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I hold it away. “No.”

“I’m twice your size.”

“And I’m sober.”

“Debatable.”

“I’ve had half a beer.”

“You’re a lightweight.”

“You’re avoiding the subject.”

“So are you.”

My smile disappears.

Hank’s does too.

For a second, he’s my uncle again instead of the idiot who decided six whiskeys constituted a financial strategy.

“We’re not losing the lodge, kid.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ve been figuring it out for two years.” He quips.

I shove his whiskey back into his hand. “Maybe you should drink more.”

“That’s my girl.”

Then he turns and walks toward the stage.

It takes me three seconds to realize my mistake. “Hank.”

He keeps going.

“Hank.”

Wyatt sees him coming.

Worse, Wyatt hands him the microphone.

“Oh, fuck.”

Ellie, Wyatt’s wife, appears beside me carrying two drinks. “This looks promising.”

“This looks like a felony.”

“Even better.”

Hank taps the microphone. “Evening, Devil’s Peak.”

I close my eyes. “Most of you know Dawson Lodge. You’ve hunted there, gotten married there, gotten drunk there.”

“Sometimes all three!” someone yells.

Hank points toward the voice. “Exactly.”