Page 9 of Silver Brewer

I snort and hand the flimsy strip back to her. “Suit yourself.” I stand, leaving her opened pack to head for the porch where I have my own bag to carry.

“You have a tent in there?” she asks, coming up behind me.

“I’ve already taken everything up.” I turn to face her, noticing her backpack is almost bigger than she is. She stares at me a moment, and I note again how much I like how she looks at me, even with the quizzical expressions and wrinkled nose. Then realization hits.

“You’ve already been up there and came back to get me. That’s like a ten-mile hike in a day.”

“It’s six but good to see you can do math.”

Her eyes narrow as I slip on my pack and tip my head toward the mountain.

One last chance to back out, lady.

But she follows me.

+ + +

To my surprise, she doesn’t complain, but she jabbers on as we climb.

“You’re not an ax murderer, right? Not leading me to a lair where you’ll cut me up and leave me to rot. Let the bears eat me. I already told you Marcus knows where I am. I have a tracking device on my phone.”

“Thanks for letting me know. Your phone will be the first thing I destroy.” I continue walking, but her sudden quiet gives me pause, and I turn to find she’s stopped following me.

“What?” I question. She has one hand resting on her cocked hip as she stares up at me. “You already told me you trust me.”

“I know, but…I don’t think that’s funny.” Her voice turns serious even though she had to be joking when she asked if I was an ax murderer. The thought hits me like a bullet to the chest, which I already suffered a few years back from my days in the service. In my defense, I have killed people, but I don’t think now is the time to tell her that. On second thought, there won’t ever be a time to explain my history to her. I don’t want her to know me.

“Well, you asked,” I remind her. Her hand drops, and the other hand lifts for her hip. She glares at me. “Look, here’s the rundown. My brother is the mayor of Blue Ridge. I don’t think I’d get away with murder even if I wanted to commit it, which I don’t. And even if I did, a prison term isn’t on my bucket list.”

“You have a brother?”

Jesus. “Do you know anything about the Harringtons? Aren’t you supposed to research a prospect before you hound someone for their personal property?”

“I don’t look into the personal lives of the owners, no. That would be an invasion of privacy. I only look at the property and the value for my client.”

Heartless. “What about the value to the current owner?”

“I already told you to name your price.” Incorrigible. Does she really believe everything has a dollar value? Then again, her new boots and the fresh backpack filled with clothing containing sales tags answer my question. Gold-digging, money-driven city woman. Ha.

I turn away from her and continue up the mountain, ignoring her suggestion.

“Tell me about your brother.” She sounds farther away, but I tell myself not to look back. If she can’t keep up, she’ll just have to find her way.

“Why, so you can exploit him as well?”

She ignores me and begins to talk about herself. “I have a sister. For a long time, it’s been just the three of us. My mother, my sister, and me. I lost my brother so long ago that I don’t remember what it was like to have one.”

The thought rips at my chest. I love my brothers and Mati, my sister. We’re a tight-knit family, but I don’t want to explain myself to her. Since she didn’t bother to research the Harringtons before she approached me, that’s her loss. She has no idea who she’s going up against.

When I don’t answer, it feels as if only a few seconds pass before she starts chirping at me again. “How about a girlfriend? Got a lady friend?”

Not that I think that’s any of her business either, but I stop and turn back to her, finding she’s farther behind me than I thought. I briefly think of Alyce Wright, Mati’s friend, whom Mother invited to dinner. I’ve met her on several occasions. With curly blond hair to her chin and light eyes, she’s fine, but she just doesn’t do it for me. And I’m pretty certain I don’t do it for her either. Despite being the assistant volleyball coach at BRHS under my sister, she’s more like a cheerleader with her high-pitched voice and constant enthusiasm. She talks too much, which reminds me of a certain someone who’s too busy looking up at me to notice where she’s walking. Cricket trips and falls to her hands and knees.

Instantly, I race the few feet back to her.

“Are you okay?” I ask when she doesn’t look up, remaining on all fours. She nods slowly, and my heart pounds because she went down hard. Is she hurt? “Here.” I reach for her chin, intending to make her look up at me, but she tugs her face away. I’m squatting, and the rejection almost forces me to fall backward.

“Letty?” She shakes her head and slowly lifts one dirty hand. She brushes under her eye and peels the other hand from the dirt. Gingerly, she lifts her upper body and then twists to sit on her backside. Her hands cover her knees, and her forehead lowers to them.