by Kendall Ryan
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I smile.
We stare at each other for a beat too long before his gaze darts away and his body becomes rigid again. It’s as if he’s remembered why I’m here.
Up go his walls, and I feel like I’ll have to begin to chip away at them all over again.
7
* * *
LOGAN
After the weighty discussion we’ve just had, the air around us is tense, but there’s also a sense of calm and healing that I haven’t felt in a long time. I shake out of my daze and refocus on the fire that I’ve yet to start.
“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll get this going.”
As I load the woodstove with kindling, I focus on the task at hand and allow myself to clear my head of thoughts of how easy it felt to tell Summer things I’ve never told anyone. Admitting that I was glad I wasn’t here when Dad died . . . I never thought I’d ever say that out loud to anyone.
But I can’t say I regret it either. There was something kinda freeing in admitting that.
The kindling catches, and the first crackle of fire licking at the logs makes Summer hum happily to herself. The temperature is only in the forties. I can’t imagine how cold she must have been in here last night.
All the animosity I felt earlier overhearing her gossip with my mom is gone. Summer is here to do a job, and I haven’t made it easy on her. I’ve been an asshole. Simple as that.
Stacking more wood in the fire with some paper, I say, “Tell me about your mom. What was she like?”
When I glance at Summer, she has a faraway look in her eyes. “She was spunky and fun, not at all one of those helicopter parents. She never hovered. She let me figure things out, but I knew she’d be there if and when I needed her.”
“That’s cool.”
Summer nods. “She was.”
When I close the door to the stove, I feel Summer behind me. “Do you want me to show you how to get this started again if it goes out?”
She nods. “Yeah, that would be helpful.”
“So, you want to get the kindling just right. That part’s important.”
I show her how to add more logs. Summer’s quiet while I mess with it. Once I’m done, I close the door to the stove again.
“That should last you about two hours. Just keep adding more wood.”
She stands in front of the stove, rubbing her hands together in the warmth it’s slowly starting to put off.
“Better?” I ask, standing to join her.
“So much better.” She smiles. “I’m happy I won’t have to wear twenty layers to bed tonight.”
Another punch of emotion hits me right in the chest.
Summer is so cheerful and good-tempered, even when I’ve been nothing but a dick to her. Even when she doesn’t have any family left in the world. Even when she nearly froze to death, sleeping in her jacket last night. It’s like nothing fazes her. She’s still smiling.
Who is this girl?
For the first time in a long time, I find I want to spend time getting to know a woman. Part of me wishes she’d be here long enough for me to figure out who Summer Campbell truly is.
“Did you grow up here on the property?” she asks, changing the topic back to me.
“No, we only moved here about ten years ago. I was thirteen. We lived in a town a couple of hours away before this. But this was my dad’s dream, living off the land as much as possible. Space to roam, and space for us to just be kids.”
Summer nods. “It’s a nice dream to have.”
I raise one shoulder. “It can be. It can also be a difficult one.” As is evidenced by how much Graham is struggling to get things to work.
“Will you tell me about him?” she asks, her expression growing soft.
“My dad?”
She nods.
I’m not sure I want to, but then before I decide to keep quiet, words start to spill out of me. “He was great. Taught me to how to fish, how to hunt. He wanted to make this place work so badly. He wasn’t the easiest guy to get along with, he had an opinion about everything, but he was good to my mom and loved her unconditionally. I never heard them argue.”
Summer gives me a genuine smile. “He sounds like a great guy.”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing one hand over the stubble on my jaw as nerves suddenly slam into me. “I still can’t believe you came all the way out here just to get me to talk.”
Summer combs her fingers through the ends of her long ponytail, which hangs over one shoulder. “I didn’t have a choice. I know I told your mom that I started my own company, but the truth is, it’s barely off the ground. The opportunity to work with someone of your caliber, a client in the NHL . . . it would mean everything to me and really kickstart my career.”
I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere, but I’m still leery. “So, you said you know Les?”
She nods. “Yes, he’s been like a mentor to me, and he just wants the best for me.”
“He’s a cool guy.”
“He’s the best. I actually had Thanksgiving dinner with him and his wife last year instead of spending it alone.”
I take a step toward the door because I really do need to get back to helping Austen. But then I pause, glancing back at her. “So . . . if I did work with you, what would it involve?”
Summer’s full lips lift. “Well, we’d talk. Have some counseling sessions. Probably like an hour each. Minimum of, I don’t know, six sessions? And we could do them over the phone or Skype. I mean, I’m not staying. I only came to win you over with my shining personality and dedication to get the job. I wanted to show you I was serious about this.” She grins, planting her hands on her curvy hips.
I’m distracted for a second, because she really is gorgeous. Fit, but with curves in all the right places.
I nod. “Okay, we can try. But the truth is, I don’t know if it will help.”
She reaches out as if to touch my shoulder, then thinks better of it and drops her hand. “If it’s okay with you, and of course your family, maybe I can stay a couple more days and we can have our first counseling session either today or tomorrow face-to-face. You’re helping your brothers today, right?”
“Yeah, but it won’t take all day. We’re planning on having a bonfire after dinner. You can come, if you want.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Well, I’d better get back out there. I’m helping Austen with his truck.”
“You know how to fix trucks?” Her mouth lifts on one side with the question.
“Not at all,” I say with a chuckle. “But neither does Austen. He’s just too cheap to take it to a repair shop. We figure between the two of us, we’ll figure it out.”
Summer shakes her head with another smile. “Well, good luck with that. I look forward to tonight and our chat.”
I give her a short nod. “Right. Catch ya later.”
I leave as quickly as I can, and I don’t look back. I can’t let her get under my skin.
What do I care if Summer wants to stay for another couple of days? It’s only a matter of time before she gets bored of watching my brothers and me haul wood, and fix broken-down tractors, and discuss sales strategies for the brewery. Maybe her boredom will make her run right back to the city where she belongs.
Far, far away from Lost Haven, and far away from me.
8
* * *
SUMMER
“How many times do I have to tell you? It was an accident.”
Logan leans over the kitchen table, eyeing Graham, his jaw ticking with anger.
The tension at the dinner table has been on growing steadily since I arrived, the strain more and more obvious with every passing bite. But now, with nothing but potato skins and chicken bones left on our plates, the passive aggression has boiled over into good old-fashioned aggression. Most of it, to no one’s surprise, is coming from a certain hot-headed hockey player.
Unlike his youngest brother, Graham keeps his anger more contained
. “Some accident.” He scoffs without so much as looking up from his plate. “Thanks to you, we’re now set back months on that batch of ale. Do you have a damn clue how much time and money I’ve spent getting it just right?”
“I’ll make up the difference,” Logan growls through gritted teeth. “You know I’m good for it.”
I don’t need a deep understanding of the fermenting process to understand the crux of it. Something was knocked over, all their progress has been lost, and Logan is to blame.
“We don’t need your money,” Graham says firmly.
It’s this sort of cool, collected sternness that riles Logan up, I’ve noticed, and his reaction is explosive. He slams his fist on the table, causing me to jump in my seat.
“Just give me a number. I’ll write a check for double that so you can buy yourself some more stable fermenter tanks, while you’re at it. Elevate your shitty little operation.”
“Are you dense? That shitty little operation is our meal ticket.” Graham finally looks up from his plate, his eyes blazing with white-hot anger. “Maybe you’d know that if you actually made an effort and came home once in a while.”
Logan collapses back into his seat, throwing his arms in the air before slapping his hands on the table. The sound is loud enough to make me sit up a bit straighter. “Well, I’m home now, aren’t I?”
Jillian reaches over to squeeze Logan’s hand, her eyes pleading for peace between her sons. “And we’re so glad you’re here, honey.”
Graham is less hospitable. “Sure. Some visit. Treating your family home as a rehab for angry assholes. Right down to the live-in shrink you’ve brought with you.”
My heart plummets to my stomach, and I wish I could slip away or suddenly turn invisible. The need to get out of here hits me.
Before I can make an escape plan, Austen catches my eye from across the table, instantly sensing my discomfort and need to escape. He mouths the words “come on” and rises to his feet, tipping his chin toward the back door, and I follow without saying a word or looking back toward the kitchen. Exactly where we’re going doesn’t matter. I’ll take any excuse to get out of the line of fire.
“Sorry you had to hear all that fighting and cussing,” Austen says as we step away from the house.
“I work with athletes for a living,” I remind him, zipping my jacket up to my neck. “Being around fighting and cussing is sort of the norm for me.”
With a low chuckle, he motions for me to follow him. “I promise this is pretty standard when Logan’s home. We have some strong personalities in the family, and when you add stress to that, it’s a recipe for disaster. In this case, an argument. Don’t sweat it, though. We’ll leave them to argue, and we’ll get the bonfire going.”
It takes me twice as long as Austen to make the short trip from the house to the firepit—partially because his stride is twice as long as mine, and partially because I’m moving at a snail’s pace so I don’t slip on the icy path and end up with a concussion. The temperature plummeted after a wintry mix this morning, leaving frozen patches of snow here and there.
Austen chuckles when I finally catch up with him. “We oughta get you some new boots with better grip. That is, if you’re sticking around.”
Unsure of how to respond, I focus on the firepit, then the neat stack of wood a few yards away. “How can I help?”
He waves off my offer. “I’ve got it. You just grab a seat and try to stay warm till I get this thing roaring.”
I do as I’m told, settling on the edge of one of the worn wooden benches.
Austen gets all the wood he needs in one trip and goes to work arranging the firewood how he wants it. He’s quiet as he works, and I figure now is as good a time as any to do a little more client research. I got a taste of the Tate family history from Logan last night, but now I want to hear Austen’s thoughts.
“So, how did you guys end up all the way out here?”
Not as tactful of a question as I might ask one of my clients, but Austen isn’t a client. He’s my client’s brother. And something tells me he might be an easier nut to crack than Logan.
“Dad bought the land about ten years ago. He had big plans for this place. Not just for the property, but for Lost Haven too.”
“What do you mean?”
“His idea was to turn our property into some kind of tourist destination, a wilderness getaway of sorts. There’s plenty around here, but this stretch of land . . .”
He trails off, his attention firmly fixed on building a teepee of logs. Once he’s got the structure sturdy, he pushes up, wiping his palms on the worn denim of his jeans.
Urging him to continue, I say, “This stretch of land . . .”
“It just never got developed, I guess. So Dad took out a loan, bought up all this acreage, and we got to work building the house. The barn came next, then the garden. It was another two years before we cleared the land to get the guest cabins done.”
I nod along, adding up the years in my head. “Sounds like a lot of man hours.”
“Woman hours too,” he says, correcting me. “Mom pulled her weight. We were just finally getting to a place to scale up this operation, start turning a profit. And then, well . . .” He pauses, swallowing a lump of emotion in his throat. “Well, then Dad passed. Now it’s all up to Graham. A whole lot of pressure is on him. On all of us.”
I pause for a moment, searching for the right words. But if there’s one thing I know about losing someone you love, it’s that the right words don’t exist. There’s just no way to make it better. Time and being gentle with yourself are really the only things that can help. It’s a reality I know all too well. Yesterday, when Logan learned about my mom, I saw the hard look on his face falter, but just for a second.
“Sounds like big shoes for Graham to fill,” I finally manage to say.
“Sure is,” Austen says with a grunt. “And with all that change, money has been tight.”
“I know Logan signed a nice contract.”
“Sure, but he doesn’t have most of that money yet. Besides, Graham’s too stubborn to let his baby brother sink any money into this place, no matter how much we could use it.”
Reaching into his pocket, Austen fishes out a box of matches, then crouches down again. Two or three strikes later, there’s a spark, and then it catches on to the drier bits of wood. Soon, the tiny glowing embers grow into a low, steady fire.
By the time he shoves back to his feet, I’ve finally worked up the courage to ask the same question I’m sure he’s asked himself a hundred times.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Our damnedest,” he says with a shrug, settling back onto the bench across from mine. “That’s why we started the whole craft-beer operation. We’re hoping that’s the ticket, the secret ingredient that will make this whole thing profitable.”
“Which is why Graham is so angry about Logan’s mistake.”
Austen smirks. “Now you’re getting it.”
The creak of a door interrupts our conversation, followed by the crunch of icy snow beneath furious footsteps. It’s Logan, stalking toward us wearing a mask of fury. It’s not till he gets closer that I realize his lip is split, and he’s sporting the early signs of a bruise forming on his right cheek.
I have to bite my tongue hard to keep from gasping. I remember what Austen said about arguments being normal when Logan is home, but it’s hard to believe violence is normal too. My stomach clenches into a painful knot.
“I think it’s pretty obvious I won’t be joining you tonight,” Logan says gruffly, dragging the back of his hand along his lower lip. “Just thought I’d let you know.”
With that, he turns and stomps back toward the house, and I’m right behind him. But once again, these darn boots betray me and slow me down. Logan is already halfway up the stairs by the time I step inside.
Most of the family has scattered, but Jillian is slouched over in the armchair, quiet sobs shaking her petite frame. After all the kin
dness she’s shown me today, it takes every bit of willpower not to hug her. As a human being, I want to. But as a professional, I can’t.
Instead, I just ask softly, “Are you okay?”
She looks up at me, her blue eyes red and brimming with tears. “Graham and Logan . . .” She bites her lip, choking back a sob. “Just a little fight, sweetie. Everyone’s okay. But Logan is going to stay in the cabin next to yours for the next few nights. The boys just need some space.”
Jillian is giving her son more grace than he deserves, but I can read between the lines. The look in her eyes says it all. Logan’s anger is out of control, and it’s not safe for him to be in the house anymore because he’s like a grenade without its pin, ready to go off at any time.
Logan appears moments later at the foot of the stairs, shouldering a duffel bag. The anger has mostly left his face, leaving a mix of sadness and uncertainty. He gives his mom a quick kiss on the cheek, then turns back toward me. “Are you going to your cabin or staying for the bonfire?”
“I should head back to my cabin,” I say, feeling a little weird about hanging out with his family if he’s not there.
He nods once. “I’ll walk you back.”
We trudge through the woods side by side without exchanging a word. So much for us talking tonight. Instead of answers, I have even more questions.
First and foremost, how am I supposed to help a man who clearly doesn’t want to be helped? He’s not just angry—he’s also violent. And not only with strangers, but with his own brothers, and I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle that. Which means ultimately, I’m going to let Les down, and even worse, myself.
“This is your stop.” Logan halts in front of my cabin but refuses to look me in the eye. That would make him human, and that’s something he doesn’t want to give me.
Being practically ignored by him makes me feel helpless and unprepared. I wait for him to say anything more, but he doesn’t. So I say good night and slip into my cabin, which is just as cold as it is outside.