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Paxton likes to sleep in the buff.
The crickets and night birds lull me to sleep, but I’m up with the dawn and ready to get moving, helping Alaska strike camp.
We wolf down granola bars and a few more bracing coffees while I mentally steel myself to face the music back home.
It’s a silent, tense drive back to Heart’s Edge, even if things are calm between us.
He’s not the reason for my tension, of course.
I just won’t feel calm, feel safe, until the gold gets stashed away somewhere no one will find it until I can figure out what to do with my illicit treasure.
It feels like Paisley’s watching me.
The worst part is, considering how she stalks Mom’s every move, I might not be wrong.
So I’m even more uneasy when I hear Alaska’s plan to hide the bars. Especially as he hauls that worn tarp across the ground and shoves it behind the pile of wood outside his cabin once we’re back in town, filling the narrow space.
“I don’t know about this.” I fidget anxiously. “What if someone robs you? Charming Inn has other guests besides you.”
“This isn’t the Wild West. It’s only temporary. You can’t keep it at home, right? Give it a week or so and we’ll relocate it somewhere better. I don’t think anyone’s even going to have the slightest clue there’d be anything worth stealing out here, let alone gold bars.” He flashes me a cocky smile as he tucks a few more bars away, arranging the wood to conceal the haul. “No one deals in gold like this outside of Fort Knox.”
He’s right.
So why did Dad have it in the first place?
That question eats at me as I pry myself away from Alaska.
I need to talk to Sheriff Langley. I want to see the police report on my father’s death again, dig in and check to see if there was anything I missed.
Anything that might point to more answers and show me what to do.
I can’t let that mess of gold be Alaska’s responsibility for any longer than it has to be.
Not when it feels like it’s as tainted as my name.
The Randall Curse is mine, and I’ll die before I let it consume Alaska or his sweet son.
8
The Gold Standard (Alaska)
When you get to know him, you find out fast that Holt Silverton’s a funny drunk.
And by funny, I mean so damned soppy over his wife you’d think she single-handedly saved the town from destruction—when we all know what she really saved was him.
The change in the boss since he’s become a family man is something to witness.
Not gonna lie.
I’m a little jealous.
I’m also trying not to laugh my ass through the floor as he lifts his mug in another jeering toast to Libby—the seventh since we sat down for a few drinks after several grueling days at work.
Although at least this time Holt’s not demanding everyone in Brody’s give a rousing cheer with him.
Nope, just the unlucky—but very amused—sods here at his table. Namely, every man who doesn’t mind a little beer and some downtime before he heads on home.
“To Libby!” Holt crows, thrusting up his mug.
Blake and me and everyone else dutifully repeat it like a tent church revival.
“To Libby.”
“You’re damn right,” Holt says. “Say, didja know they’re coming out to the farm to do research?” He doesn’t specify who they might be. I’m not sure he even knows. “All this hiss...historical and sciency stuff out in Ursa, and all thanks to that damn meteorite. Pretty cool, huh? Things are finally going right in this weird little town.” He grins toothily at Blake. “Sorry, man. No more big explosions or fires for you to put out.”
Blake rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Nah, bro, just near-death experiences and shoot-outs with crazies. Way better than fires.”
“I think I’ve missed a lot,” I say. “Only had one near-death experience and shoot-out here over that meteorite thing last year. Seems like this town’s got a history and so do some of the folks here. How about the Randalls?”
I hope I don’t seem like I’m fishing.
I really am curious about the town and the recent misadventures that put it on the map. I’d heard of the place even before Holt told me it was his hometown, back when we were working in NYC. That Galentron mess nailed several high-up politicians and made national news.
More than anything, though, I’m curious about Miss Felicity.
“Oh, Fliss?” Holt perks up.
His arm flails out expansively, and his hand just narrowly misses smacking his brother—if only because Blake rocks back with an ease born from a lifetime of practice with his little brother.
“Watch it!” Blake snaps.
Holt snorts. “Pfft. Don’t you believe all that bullshit you hear about Felicity. She’s a nice gal. Tough. Goddamned scrapper, really.” He drops his head, making a mournful noise into his beer. “Gave me a black eye once when I was a kid.”
