by Hattie Hunt
Emma almost dropped her beer. Readjusting her grip, she took a long swallow. “Working. He’ll be around later.” Maybe she should have waited until then.
“Okay?” Joe had read the tone in her voice.
“I needed to talk to you about him, actually.” Emma felt like she was about to spill the beans on being pregnant. That would be the first thing anyone thought if she brought up an announcement between her and Jordan. Which didn’t make her feel any better.
Ripley tipped her head to the side and frowned with a slight smile. She lightly tapped Emma’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Em. What you got?” The move was awkward as if the woman was still learning how to communicate with humans after having been raised by wolves.
But it was enough to break the ice. Emma closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “It isn’t what you are thinking. I promise.”
“Is it rabies?” Joe asked.
She tilted her head. Really?
Joe shrugged deeply, his expression almost comically open. That was his way of making her feel better. “Damn, Emma. Spill!”
Ripley smacked him on the arm and that time it didn’t look awkward.
Okay. Before she lost her courage. “Well, I came to you guys because… well, Joe, you are the first one in the clan to openly defy Mama on clan tradition.”
Ripley straightened, a smile growing on her lips.
Joe’s eyes narrowed. “She kicked me out of the clan. It didn’t exactly go well.”
“Yeah, yeah. We know. Just listen, okay?” Emma clenched her teeth. How was she ever going to be alpha if she couldn’t make one simple admission to her brother? “So, Jordan and me.”
Ripley raised her eyebrows and nodded slowly, her dark eyes expectant.
Emma latched onto Ripley’s gaze and held on like it was a lifeline. “We aren’t actually together anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Joe asked, his voice dark.
“Exactly what I said.” Which was way more complicated than that. “We aren’t dating. Aren’t going to mate. We don’t even sleep in the same room and haven’t for years.”
“Really?” Ripley’s expression didn’t change. “Good for you. I never thought Jordan and you were much of a match. Cheryl totally picked the wrong man for you.”
Which was odd because Emma was pretty sure Ripley was the only person to think that.
Joe just stared at her, processing.
That was the reason Emma had needed to talk to Joe about this, so see his reaction. “Him and I decided a long time ago, really. You know what I’m up to, with Mama. We couldn’t—well.”
“You mean, you taking the alpha seat from Bitch Bear?” Ripley’s eyes pinched and her smile soured.
Her and Cheryl had never gotten along, and Cheryl had disowned Joe for choosing Ripley over his own mother. Emma didn’t think Ripley was ever going to forgive Cheryl for that.
Emma shook her head. “Well, yeah. He’s a bear. She approves of him. And life was easier for a while.” She trailed off, suddenly unsure of what she expected Joe to say, or even what she needed him to say.
“How long?” Joe glanced at Ripley, then back to Emma.
“About two years.”
“Two years.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “How have you kept this going? I had no idea. Shit. The second Ripley came to town you knew what was going on in my head.”
“I’m better at keeping secrets than you are.” Emma quirked her lips to the side. “You aren’t exactly subtle, Joe.”
“Two years.” He scrunched up his face, eyes leveling on her. “And you are just telling me now?”
Emma’s hackles rose. “No one asked me how I felt about an arranged betrothal. Jordan and I are close, so it is easy to pretend. But neither of us want this. We agreed we would stick it out, put on the front, whatever, until one of us found who we wanted to be with. There was no point in telling anyone until then. Mama would have just pawned me off on someone else.”
Joe frowned. Then perked up. “So, you have found someone else?”
Emma sighed. “No.” How was she supposed to explain this to him? “You know how Mama—how the clan—is about tradition. You and Ripley have made things difficult in the clan.”
“Me and Ripley.” His expression went dark because that one statement carried a lot of meaning.
Ripley looped her arm through Joe’s and leaned into his shoulder. She understood.
“You and Ripley.”
“It got me kicked out of the clan, Emma.”
“Well, I am going to take over the clan.”
Joe sputtered.
Emma didn’t know why. He knew that she was planning to challenge before Cheryl passed the position to her. That was one thing they had talked about. Too many things needed to change in the clan.
“And is this how you’re going to challenge her? By denying the mate she chose for you?”
“If it comes to that. But it won’t. I know Mama.”
“So, what’s the gain?”
Emma shrugged, losing steam. “Freedom.”
“Freedom.”
Had he somehow swallowed a freaking parrot? Yes, freedom. Emma rolled her eyes. “Look, I came to you because I thought you might understand. Mama kicked you out of the clan. So, what? You get to be with the woman you love. Maybe I want the chance to find my own mate. I love Jordan. Sure. But he is not my mate. He never has been. We tried. It just isn’t there.”
“Why shouldn’t she have that chance, Joe?” Ripley nudged him with her shoulder.
He ignored her. “And what about when you’re—” He hushed his voice and leaned in. “Alpha.” He glanced over his shoulder like someone might have heard.
“If I win. Am I supposed to be stuck with some bear I have known my whole life that I don’t give two shits about? You started something with Ripley. It can be the beginning of something new and amazing, the kinds of change I want to make happen.”
Joe took a step back, shaking his head. “I think you should leave me and Ripley out of this. It isn’t going to help anything with Mama.”
“I am not asking you for help.” But it sounded like she was.
Was she?
No. She wanted her big brother’s advice. That was all.
“I don’t understand what you want then.”
Ripley separated herself from Joe and pulled Emma into a quick hug.
Emma stiffened in surprised. Ripley had only recently started showing open affection to Joe, but no one else. She just wasn’t that kind of person. A hug to anyone else seemed completely out of character barring any disaster thwarting celebrations.
Flashing a smile as she pulled away, Ripley put her hands on her hips and looked back at Joe. “She wants our support, jerk. It isn’t that hard.”
Emma smiled weakly. She really liked that woman.
Joe deflated a little, but the stubbornness hadn’t left his eyes. Emma could see his bear there, lingering, watching.
Mal bristled. She didn’t need the bears getting involved. This wasn’t supposed to be a fight. Emma let out a slow breath to calm her and Mal both.
She needed a new tactic. “Look. It’s not like I am going to go out tomorrow and claim affection for a house cat or something.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I am just saying, I think the time has come to weigh my options. I’m twenty-six and I have no idea what I want. Things are changing around here. With you, with the Whiskeys. And if I want to start exploring, I can’t be attached to Jordan by half the town’s knowledge. I just… I needed to tell somebody. Okay?”
Joe looked at Emma and didn’t say anything. He just studied her, weighing what she had said.
She hated it when he did that. It always made her uncomfortable, knowing that she was being analyzed. At least it meant that he was understanding. Or trying to.
Emma and Jordan had been planning the big reveal for months, but she had wanted to make sure they had someone on their side first. Even if Joe had been kicked out of the cla
n, he was still her brother. And of anyone, he was going to understand her and Jordan’s decision.
Also, if she got herself kicked out, at least she’d have somewhere to stay.
It wouldn’t happen that way. They all knew it. Cheryl would fume. Threaten. Attempt to ground her adult daughter. But Emma wouldn’t get kicked out of the clan. She had already been named successor. It just wasn’t supposed to happen until Cheryl retired or died. And even if Emma didn’t marry Jordan, there were a hundred other bears she could be attached to. As far as Cheryl was concerned, Emma wasn’t a threat.
Joe tipped the rest of his drink into his mouth in one long swallow, then shook his head like a bear shedding water. “I don’t know what to do with you, Em.” He sighed. “I am sorry it didn’t work with you and Jordan.”
“What to do with her?” Ripley asked, her tone high.
“Don’t be.” Emma ignored the outrage because she didn’t need to fuel that. “He’s my best friend. I’d rather not marry him, honestly. It might ruin a good thing.”
“That’s one way to put it, I guess.”
“Trust me.” Emma shrugged, letting a little of the weight slide off her shoulders. This was a start. She had a long way to go.
“You could have told me before, you know.”
“We saw how well you kept your affections a secret.”
Joe blushed, uncharacteristically. Yet, it warmed Emma to the soul. A reminder that some things were worth it.
2
Mason would never get used to the smell of the cafeteria. His parents insisted the food tasted decent. Even good. But there was something about the over-sterile smell of floral air freshener and bleach that just made the whole place feel like an old folks’ home.
And Troutdale Springs wasn’t an old folks’ home. It was independent assisted living. Independent. His parents just had a staff that could help them if they needed it. Mason still had to keep reassuring himself that they were going to be okay there, tell himself that he wasn’t abandoning them. Handing them off.
Even if it wasn’t like that at all. Hell, this had been their idea. It didn’t make him feel any better. He still felt guilty, like he was being selfish for letting them come here.
“Can I help you?”
Mason jumped, and his porcupine prickled in warning. He willed the quills away from his skin. We are fine. Everything is just fine.
The animal chittered in response, but backed down.
“Sorry, I was just…” Mason trailed off, turning to the voice.
A middle-aged woman, short, a mess of salt and pepper hair. She felt familiar, but he couldn’t remember her. He had met so many people in the last week.
“Still getting used to the idea?” She smiled sympathetically, a practiced look he was pretty sure she used on every son and daughter visiting their parents.
“Something like that.” Mason frowned, focusing his gaze on the ornate fireplace. He hated the way she studied him—like he was a kid or something.
“Well, I’m Florence. Not the nurse.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Not the nurse. Mason suppressed a groan. Florence Nightingale wasn’t the only famous Florence. “Mason Covey,” he said, belatedly remembering his manners. He reached out to shake her hand and was surprised at the pressure she applied to his knuckles.
“You parents are settling in just fine. I think they will like it here after so much time in the city.” Florence smiled at him and pulled a card out of her breast pocket. “In case you need anything.”
She walked away. Mason looked down at the card a little dumbfounded. He wasn’t sure he liked her. The business card did little to persuade him otherwise.
Florence “Not the nurse” Jensen
Hospitality
Right. Sighing, Mason slid the card into his slacks pocket. He wound his way around the tables and through an open door near the kitchen. At least from there, the room smelled more like food than cleaner. It almost smelled like dinner.
Mason didn’t have to go through the main building to get to his parents’ condo. The facility ran a series of elongated golf carts from the parking lot to the individual residences built along the edges of the property. For now, he felt like walking.
It might have had something to do with his somewhat irrational bitterness towards the lack of grandeur surrounding the golf carts. For what his parents were paying to live there, the carts should have been covered in chrome, or maybe, at least, enclosed by something other than a clear plastic sheet that looked like a shower curtain.
Given the constant state of barely-making-it the Coveys had endured for most of Mason’s childhood, he had been more than a little surprised when they picked out a handful of west coast properties in both Washington and Oregon and handed him a stack of pamphlets like they’d won the lottery. They had sold the gas station which supplemented the retirement account they’d used to collect every spare penny since before Mason was born.
Which was saying something. Those two knew how to save pennies. They’d put Mason through college with those pennies. He’d graduated from college mostly debt free.
Mason shrugged off the weighing feelings of guilt. So far, they seemed happy. And he did, grudgingly, have to agree with Florence. They would love it in Troutdale. He couldn’t fault them for it after more than fifty years in Washington DC.
Growing up as a shifter in a city that big hadn’t been easy.
In the week the Coveys had been at Troutdale Springs, his mom had already marked their condo in the string of identical residences with her customary swath of homemade and thrift store decorations.
A wreath with a solar lighthouse in the center hung from the door and a handful of stakes had been put in on either side of the short sidewalk. Thick hemp rope had been strung between them. A large stained-glass sailboat hung in the window. Maritime appeared to be the theme of the month. He smiled to himself, knowing that next month it could be anything else.
The door opened before he could knock, and before he could even say hello, his mom had pulled him into a crushing hug.
“Mom, seriously, it’s only been two days,” Mason said through a laugh, prying her arms from around him.
“And what if I died tomorrow? This could be the last time I see you.” Susan Covey fluffed the navy and white striped scarf bunched around her neck, and Mason caught a glimpse of anchor earrings as she ran a distressed hand through her hair.
For all that she knew how to save pennies, she could spend them, too, especially when she was stressed. “You—” Mason leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “—are being dramatic. Just because you live here doesn’t mean you’re suddenly on your death bed.”
“I’ve been telling her that all week.” Mason’s dad stepped into the short hall. “But she doesn’t believe me.”
“Well, at least her imminent demise hasn’t stopped her from decorating.”
Father and son shared a smile.
“I can’t die with the place in shambles.” Susan clasped her hand to her chest, but the corners of her lips rose minutely in mirth. “What would the neighbor’s think?”
Mason didn’t know why she cared or if she even really did.
She shuffled down the short hall to the kitchen, filling a cup of coffee for Mason and moving a plate stacked with Oreos onto the bar counter.
“Speaking of neighbors,” she said, adjusting an out-of-place cookie on the stack, “don’t be shy about coming around. You didn’t get the job here so you’d have an excuse to not stop by at least twice a week.” She pushed the coffee cup across the counter to Mason.
He looked pointedly at his dad, making sure his mom could see the smirk on his lips. “It’s like she thinks I have nothing better to do.”
“You don’t.” Susan kicked out a hip and glared at him.
“Mason, don’t rile her up.” Robert Covey took the seat next to him and flipped open the newspaper, disappearing behind it. “You get to leave. I am stuck w
ith her for the night.”
“Rob, what did you do with your captain’s hat? Oh, and the skipper’s?”
“Closet,” he said, without looking up.
Mason put a finger in the center of the newspaper and pushed it down.
Robert frowned at him.
Mason mouthed captain’s hat in question as his mom shuffled past him from behind.
“Don’t ask.”
Mason shrugged and let go of the paper. He popped an entire Oreo into his mouth and sucked it down with a mouthful of coffee. He was going to have to do something about the cookie situation. The condo came equipped with a small fridge, hot plate, and a microwave. No oven. Susan wasn’t much of a baker, but there had always been fresh cookies in the jar on the counter back home.
“Selfie-stick,” Susan’s voice was assertive and chipper as she stepped back into the room. “Mason, I need you to be the selfie-stick. I can’t find mine.” His mom returned to the room with two hats and her giant cellphone, her lips gleaming with bright red lipstick. “Robert, put down that damn paper and come here.”
Mason chuckled, but reached for the phone. Part of him really was glad that they had the chance to be as…eccentric as they chose. Living in Washington DC with the threat of discovery constantly hanging over their heads had taken its toll on them both.
Susan shoved a white captain’s hat over the top of the paper and then handed the black skipper’s hat to Mason.
He frowned at it, and looked at his dad.
The man had put his hat on without complaint, and when he caught Mason’s look, he shrugged.
Sighing, Mason pulled on the hat and took his mom’s phone.
“Anchor rot in three, two, one—”
Mason clicked the picture as he laughed through his mom’s catchphrase. “I was hoping to get out of those once we moved here,” he said, handing the phone back. Because she was the queen of the family selfies and had been ever since he could remember. Some of the things they’d had to do to get a selfie with the older cameras… usually, it involved talking to other people.
“Do it for your dying mother,” she quipped.
Dying mother. There was no way that was happening.