“Maybe.” He cleared his throat. “If the cop ever gets out of line, I’d be happy to straighten him out for you.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
“Okay, well…I’ll be going then.”
Sonya reached out a hand to stop him. “Aidan. Listen, you need anything with Roland or the, uh, funeral preparations, you can call on us.”
“Thanks, Sonya.” His eyes seemed suspiciously wet, and he had to clear his throat again. “That means a lot.”
She reached out and hugged him. Aidan crushed her against him and buried his face in the crook of her neck. She rubbed his back until he’d composed himself enough to let her go.
He released her. “I’d better check on Lana. She’s taking Roland’s leaving pretty hard.”
“Let her know we’re here for her too.”
He choked out a laugh. “Peter’s already made that perfectly clear. Who knows, maybe someday we’ll be related because of those two. You are aware that they hit it off this summer?”
She smiled. “Yeah, but I wasn’t sure you knew.”
“I caught them snuggled up together the other day. Guess time will tell if they’re meant to be.” He turned to the rail of the boat and then looked back. “You take care of yourself, Sonya.”
“I will. You do the same, Aidan.”
She watched him motor back to camp and sent up a prayer for what he’d be going through in the months to come. With a father like Earl, life had never been easy for Aidan. Hopefully now, he’d find some peace and happiness.
She rolled her eyes when she caught sight of Gramps, Peter and Wes heading down the beach toward the skiff carrying the resurrected outboard engine. She couldn’t believe they’d actually gotten the thing dug out and cleaned up. Gramps should have let the blasted thing die.
She was smiling when she turned toward the pilot house. It was time to settle things with Garrett, but when she caught sight of him standing there, his eyes frigid, his jaw set, a feeling of dread came over her.
What now?
Garrett figured he’d gotten his answer with the hug Sonya and Aidan had shared. What had he expected? He hadn’t told her he loved her. Hadn’t solidified their relationship. He’d pretty much let her think this was a summer fling. He had no one to blame but himself. He also wasn’t about to give up without a fight either. Damned if he’d lose her to a man whose family had caused her so much pain. Besides, he had one thing going for him that Harte didn’t. Chances were he’d impregnated Sonya.
He damn well hoped he had.
She entered the pilot house, and it was everything he could do not to grab and prove that he was the man for her, not Harte.
“All right.” She sighed as though bracing for bad news and unzipped her hoodie. “Let me have it. What’s happened now?”
He took in the black t-shirt that had been hidden under her jacket. A skull with two red salmon in place of crossbones and the words “Spawn ‘Til You Die” blazed across her breasts.
Ah hell, did she know how to bait. “You’re marrying me,” he blurted out.
“What?” Her eyes widened.
He hardened his tone. “You heard me.”
Her mouth opened and closed, and she actually took a step back. He took one forward. She had nowhere to go. They were anchored, afloat on open water, no getaway skiff tied to the side, no one to interrupt them. She was completely at his mercy.
Or, if he were to be honest, he was completely at hers.
“What are you talking about?” she asked, exasperation lacing her voice. “We don’t even know if I’m pregnant.”
“Pregnant or not, you and I are getting married.” Her eyes narrowed and he got a sneaky suspicion that he might not be handling this right, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He was man enough to admit he was scared of losing her. He felt her sifting through his fingers like grains of sand.
“You aren’t the marrying kind, remember?” she pointed out, saying the words he’d believed about himself.
“I changed my mind. Quit being so damn stubborn and say you’ll marry me.”
She folded her arms across her chest and raised her head in challenge. “I haven’t been asked yet.”
He growled deep in his throat and then clipped out each individual word. “Will. You. Marry. Me?”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You don’t sound very excited over the prospect.”
“Damn it, Sonya.” He paused, rubbed a hand over his hair, and then added in a calmer, softer voice, “Marry me. Please.”
“Why?”
“Why?” What did she want? Blood?
“Yes.” He thought he saw the corners of her mouth tilt up before she bit her lip. “Why should I marry you?”
He sputtered. “Because…” He took a breath and met her gaze, realizing he’d have to use what was in his heart as bait in order to hook her. “Because, I’m in love with you.”
“Well, that’s handy.” She smiled. “Since I’m in love with you too.”
“Now, you listen to me—” He stopped, suddenly daring to hope. “What did you say?”
Her eyes brightened as she closed the space between them. “I said that I’m in love with a trooper.”
She’d actually called him a trooper, not a damn fish cop. “You’re not in love with Harte?”
“No. But he’s part of my family. You’ll have to deal with that.”
“I can deal with anything as long as you’re by my side.”
“What about our occupational differences?” She raised a brow.
He grinned. “I don’t have a problem with you being a music teacher.”
“You know that wasn’t what I was talking about. If we marry, what do we do about fishing?”
“When we marry, not if. I’ll take my vacation during fishing season. I had fun out there today. But with me as crew, Sonya, you’ll have to toe the line.”
“I guess if I must,” she grumbled.
“Was that a yes?” Hope swelled in his heart, making him light-headed.
“Yes.”
“Sonya,” he groaned her name, catching her in his arms.
A shotgun blast pierced the air.
In a flash, he had her on the floor of the pilot house and his gun palmed. “What the hell now?”
“Let me up.” Sonya struggled against his hold.
“Stay down,” he ordered.
“Gramps, Peter, and Wes are out there,” she said, panic in her voice. She twisted free of his grip and rushed out onto the deck before he could grab hold of her again.
“Sonya!” He chased after her.
Sonya’s heart pounded, and blood pulsed in her ears. She came to a stop at the rail as her eyes took in the bewildering scene before her. Garrett grasped her in his arms, ready to pull her down to the deck.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked.
Garrett’s hold lessened, and his arms draped around her, his chin falling to her shoulder in relief. He snorted. “Looks as though your gramps just murdered an engine.”
Gramps stood with Barbarella cocked to his shoulder. He’d just shot a bullet through the hood of the outboard engine they’d just bolted to the skiff. Smoke drifted from the silent steel carcass. Peter and Wes stood nearby. Peter with his hat over his heart, and Wes with his fingers interlocked as though in quiet prayer.
Gramps looked downright ticked off.
“Everything all right, over there?” Sonya hollered over the hundred or so feet of water separating them.
Gramps gave a sharp nod and lowered the shotgun. “Son of a biscuit refused to start after all I did to try and save it! Dagnabbit.” He blew hair out of his eyes. “Figured it was time to put it out of its misery.”
Thank heavens. Sonya wanted to laugh but didn’t dare because it would hurt Gramps’s feelings. “I think that was a sound decision.”
“Sound?” Garrett mumbled behind her. She elbowed him to keep quiet. It was all she could do not to bust up in giggles over the relief of a
dead engine instead of another dead body.
“Hope I didn’t scare you,” Gramps called, seeming to realize how Sonya and Garrett might have taken his actions.
“Nope, just wondering what the hubbub was all about.” Sonya waved to her family, disengaged herself from Garrett’s arms, and turned back to the pilot house. She needed a rest after that scare. Her heart felt like it was going to pound right out of her chest.
“Hubbub?” Garrett asked, following her. “We need to have a sit down and explain a few facts to everyone. Roland is still out there. You know what I thought when that gun blast went off?”
Sonya continued her trek into the pilot house and then down the ladder to the bunk. “Yeah, the same thing I did. Do you really think Roland is laying in wait? Ready to come after us as soon as our guard’s down?” She turned to face him as he shadowed her into the small room.
“No, I think we’ve seen the last of him. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to do everything in my power to protect you in case I’m wrong.”
“Anything to protect me, huh?” She inched over to him, trailing her fingers down his chest.
“Absolutely anything.” Garrett’s breath caught as her fingers curled into the waistband of his jeans.
“How about playing big bad trooper to a hell-bent-on-trouble fisherman?”
“We’ve been playing that all season.” His voice went guttural as he pulled her up against his body. “We ought to be pretty good at it by now.”
“I think there are still some holes that need mending.” An afternoon of “mending” sure as hell would make her feel better.
She screeched as Garrett picked her up and tossed her onto the bed.
He stood tall and domineering next to the edge of the bunk, not taking his eyes off her as he slowly stripped off his t-shirt, and yanked free the snap on his jeans.
She wetted her lips and loved how the action caused his gaze to darken as he followed the trail of her tongue.
He knelt one knee on the bed, and his next words sent a thrill tingling through her core. “Prepare to be boarded.”
Oh, how she loved those words.
THE END
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
For the purpose of writing Hooked, I kept set and drift gillnet fishermen from fishing the same tides together. During the peak of the salmon run, the Department of Fish and Game will open the fishing periods for both set netters and drifters. It’s a mad fight to catch as much fish as we can while fishing the same tides together. As Sonya didn’t have enough crew to do both types of fishing during the same tide, I elected not to show this aspect of fishing. It is insane and would have made great material, but it wouldn’t fit within the story I was writing.
Also, the Naknek-Kvichak District has not fished the Naknek River since 2007. The Fish and Game stipulates that the Naknek River will open to gillnet fishing when the escapement (number of salmon upriver) of the Kvichak River falls below the projected escapement goals. Any given fishing season we never know if we will be fishing the Naknek River or not until the Fish and Game announce it. Otherwise fishing happens in the bay, which the Naknek and Kvichak Rivers flow into. It’s still combat fishing as every drift boat fights to be the first to lay their net on the line. And the fish cops are always outnumbered.
My family was among the first to start both set netting and drifting. Now other savvy fishermen have followed suit, making it even wilder out there. For more information on commercial fishing in Bristol Bay check out the Alaska Department of Fish and Game.
SHIVER: A PREVIEW
Tiffinie Helmer
CHAPTER ONE
Aidan Harte stepped out of his rented SUV and right into Hell.
Chatanika, Alaska to be exact, where it was so cold it burned. He’d been born in this forgotten gold-mining town, lost in the interior of the state, north of Fairbanks by about thirty desolate miles.
“Well, Dad, you finally got me back here.” And it hadn’t been over his dead body but that of his father’s. Aidan slammed the door shut on the SUV. He was here to exorcise ghosts, while he closed out his father’s life. The faster he saw Chatanika in his rearview mirror the better.
Not much had changed in the—what, eleven, twelve years?—since he’d last been here. It was midafternoon and the sun was already headed to bed, it being November. Snow and ice smothered, sending the landscape into a state of unconsciousness, stunting spruce trees, and stripping birch branches until they resembled fragile bones.
Aidan pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck and wished he’d stopped in Fairbanks and bought a parka. His winter coat, which was perfectly adequate for Seattle, might as well have been a windbreaker in this hostile environment.
The outside thermometer on the Tahoe had said two. Now with the sun setting, the temperature would drop fast. Predicted temp for tonight was negative fifteen.
Aidan picked his way toward the family homestead, his feet crunching through the ice-crusted snow. The cabin’s roof hung precariously over the rotted porch. The porch had been rotting when he’d last been here the summer he’d turned eighteen. He’d clearly remembered falling through and cutting up his leg. And the kiss he’d received from Raven Maiski. She’d had the power to drive more than pain away with her kisses.
It was eerily quiet. Spooky. The kind of night where you could hear yourself breathe and shadows took on a life of their own. He approached the makeshift fence made of twisted chain link and sharp, rusted barbwire. A chain and corroded padlock secured the front gate as well as a screaming red ‘No Trespassing’ sign. He should have figured this. Earl Harte had always been under the delusion everyone was out to get him. Many probably were, or had been. It no longer mattered now that the bastard was dead.
Aidan studied the gate. He could climb it and probably get cut from the barbwire or attempt to knock it down. It probably wasn’t any better built than the rotting front porch. Problem was, his dad was notorious for booby-traps.
He checked around the gate, looking for wires or sharp instruments, and then gave it a solid kick. The gate swung open.
Well, that seemed anticlimactic.
Puffs of air steamed in front of his face. His breathing increased as he struggled toward the cabin. He didn’t want to go in there. Nobody had been living in the dump for four months. Who knew what could have crawled in and died? For that matter, who knew what kind of condition Earl had left it in? His dad had never been the best about picking up after himself.
Aidan took a moment to rethink staying in the cabin while he went through what remained of his father’s life. He could get a room at the Chatanika Lodge instead. But then he was sure to run into people—people he didn’t want to see. Or, more precisely, people who didn’t want to see him.
Maybe he could risk catching a glimpse of Raven.
Nope, the faster he could clean up and clear out the better. No one wanted anymore to do with him than they had his father. No one would miss Earl Harte.
Not even him.
Aidan stepped cautiously, keeping an eye out for anything that looked suspicious. Earl would have a trap or tripwire set on the front entrance that would release something sharp and nasty for anyone stupid enough to bother him. He rounded the corner of the cabin heading toward the back door, hunching his shoulders against the cold and slapping his thin-gloved hands together in an attempt to warm them. The snow was deeper around the side of the cabin. Nothing looked like it had been disturbed. Not even animal prints cut the icy crust of the snow.
Suddenly, he skidded, his arms flailing wide. He regained his balance and looked at what he’d slipped on. A piece of tin. He glanced up and saw where it had fallen off the roof at some point. The place was falling apart. He shook his head and stepped carefully.
Steel teeth of a bear trap sprung, spearing into the flesh of his lower leg.
“Son of a bitch!” He screamed as pain stabbed through his leg.
He clawed at where the teeth of the rusty trap punctured through his jeans, through hi
s boots, and into the tender flesh of his leg. Dropping in the snow, he cried out again as pain seared like fire through his leg, causing him to shake. He moaned through gritted teeth, struggling with the jaws of the trap. Sweat dripped down his face.
He quickly looked around, for anyone—anything—that would help free him from the snare.
Silence.
The only sound was his own choppy breathing, his pounding heart, and his useless moaning. He was alone. He was freezing.
He was seriously fucked.
What kind of sick son of bitch laid traps next to the back door of his own home?
Aidan clenched his teeth, grabbed the edges of the steel-teeth trap, and tried to pry the jaws apart. He roared and strained with everything he had. The effort wasted. Blood soaked through his jeans and dribbled like syrup, staining the snow.
The sun dipped and shadows grew menacing.
And cold seeped in like death.
Aidan’s heart grew heavy in his chest. He sat—spent—in the snow, the heat of his body causing the snow to melt through his jeans and freeze next to his skin.
Think Harte, think.
Damn, but it was hard to think when his body was racked with pain. Maybe, he could crawl to the SUV with the trap and drive for help. He scratched around in the snow until he found the chain attached to the anchor of the trap. He heaved until his muscles drained.
No use. The anchor was encased in ice, frozen into the earth.
Come up with something else quick, or you’re a dead man.
He patted his pockets, and pulled out his keys. Nothing on the key ring that could help him. He pocketed them and felt around for more. A Jolly Rancher. He snorted out a laugh. Not much of a last meal. Then he found his cell phone.
“Yes!” He flipped it open and dialed 911. No bars. “What the—”
He shook the phone as if that would miraculously gain him coverage. Nothing. He moved the phone around him, over his head, searching for reception. “Come on,” he prayed. “Come on.” Again, nothing.
It started to snow.
Big, quiet, heavy flakes that smothered the earth. Despair began to settle in, becoming partners with the throbbing pain. He was going to die here. Born and died in the same place. It was kind of funny. Or ironic.
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