, keeping his voice even, “I know you’re tired. I know this sucks. But we need to get the bed frames and mattresses inside tonight. The house is furnished except for the beds. Once we find those, everything else can wait.”
Logan grumbled, but stepped forward and picked up a box. Despite his lanky frame, the kid was strong.
Just like his old man.
The thought made Bear’s throat tighten. If Logan had both his strength and his temper…
Fuck.
They made three trips between the truck and the porch, with him carrying the heavier furniture pieces while Logan handled the boxes. They didn’t speak, but the silence felt less hostile than before. He was about to suggest they take a break for some of Margery’s cookies when a car door slammed across the street, and a skitter of awareness worked up the back of his neck.
The bottom dropped out of his stomach.
Greta Dougherty was wrestling a kayak off the roof of her mud-spattered red Jeep. She had her back to him, but he’d know that wild strawberry blonde hair anywhere, the determined set of her spine, the way she moved—all fierce, concentrated energy, a live wire trapped in a petite body. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face as she strained against the weight of the kayak.
Of all the houses in Solace. Of all the streets. Of all the neighbors.
Walker did not warn him about this. Walker, Bear was now sure, knew. The bastard had probably arranged it.
Bear stood frozen, the forty-pound box of Logan’s books suddenly feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds as he watched Greta wrestle with the kayak. He should look away. Should finish unloading. Should pretend he hadn’t seen her.
But then the kayak won.
It slid off the roof rack, Greta lost her grip on the bow, and ten feet of polyethylene came down on her with the inevitability of physics. She went flat on her back in her own driveway under the kayak, arms still up like she was holding it off her face, and from across the street Bear heard, very clearly: “Son of a?—”
He was moving before he’d decided to move. He dropped the box and was across Maple Street in seven strides, King bounding ahead of him.
A black Lab appeared from nowhere, circling Greta with ears flat, whining anxiously. Atlas. Her search and rescue dog.
“Off, buddy,” Bear told Atlas, who immediately stepped back. At least he was well-trained, unlike King, who still stood there wagging his tail, completely oblivious to the emergency.
Bear lifted the kayak off her with one hand, as if it weighed nothing. He set the kayak down on her lawn, then turned back to look at her still sprawled in the gravel driveway. Her hair was full of grit, coffee splattered up the side of her parka, and a fresh scrape marked her cheekbone. “Greta. Always getting into trouble.”
“Sasquatch.” She blinked up at him, surprise flashing across her features before settling into something more guarded. “You moved out of the ranch.”
“I moved.”
“Across the street from me.”
Bear felt his ears grow hot. “Apparently.”
“Huh.” A long pause. “Well. Are you just going to stand there, or put those big, sexy arms to use and help me up?”
two
