"You looked like a banana with a firework," Finn corrects. "Let's get them home. They need heat, not stories."
We load up. The transition is swift, as natural as breathing for people who call this island home. Aris rides behind me on Finn's sled, wrapping her arms tight around my waist. I feel her shivering against my back, even through the layers of down and Gore-Tex.
"Hold on tight," I say, shouting over the idle of the engine.
"I'm not letting go," she promises, her voice muffled against my parka.
Mags rides with Finn. The twins stay behind to secure the boat.
The ride out to Crystal Creek Lodge is a blur of snow and speed. We tear through the groomed trails, the skis chattering over the hard-packed ice. The wind bites at my face, but havingAris holding onto me, alive and safe, makes the cold bearable. We wind through the dark timber, the headlights catching the eyes of watching owls, until we finally turn down the long path to the lodge.
The main building is blazing with light. Smoke is pouring from the chimney. It looks like a sanctuary.
We pull up to the porch, killing the engines. The silence drops in on us.
"Inside," Mags orders, hustling us up the steps. "Guest room, hot shower, dry clothes. In that order. I'm making soup, and if anyone complains about the salt content, they're sleeping in the shed."
We walk inside. The Lodge is warm, so much warmer than my cabin. It smells of cedar, woodsmoke, and safety.
The clock above the mantel reads 9:30. Thursday.
I stand in the middle of the living room, stripping off my gear. My parka, my gloves, my boots, they all land in a heavy pile on the floor. The adrenaline crash is final now. I feel hollowed out, scooped clean of energy.
Reid walks in ten minutes later, having taken his own sled from the marina. He stomps the snow off his boots, drops onto the arm of the chair across from me, and starts the interrogation.
"Okay. The cabin. Damage report. Start with the kitchen window, because Finn says you boarded it up with plywood."
"I used what I had," I say, sinking into the armchair. "I'm a guide, Reid, not a builder."
"Clearly. Plywood wouldn't stop a stiff breeze. A determined squirrel could chew through it. What else?"
"The back door. The jamb's splintered where the biggest one worked at it half the night."
"Can you fix it?" I ask, closing my eyes.
Reid sits up straighter, a man who has just spotted a problem he can solve with fire and metal.
"Fix it?" Reid scoffs. "I can do better than fix it. I can reinforce it. I've got the portable welder on the back of my sled. And some diamond-plate steel I was saving for a boat hull."
"Steel?" Mags asks, emerging from the kitchen with mugs. "Reid, it's a house, not a prison. Nash doesn't want to live in a bunker."
"It needs to be wolf-proof," Reid argues, gesturing with both hands. "I can make you a custom wrought-iron grille. Maybe some decorative spikes. Classy, but lethal. Like a gothic cathedral, but with more stopping power."
Aris laughs into her coffee, and I stop tracking Reid altogether, because the woman on that couch is holding my heart and she doesn't even know it yet.
"No spikes," Aris says from the couch. Her voice is stronger now, warmed by the coffee. "But I'll take the steel mesh. Something that doesn't block the view but stops a hundred-pound predator."
Reid points a finger at her. "I like her. She thinks practical. I'll measure it up when we ride out tomorrow."
Rhys, meanwhile, has set up shop at the dining table, tablet out, already drafting a rebuild list. He looks up at me with deep disapproval.
"When did you last update the fuel inventory at the cabin?" he asks. "Be honest. How do you know how much propane you have for the generator?"
"I shake the tank," I say.
Rhys looks horrified. He actually recoils. "You shake the tank? That is not a metric, Nash! That is guessing!"
"It works."
