Chapter Four

When Trace returned to the lobby, Lilah manned the reception desk. She looked up as he approached. “Hi.” She offered a smile to go with the greeting, but it was nothing more than a rote flex of facial muscles. Those soft, green eyes looked sad, but maybe that was him, projecting. They also looked worried, which he thought might be all her. “Is everything okay with the room?”

“Everything’s great,” he assured her, hoping to erase the worry. Isabelle had a problem she declined to share with him, but Lilah didn’t need to know about that.

“Good.” Her smile faded, but the worry remained. “What can we do for you?”

“I’m on my way down to the garage. I forgot something in my car. But before I head down there, I was hoping to check on Key and make sure he’s all good to bed down in a kennel tonight.”

Her smile returned, a testament to her fondness for the dog. “We always have room for Key.” She unlatched the half-door and held it open. “Do you want to go back and say goodnight to him?”

“You read my mind.”

She tipped her head. “Come on through.” As he did, she went on, “Last time I looked in on our four-legged guests, he and Sheba were having the time of their lives playing keep-away with a Kong ball and beagle pup named Oliver.”

Key loved all things—except squirrels—but Sheba and Key weighed over three hundred pounds, between them. That added up to a lot of dog against one small puppy. He paused on his way back to the kennels. “Is that a good idea?”

She laughed. “It’s fine. They’re very careful.” Just as quickly as it came, her amusement subsided. She faced him, sort of squared her shoulders, swallowed hard, and fixed him with an uncharacteristically serious stare. “Trace, do you have a sec to—?”

“Lilah?” Rose rounded the registration desk. “Have you taken your dinner break yet?”

“No. Not yet, Tlaa’. I was just about to.” She turned to Trace, who still hovered in the hallway, and shook her head. “Never mind. It’s nothing. Enjoy your visit with Key, and please let us know if you need anything else.”

“Will do,” he said, and watched her hurry off with her mom. Did Lilah want to learn to fly? They offered lessons at the airfield, and her interest had surfaced several years ago, but Rose hadn’t been a fan of the idea, so nothing had come of it.

Curiosity accompanied him into the kennel, but the jubilant canine chaos that greeted him there quickly drove all other distractions from his mind. Instead, he focused on holding his own against an enthusiastic full-body greeting from a well-fed St. Bernard. “Hi, Sheba. Hey girl.” He staggered a bit as her front paws landed on his chest. Scratching her sides vigorously, the way he knew she liked, he asked, “Who’s taking care of Key? Are you taking care of Key?”

Affirmative barks as low and loud as a bear call battered his eardrums. “Good girl. You’re a good girl, Sheba. Okay. Sit. Sit. Lemme say goodnight to Key.”

With the obedience of an animal that didn’t have the power to flatten a grown man with one bounding leap, she sat, tongue lolling, her big mouth open in a yawn.

“Hey, Key.” Trace patted his thigh as the husky approached to claim his good night rubdown. He nosed a small beagle over with him.

“Yep. He is really cute.” Unable to help himself, Trace knelt and scratched the little brown, white, and black puppy between his floppy ears.

Key leaned down to pick the puppy up in his mouth by the little guy’s scruff.

Trace intercepted and shook his head. “No, buddy, he’s not yours. You can play with him tonight, but we can’t keep him.”

Key sent a short bark of objection toward the ceiling.

The puppy investigated his hand, snuffling his velvety white jowls over Trace’s knuckles. He fingered the tag on the beagle’s collar. “See? He already has a daddy.”

As soon as the word left his lips, he winced. “Or a mommy,” he quickly added, hoping to distract Key with a less familiar term. But no. Key threw back his head and howled. A long, loud, lonely cry that lengthened at the end into a distinctly high-pitched, “Aye.” It flayed Trace’s heart open.

Shay.

“Hey, now.” He shifted to sit on the cool linoleum tile floor and wrapped an arm around Key’s neck. “I know.” He pressed his face against the dog’s neck. “I know. I miss him, too.”

Key whined, once, from his throat. Trace raised his head, a little embarrassed to find himself fighting tears. “It’s normal to miss him.”

The dog headbutted Trace’s shoulder.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with Sheba, right?”

“Arf!”

“And with your new friend, Oliver.”

“Awoo!”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” He held out his fist. Key bumped it with his paw.

“Good dog.”

Being an affable creature at heart, Key rebounded from feelings of loss brought on by memories of Shay faster than Trace. Even now, almost four months later, sometimes the pain of loss landed on him just as cold and crushing as it had that day last November, when he’d learned his younger brother had gotten turned around in the fog on a cargo run from Anchorage and crashed into one of the formidable peaks of the Chilkat range.

Did that cold, crushing pain account for the dreams—nightmares, visions, whatever—he’d had since, where Shay appeared to him so lifelike and vibrant, looking for all the world like he wanted to share a secret? Or was the heavy weight of guilt the reason Shay haunted him?

Or was he simply losing his mind?

By the time he made it back to the reception desk, Rose and Lilah had turned it over to a night clerk named Peter, who was a cousin of Rose. He nodded to the older man as he turned the corner and walked through the lobby entrance to the Goose. The establishment boasted a street entrance as well, with the old, ornately trimmed oak bar and most of the tables oriented toward that door and the large windows facing the street. Tonight, drawn blinds covered the windows to keep the heat in and block out the blizzard. Unlike the inn, which did the bulk of its business during the tourist season, the Goose generally drew the locals in year-round for food, drinks, and conversation. The evening’s foul weather, however, kept all but the diehards away.

Scarred hardwood floors muted his footsteps as he entered, so none of the five patrons sitting at the bar turned to greet him. They would have, had they sensed him, since the group consisted of Mad, Wing, Jorg, Lilah, and Rose. Instead, they stayed in deep, huddled conversation with Ford Langley—former Army special forces—and current owner of The Tipsy Goose. At the moment, Ford stood behind the bar, one tattooed forearm resting on the surface, listening intently as Rose spoke.

“…very pretty, yes. But very”—she swirled her hands across her face—“fancy. City-fancy. And Shanahan brings her up here in the middle of a March blizzard, I think to help her get to know the town, and he books her a standard room.” She slammed her hand down on the bar. “What kind of Sh kahaadi does that?”

“A standard room would be a step up from most of my nights at the inn,” Wing interjected. “Hell, a room would be a step up. I’ve slept on that pool table”—he jerked a thumb toward the back of the bar—“more nights than I care to admit.”

Mad threw a peanut shell at him. “And you’ve bedded down in the kennel even more nights than you’ve slept on the pool table.”

“Har. Har.” He brushed the shell off his arm. “My point is, a standard room suits most people just fine, right? The inn gets visitors from all over Canada and the lower forty-eight and has loads of five-star reviews. I don’t hear people complaining about their accommodations.”

“But those are tourists. Visitors, as you said. We are not trying to get them to move here.”

“Well, hell, Rose,” Ford laughed, and drew a pint of his own, local brew for himself. “I can’t believe such a modern, independent businesswoman as yourself automatically assumes the girl is going to up stakes and move to the boy’s hometown. Maybe Shanahan’s fancy L.A. woman isn’t moving to Captivity to be with him. Maybe he plans to move to Cali to be with her?”

Jorg straightened on his barstool. “Then who runs the airfield?”

Wing turned to Ford. “Yeah. If Trace moves to Los-fucking-Angeles, who runs Captivity Air and Freight?”

“Not Bridge,” Mad announced with the authority of someone who served as an occasional sex toy for the woman in question—Trace’s sister—but at least Mad had the wisdom and decency not to flaunt the fact in front of Trace, so he wasn’t forced to send his friend and employee to a shallow, unmarked grave. “She’d go batshit in a week if she got stuck behind a desk dealing with payroll and accounts payable and all the other paperwork.”

“Yah. Yah,” Jorg agreed, and everyone, to a person, nodded.

“Would he sell, do you think?” Wing asked, sounding genuinely appalled at the idea.

And this is why you lied about Isabelle’s reason for coming here, he mentally justified, and tried to ignore the stab of guilt that came from hiding his true intent from people who trusted him.

“No way.” Mad shook his head. “The Shanahan family founded that airfield. Two generations built it from a plot of ground to what it is today. For Trace and Bridget, it’s like, their legacy. He couldn’t sell his stake.”

Ah, Jesus. Could and would. And it was nobody’s damn business but his own. He’d disappoint people when news of the sale finally broke. So be it. They’d figure out soon enough that Skyline’s investment benefitted everyone.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Rose said ominously. “She wears no ring. Talking marriage, but no ring yet. I think this trip is like a deciding time. If we want her to decide yes—yes to Trace and yes to Captivity—we’re going to have to help him convince her. So far, I am not impressed by his efforts.”

“Hey, he got her here,” Mad pointed out.

Rose gestured toward the battened down windows. “This is her first impression of Captivity. Tell me, how is she going to fall in love with the town when it’s buried in snow?” Next, she pointed at the ceiling. “A standard room is nice, but nothing special. A man trying to be persuasive should aim to do the special, right?”

The others nodded in agreement.

“And no ring. Why no ring? Did he not think to get one before he tossed, ‘You should marry me,’ at her? Or did she suggest they wait? Either way, I say he has not properly sealed the deal. Worse, even after I upgraded them to a romantic room, and sent Lilah to deliver champagne, he came back downstairs, alone, in less than fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes!” She shook her head. “Jorg could do better.”

“Hah. I would like the chance to try. That’s for sure.” He clicked his beer to Ford’s.

Well, Jesus. People drew conclusions awfully fast around here.

“You didn’t see their lip-lock at the airfield,” Wing said. “I got chemistry burns just watching them go at each other.”

Wing deserved a raise.

And Trace needed a cold shower just remembering locking lips with Isabelle—the feel of her pressing urgently against him, the scent of her. The taste of her.

“A woman who flies two thousand miles through a blizzard hopes for more than a nice kiss. She wants some fireworks at the end of the journey,” Rose insisted. “Fifteen minutes is not fireworks. It is a dud. No woman travels this far for such a pathetic reunion. She certainly doesn’t stick around for more of the same. If that is the best he can do, he needs lessons—”

“Hey, Trace,” Ford called and straightened. Wearing a deliberately blank expression, he began wiping the bar with a towel.

Five equally blank faces turned to greet him.

He was going to have to up his game, apparently. “Hi, guys. Hey, Ford, can I put a to-go order in for some dinner? My guest needs sustenance after…ah.” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “After.” There. That ought to go some ways toward dispelling any doubts about his ability to set off a few fireworks in fifteen minutes or less.

Rose swiveled on her barstool and faced him. “I can go to our kitchen, make her a nice meal and have Lilah bring it up to you. Authentic Alaskan king crab, pacific halibut, or Chinook salmon? Or a steak, if she prefers? Something special.” She emphasized the word.

“Nope. No need. A burger is what she craves.”

Rose groaned and swiveled back around, obviously considering him a lost cause.

Ford took out an order pad and a pen. “No problem. What can I get you?”

“One double Ultimate Burger with everything, and a side of fries.”

Ford noted the order in his kitchen shorthand. “And?”

“Uh…” He scanned the hand-printed chalkboard menu mounted on the wall behind the bar for what would come closest to Isabelle’s request. “One skinny burger, medium, but not too pink in the middle, with lettuce and with tomato. Hold the bun, the cheese, and all the condiments—except Dijon mustard. She’ll have some, on the side, if you have it.”

Now all eyes stared at him once again. “Holy shit,” Wing whispered. “That is love.”

“It is something,” Ford agreed, scribbling on his pad. “No problem. I’ll have it ready for you in about…oh…fifteen minutes?”

That earned some snickers from the peanut gallery.

“Great. Add a couple beers and put it on my tab. I have to get my bag from the car. I’ll grab everything on my way back.”

“Done, big guy.”

Funny, coming from Ford, who was six foot two to his six foot five and could definitely give him a run for his money in a bench press contest.

He took the long way around and down to the parking garage just to see what the blizzard had accomplished so far. About a foot of snow, but the thermometer on the bank sign across the street read twenty-eight degrees, which meant once the heavy clouds dumped their load, and the sun rose, all that snow would start to melt. Muddy days ahead.

With fifteen minutes to kill, he futzed around in the Yukon.

With a husky on board more often than not, he’d taken to carrying a big lint roller to pick up the fluff that went everywhere. Seat cushions, floor mats, carpet—they all got a cleaning. By the end he’d collected enough fur to make a whole ’nother animal. Two seconds after Key next hopped into the car, he’d need to do it all over again. But whatever. Turned out a dog double the size of a normal husky-malamute shed twice as much. Practical? No. But Shay had never been known for his practicality. Charm and impulsivity, yes. Practicality? Not so much. Thus, Key.

By the time he returned to the Goose, Lilah, Rose, and Jorg had left. Wing and Mad played pool while Ford polished glasses and watched the Anchorage news station on the flatscreen behind the bar. Trace allowed himself a moment of relief to realize any further discussion of his allegedly inept woman-wooing skills had been deferred to another occasion.

Ford looked over as he came in, and lifted a to-go bag from under the bar. “You’re all set.”

“Thanks.” He took the food, hefted his overnight bag higher on his shoulder and lifted a hand toward Mad and Wing. “’Night guys. Be good.”

“’Night,” they replied, but before he stepped out of ear-shot he heard Wing add, “You be good, too, big guy. Put a smile on her face and a ring on her finger. My twenty bucks says you’ve got it in you.”

Awesome. He backed up. “What are the odds?”

“Fifty-fifty.”

Motherfuckers. He reached into his pocket, found a twenty and tossed it on the bar. “Put me down in the seal-the-deal column,” he told Ford, and walked out. Their catcalls followed him into the lobby.

He nodded to Peter, who gave him the thumbs-up sign—three guesses which outcome Peter had put his money on—and headed to the elevator.

When the doors slid closed, the aroma of fries and burgers filled the small space. His stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything since the on-the-fly protein bar he’d scarfed on the way to Anchorage to pick Isabelle up. It seemed like eons ago. And at least half an eon since he’d left the room to fetch dinner while she changed into something more comfortable.

What constituted “more comfortable” in her book? He flashed back to the frilly underthings that had fallen out of her luggage. And the little vibrator. And the box of condoms. His stomach suddenly became the second most demanding organ in his body, behind his cock, which reminded him it hadn’t had any attention for much longer than a few hours.

He found himself wishing he could satisfy both appetites tonight, with his city-fancy, sexy-as-fuck attorney.

Upon reaching the door, he knocked once—mainly to avoid startling her—and scanned the keycard. “Isabelle,” he said softly as he shouldered the door open and entered the suite.

No response. And no sign of her. The air smelled like her, though—an intriguing seduction of something rare and potent that grabbed him by the balls with nothing more than a whiff.

The suite was also warm. Overly warm, in his opinion. He glanced at the wall. Who the hell set a thermostat to seventy-four degrees? He considered bumping it down to a comfortable sixty-eight but figured his roommate deserved a consult before he took the liberty.

“Isabelle?” he repeated, but still got no reply. Lights were low, consisting mainly of the entryway light, the glow from gas fireplace she’d turned on, and one of the bedtable lights. He walked further into the suite, slid his overnight bag off his shoulder, and placed it at the foot of the bed, then walked over to the small table in front of the window to deposit the to-go bag. With his hands finally free, he turned and…

Whoa.