Not even Miranda’s.
CHAPTER TEN
JEREMIAH WALKED INTO Miranda’s office, a contemplative frown on his face as he perused what appeared to be a permit of some sort.
“Educate me on nature immersion as a tourist attraction,” he said, handing over the permit.
Miranda didn’t need to see the permit; she already knew who and what it was for. “George and Crystal Belkin apply for a salmon permit every year for their nature-immersion excursions that they run through their company, Nature’s Bounty. Basically, people pay to learn how to pick native berries, fish for salmon and otherwise survive in the Alaskan wilderness.”
Jeremiah’s brow rose. “You can learn how to survive on the land over a weekend?”
“No. But it sounds good on the pamphlet.”
“So this is another tourist trap?”
“I wouldn’t call it a trap, per se. The trip is fun at least. And George and Crystal don’t actually stress the survivalist angle. It’s more of a fun, outdoorsy excursion for those who aren’t from around here.”
“You’ve done the trip?”
“Once. George talked me into it. Said it would be good for me to try it out in case anyone ever asked what it was like. They comped my trip in exchange for a few good words when people come to the office looking for things to do in Alaska.”
He frowned. “We’re a government entity, not tour salespeople.”
“Settle down. It’s not as if we’re pushing one service over another. If anyone asks, I give them an honest answer about my experience. That’s all.”
“So these Belkin people, you check them out for the poaching angle?” At Miranda’s incredulous frown, he said, “Listen, you’ve already established that whoever is pulling off these bear kills knows the area. Wouldn’t a tourist-based naturalist know these areas pretty well?”
She hated to admit it, but yes. “I’m not saying you’re off base. I’m just saying that the Belkins are the gentlest bunch of hippies you’ll ever meet. I mean, they’re all about protecting the environment and doing what’s right for the land as well as protecting endangered species. I doubt the Belkins would squash a fly even if it landed on their tofu sandwich. You get where I’m coming from?”
“Are you friends with the Belkins?”
“No.” She didn’t have an abundance of people she’d call true friends. “But they’re harmless. Trust me.” She drew a deep breath. Jeremiah seemed off today. As if something were really chewing on his shorts. Why’d she have to notice? “Are you okay?” she asked reluctantly. “I mean, you seem a little grouchy.”
“Grouchy? No. I’m trying to offer a fresh perspective. You’ve been working this case for so long you’ve ceased to question all leads.”
“Excuse me? I beg your pardon but you need to check yourself. I know this case better than anyone. I can assure you I haven’t overlooked anything. I just know when I’m barking up the wrong tree and I’m not about to waste my energy on a false lead.”
He stiffened. “I disagree. And as your boss I’m telling you to double-check their backgrounds.”
“That’s a waste of time,” she nearly growled, fresh irritation washing over her spark of concern for whatever might’ve been bothering him. “If you want to poke around in the Belkins’ background, be my guest, but I have plenty to keep me busy otherwise.”
“You really have no control over your mouth, do you?” he asked. “A bit of a job hazard, don’t you think?”
She narrowed her stare. “Did you come in here to pick a fight? Because you’re doing a bang-up job.”
Curious stares began to swivel their way and Jeremiah paused to close the door before their conversation became everyone’s topic of discussion around the watercooler. He advanced to lean across her desk, his eyes flashing. “Given our history, you might think you can talk to me as if I were not your superior, but that would be a mistake,” he warned quietly. Her stomach muscles tightened as adrenaline rushed through her veins, the urge to seal her lips to his warring with the righteous anger burning a hole in her gut. “If I ask you to follow a lead, I expect you to do it without question.”
Miranda rose slowly to meet him, staring hard into his eyes so he knew she didn’t take this kind of bullshit from anyone—not even her boss. “I don’t follow any instruction without question. It’s not in my nature. And since you’ve undoubtedly read my personnel file, you’ve already gathered that I’m hardly the type to meekly accept whatever is thrown my way like some pathetic little underling hoping to catch some favor from the boss.”
“Why are you being so damn difficult about this?”
“Because it’s in my nature,” she quipped with a hard smile. “That’s probably in my file, too.”
They were standing toe-to-toe, the close distance hardly appropriate and they both knew it, yet neither made a move to pull away. It was a standoff of sorts, and the instant, almost-palpable heat between them was enough to set off the ancient sprinklers poking from the yellowed ceiling. Would he kiss her? For a wild moment, she desperately hoped he would. But as her heart threatened to stutter to a stop with anticipation, Jeremiah remembered himself with a start and abruptly pulled away. His stare cleared of the heat clouding his gaze and his mouth compressed with frustration. “I... Damn,” he muttered, looking away. He blew a tight breath and walked to the door, saying, “My directive still stands. I want you to look into the Belkins. No more arguing the merits of my decision. Got it?”
She didn’t trust her voice and simply nodded. If her hands hadn’t been supporting her weight on the desk, they would’ve been shaking. It wasn’t until he’d left her space that she could breathe again.
What was it about that man? He turned her upside down and backward. If Virgil had made a similar request she would’ve been annoyed but not to the degree that she was when Jeremiah had asked. She’d just about jeopardized her job by openly defying her boss for no discernible reason aside from the need to be difficult. She cradled her head in her hands and groaned softly at her own idiocy. Way to be mature, Miranda.
She sat at her desk, forcing herself to regroup and find a way to apologize for being a colossal ass for no good reason at all.
On second thought, it might be easier to quit.
* * *
JEREMIAH’S HEART THUMPED as if he’d just run a marathon when all he’d done was pick a fight with Miranda because he was out of sorts and scattered.
Was this a nervous breakdown? He wasn’t sure, having never suffered from mental-health issues, but he supposed a person actually having those kinds of episodes rarely knew until it was too late. He squeezed his eyeballs with his thumb and forefinger, desperate to get his head on straight for a blessed moment so he could think of a way to apologize for his brusque behavior. Was it a big deal that she was second-guessing his instructions? On one hand, he was her superior; on the other hand, he knew she was probably chafing at his handling of the situation. He’d never been so uncertain in his life about a work relationship or how he should handle himself or his employees. Well, you’ve never slept with one before...
Astute observation.
He released a shaky breath. There had to be a way to get past the elephant in the room without bumping into it every time they were together. It certainly didn’t help that, God love him, he’d probably choose to sleep with her all over again. The memory of their one night together was scorching what little dream time he managed when he closed his eyes.
They’d tried the frank conversation—the adult way—and yet they were still unsure of how to act around one another, and now they were sniping at each other behind closed doors at the office. Not off to a great start.
But wait a minute...he had a valid concern that she was too close to the case to see what clues might be right under her nose. The benefit of his involvement was a fresh pair of ey
es and that meant going over every stone that she’d either disregarded or overlooked. He wouldn’t apologize for sending her to reexamine the evidence but perhaps he could soften his delivery. He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. He’d thought that coming to Alaska would help ease the tension he’d been living with since his life imploded, but it seemed he’d traded one type of stress for another. He needed a solution and he needed one fast.
Or else he was going to die of a heart attack before his first month was up. And that definitely wasn’t on his agenda.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MIRANDA PULLED UP to her parents’ place and took a moment to draw a deep breath before heading to the house. Her parents lived on a sprawling piece of property that backed up to the mountainside. It was gorgeous, although there was an air of melancholy that seemed to shiver with the spirits of those long gone. Miranda had always wondered if perhaps the property had once been tribal land, but when she’d done a short, informal property search, nothing had come up. Still, as beautiful as it was, there was no denying that the mountain breathed and the trees whispered.
From the outside, one would never know the chaos housed by the large log cabin that her father had built himself before Miranda had been born. The cabin had been her father’s gift to her mother when they’d been young, starry-eyed newlyweds. It was a little worse for wear as her father had all but given up on maintaining the place, choosing instead to stay in his shop a few hundred yards away, but at least from the outside, it still looked like home.
Miranda eyed the house, chewing her lip in trepidation. She never knew if it was going to be a fight, a tense altercation or just plain uncomfortable when she spent time with her parents, but she could always count on it being unpleasant. She didn’t have the kind of relationship most people shared with their parents; there were no joyous homecomings with laughter around the table or merry holidays filled with memories-in-the-making for the Sinclair family. At least not anymore. The Sinclairs had always been a little different, putting the fun in dysfunctional she’d always liked to say, but after Simone’s death the fabric of their family unit shredded under the pressure of their grief.
And as the months turned into years with no answer or closure into Simone’s case, a cancer had begun eating away at the Sinclair family that none had been equipped to battle.
Her mother became more emotionally closed off; her father had retreated into his own drugged world; her brothers had split.
But family was family and Miranda couldn’t ignore her parents as easily as her brothers did. Heaven help her, she wished she could.
The screen slamming on the back door as her mother went to pull clothes from the line made Miranda want to back up and drive away. Dealing with her mother was emotionally exhausting and Miranda wasn’t sure if she was up to sparring with the woman today. Invariably, her mother always managed to make Miranda feel as if she were the worst mother, a terrible provider for her son and an even worse sister because she couldn’t get Trace or Wade to come home more often, or at all. Miranda wasn’t sure how it happened that she became the scapegoat for their mother’s pent-up ire but she was a convenient target.
Her gaze strayed to the shop where her father was likely holed up and contemplated popping in to see her dad first. When she was younger, her father had supported the family with his wood carvings. He had unparalleled skill with a chisel and a piece of wood. Zed’s carvings could be found at the best shops all over town. But that wasn’t the case any longer.
Not quite ready to face her mother she detoured to the shop. She knocked on the door and then let herself in. “Dad?” She peered into the smoky haze that drifted on the cool air inside the shop and followed the source of the smoke. She found her father in his ratty recliner, a rolled marijuana cigarette between his fingertips. “Hey, Dad,” she said, taking a seat as far away from the smoke as possible. At one time, she’d thought her father was the most handsome man in Alaska with his long thick hair that had dusted his shoulders in soft waves. But now his hair had grown lank with long strings of gray threading through the tangled mess. Most times he kept it scraped back in an elastic tie at the base of his neck, like today. She tried not to let her disappointment in his lack of effort permeate her voice because she didn’t want to fight. Now and then, she simply missed the man her father had once been. “How’s it going?”
Her father, a man who used to be strong as an ox with thick, ropy muscles and a quick laugh, was a shadow of his former self. Sometimes Miranda had to stare really hard to see past the years of grief, anger and general apathy brought on by his marijuana abuse to see the man he used to be. God, it broke her heart. This was the reason her brothers stayed away. It was hard to reconcile the knowledge that their parents were irrevocably broken because then Miranda and her brothers might have to admit that perhaps they were broken, as well.
“I talked to Trace.”
At the mention of his son’s name, Zed shrugged but there was latent anger behind his disinterest. “Yeah? What’s he up to?”
“He’s on a job. He said he’s going to visit soon.”
“We’ll see.”
Miranda didn’t know why she even mentioned Trace’s name. Both Trace and Wade had abandoned the family—at least that was how their father saw it.
“Mom said she was worried about poachers on the property?” Miranda tried steering the conversation to safer ground. It was sad that the topic of poachers was considered neutral territory for her family. Her father grunted in response and Miranda took that to mean either he agreed or he didn’t care. “Have you seen any tracks?” she asked.
“No.” He took a short draw off the cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs for a few moments and let it out slowly. He paused to remove a few bits of stem from his mouth and said, “Your mother just needs something to bitch about. There ain’t no poachers.”
On most days Miranda wouldn’t disagree. Her mother was a nagger but when she heard her father speak like that about her mother she winced. “Well, I’m going to go check around just to be sure. We still haven’t caught those bear poachers from the last couple years. I don’t want them snooping around this property.” She glanced meaningfully at his pot stash and at that he grunted an agreement.
“Fair point.”
That was as close as she was going to get to a verbal approval from her father. There was a time when she and her father had been close. He used to take her out squirrel hunting, fishing, and he taught her how to track. Now he seemed a stranger. Struggling to find common ground, she pulled a memory from her mind, one that always managed to make her father chuckle.
“Remember when you tried to teach Simone how to fish?” Simone had been such a princess; she’d squealed and shuddered when the time came to bait the hook.
Her father smiled, nodding. “She never was one for the outdoors. Preferred her fancy clothes and whatnot to trail dirt and bugs. Oh, she hated it.” Zed closed his eyes, a faint smile remaining, his smoldering marijuana cigarette momentarily forgotten. “She was a terrible shot but at least I knew she wouldn’t shoot her foot off cleaning her gun. Maybe with time she’d have gotten better.”
Not likely. Simone hadn’t been interested in improving her outdoor skills. She’d been more interested in her social life, boys and the latest fashions—none of which had interested Miranda in the least. For all intents and purposes, Zed had three sons, instead of two sons and two daughters.
Simone had pouted and whined whenever their father had insisted on family camping trips. Sleeping on a cot with a subzero mummy bag hadn’t been her idea of a good time. Miranda had loved it. Three whole days of not having to brush her teeth or hair had been absolutely fabulous to Miranda when she’d been young. Simone had treated it as punishment, but the only ones who’d been truly punished were the rest of the family because they’d had to listen to her complain the whole time.
Zed’s smile faded and Miranda sensed the end to any reminiscing. Neither of her parents had much tolerance for talk about Simone—no matter if the memories were good or bad—but sometimes it was the only way she knew to feel some kind of connection again. The topic of Simone was fraught with dangerous twists and unpredictable turns that could land a person tipped upside down emotionally within a blink of an eye. But sometimes, Miranda wished they could just remember Simone as she’d been—an imperfect human being—rather than the sainted princess whose life was tragically cut short by some psycho. Zed remembered his cigarette and took a short drag. Miranda could almost see her father retreating from life right before her eyes.
“I didn’t get the job,” she said, wishing her dad would offer something wise to make her feel as if he still cared. “They went with a guy from Wyoming. He’s nice enough. Seems to know what he’s doing for the most part.”
Zed grunted in response but his eyes didn’t open. Frustration and sadness welled in her chest and she wanted to rail at him for checking out and leaving his family to fend for themselves. When was the last time he’d shown an interest in anything aside from his marijuana cultivation? Maybe if she started offering her opinion on better ways to grow pot, her father might be interested in being a part of her life again. “Hey, Dad, do you want to go with me up the mountain and check and see if Mom’s concern about poachers is valid? It’s been quite a while since we went hunting or tracking together. I wouldn’t mind the company,” she offered, almost desperately. Zed’s eyelids opened half-mast and wild hope sprang in her chest at the flicker of interest, but it died soon enough and took with it her patience.
“Another time,” he murmured. “Maybe later...”
“Later when?” she countered beneath her breath. There was never a “later.”
“Dad,” she said, her disappointment sharpening her voice. “I think Wade and Trace would visit more if you would give up the weed. They don’t like seeing you like this all the time.” And neither do I.
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