No Gentle Giant by Nicole Snow
The Gold Standard (Alaska)
When you get to know him, you find out fast that Holt Silverton’s a funny drunk.
And by funny, I mean so damned soppy over his wife you’d think she single-handedly saved the town from destruction—when we all know what she really saved was him.
The change in the boss since he’s become a family man is something to witness.
Not gonna lie.
I’m a little jealous.
I’m also trying not to laugh my ass through the floor as he lifts his mug in another jeering toast to Libby—the seventh since we sat down for a few drinks after several grueling days at work.
Although at least this time Holt’s not demanding everyone in Brody’s give a rousing cheer with him.
Nope, just the unlucky—but very amused—sods here at his table. Namely, every man who doesn’t mind a little beer and some downtime before he heads on home.
“To Libby!” Holt crows, thrusting up his mug.
Blake and me and everyone else dutifully repeat it like a tent church revival.
“To Libby.”
“You’re damn right,” Holt says. “Say, didja know they’re coming out to the farm to do research?” He doesn’t specify who they might be. I’m not sure he even knows. “All this hiss...historical and sciency stuff out in Ursa, and all thanks to that damn meteorite. Pretty cool, huh? Things are finally going right in this weird little town.” He grins toothily at Blake. “Sorry, man. No more big explosions or fires for you to put out.”
Blake rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Nah, bro, just near-death experiences and shoot-outs with crazies. Way better than fires.”
“I think I’ve missed a lot,” I say. “Only had one near-death experience and shoot-out here over that meteorite thing last year. Seems like this town’s got a history and so do some of the folks here. How about the Randalls?”
I hope I don’t seem like I’m fishing.
I really am curious about the town and the recent misadventures that put it on the map. I’d heard of the place even before Holt told me it was his hometown, back when we were working in NYC. That Galentron mess nailed several high-up politicians and made national news.
More than anything, though, I’m curious about Miss Felicity.
“Oh, Fliss?” Holt perks up.
His arm flails out expansively, and his hand just narrowly misses smacking his brother—if only because Blake rocks back with an ease born from a lifetime of practice with his little brother.
“Watch it!” Blake snaps.
Holt snorts. “Pfft. Don’t you believe all that bullshit you hear about Felicity. She’s a nice gal. Tough. Goddamned scrapper, really.” He drops his head, making a mournful noise into his beer. “Gave me a black eye once when I was a kid.”
“You had it coming when you tried to look up her skirt,” Blake points out with a lopsided grin.
With a scowl, Holt huffs, “We were on the jungle gym. It was logistics.”
“Uh-uh.” I eye him in amusement.
“Shaddup. I’m talking.” Holt points an imperious finger at me, then drops it. “So she wasn’t born here, right? But she moved here pretty young. Think her daddy was a cargo pilot. Her mama’s the one who opened The Nest. Fliss was always around helping out at the café.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that’s somehow louder than his drunk-talking voice. “Her old man flew planes for Galentron—or so I always heard—back when they were setting up shop secretly in that old mine.”
This tension falls like a knife—not just at our table, but at the tables around us in earshot—the second he says the G-word. This kind of dark pause.
Can’t say I blame them.
From what I’ve seen in the news and heard in hushed whispers, that company dragged all kinds of bad out here.
Left the good townsfolk traumatized. I imagine some of them are still wondering if one day more goons will pop up looking for more trouble, even if the company doesn’t exist anymore and its CEO landed behind bars.
Blake, though, glances rather conspicuously over his shoulder, eyeballing the door.
“Watch your mouth, man,” he mutters warily to Holt.
I follow his line of sight, but there’s no one there.
“Expecting someone?” I ask.
“No, not really. Sorry.” Blake shakes his head, shrugging and looking back at Holt.
I eye him, but he’s not looking like he’s in the mood to be forthcoming.
So I focus back on the talkative drunk between us, and ask Holt, “So when Galentron went bust with the hotel fire meltdown, so did Felicity’s dad?”
And is that a hint at the gold’s origin?
“Yup,” Holt confirms in a slurring drawl. “Kinda seems like things went to shit around then for a lot of folks. Lost a lot of jobs and business with them pulling out.”
“Yeah, I was working odd jobs around that time when I wasn’t training on the volunteer crew. Even picked up a couple fill-in shifts here at Brody’s.” Blake’s drawling voice goes quiet, thoughtful, and he stares with heavy eyes into a beer he’s barely touched. “I remember cleaning up his spilled beer some nights, you know.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Morgan Randall.” He lets out a rough snort. “Felicity’s daddy. He was always here. Every frigging night. Drinking like he had a second liver, making himself everyone’s best friend—but he was realtight with Flynn Bitters.” He seems to snap out of a trance then, shaking his head. “I think Mr. Randall’s death was what made Flynn sober up—at least for a while.”
“Still always smells like rum to me,” Holt observes with an exaggerated sigh.
“I think he bathes in it,” Blake says. “And he tumbled off the sober wagon pretty fast. Surprised he’s not here now, but he usually shows up after dinner.” He sighs. “Would’ve been nice for Fliss if her dad had gone straight. Before...you know. The shit.”
“What shit, Blake?” I ask, even though I already know.
Something tells me Felicity wouldn’t want them knowing the things she’s been sharing with me.
Holt sighs again, his chin slumping against his hand.
“Morgan. Langley found him, I heard. Out on one of those mountain roads leading north. Dead in his truck, slumped over his steering wheel.” His hazel eyes soften. “Fliss was never the same after that.”
I can bet.
There’s also a tidbit in there I didn’t know.
One of those mountain roads leading up north.
Up north, like...toward Glass Lake?
Fuck.
What if that gold’s the reason he’s gone?
What if it wasn’t a simple overdose, and someone killed him over it and staged the scene?
Sobering thought.
I don’t get the chance to linger on it, though, because suddenly Holt’s got eagle eyes, and they’re trained on me.
“Why you so interested in what’s up with Fliss, Alaska?”
I can’t get out more than a slow, choked sound before Blake cuts in with a sly grin, stroking his rusty-brown beard. “Probably because he’s been taking our pretty friend camping.”
“Hey.” I growl. “How the fuck did you—” Then I groan, raking a hand over my face. If he hadn’t been sure, I just gave it away, but I know how he figured it out. “Your kid.”
“Andrea doesn’t miss much,” Blake says with a touch of pride. “And she’s got good eyes. So? What’s the deal, Alaska? You two hookin’ up?”
“There is no deal.” I try to say it as sternly as possible. Only, with my face glowing hell-fire red, I wouldn’t believe me, either. “She just...you know. I think she needed some company without the baggage of her past. That’s all.”
I feel like Blake’s staring right through me as if I’m transparent as glass.
Yep, now I know how people feel when I give them the Dad Look.
Because Blake’s giving it to me in spades, and I’ll be damned if I don’t feel like I’ve reverted back to Eli’s age. I’m ready to squirm in my frigging seat when I’ve got a kid of my own and this is my routine.
“Sounds like you care an awful lot how she feels,” Blake rumbles softly.
“She’s a nice girl. I love her coffee and I drink it by the liter—just ask Holt or any other guy from the crew. We’re friends.” I shrug. I’m real bad at fibbing, but I try. “I think any friend would care.”
That gets the bossman grinning wide and a little dirty.
“Friend, huh?” Holt whispers. “What’s that mean to Alaskans? I’m thinking it could mean a lot considering the long-ass winters and the fact that you’ve got more moose than people up there.”
“Don’t start.” I level a finger at him.
Christ. I’m lucky Holt’s settled down and gotten married.
Trust me.
Back in NYC, he turned into a raunchy messwhen he was plastered.
Now, though, he raises his mug again, gesturing clumsily enough to nearly slosh it over his hand.
“I think we should make a toast,” he proclaims. “To the start of a beautiful shing.”
Nope. I’m not talking about any beautiful things, or beautiful shings, even.
“Holt, lay off the sauce. One of us is gonna have to drive you home, and Libby’s gonna be pissed as hell if you show up too plastered to stand.” I rest a hand on his wrist and gently press down, encouraging him to set the mug down before he makes a mess of himself—or us. “Why are you drinking so much, anyway?”
He sets his mug down with a thud and peers at us.
“I found it,” he whispers, only it’s that loud drunk whisper again, even as he leans closer to us with a conspiratorial hiss. “I found it in the trash. She covered it up, but I found it.”
Blake gives me a patient look full of silent laughter, then asks dutifully, “Found what?”
“The pregnancy test,” Holt slurs, and my eyes widen. “I’m gonna be a dad.” Then, beaming, louder, “I’m gonna be a dad!” But his face falls just as fast as it brightens, horror slowly dawning in his eyes. “Uh...I’m gonna be a dad?” Groaning, he shoves his face into one hand. “Oh, man, I’m gonna fuck this up so much.”
Oof.
Now it all makes sense.
I can’t help grinning.
Holt’s been a lot of things. A womanizer, a stricken romantic, a desperado done with love, and a man finding who he was always meant to be with after fucking around with a lot of gals he wasn’t.
Now, he’s going to be a father, and I’ll bet he’ll make a damned good one, at that.
“You’re not gonna mess up nothin’,” I say firmly. “Trust me, boss. I thought I’d screw everything up before Eli was born, too.”
“Thought the same thing with Andrea,” Blake adds, watching Holt with the kind of fondness that can only come from a lifetime of brotherly rivalry turning into one of the strongest friendships I’ve ever seen.
Holt stares between us with a mixture of hope and dread.
“How’d you...not, Alaska?”
“Can’t really explain it,” I say. “Just took one look at that little red screaming face and knew I’d do anything to take care of him. Dad gene kicked in hard. Told me I’d figure it out, or I’d die trying.” Fuck, even now that feeling tightens in my chest, and suddenly I want to be at the inn, making sure my Eli’s all right. “You’re gonna do the same, Holt.”
No fooling. Holt’s gonna be a great dad.
But me?
I’m starting to wonder, right now.
Because lately, Eli’s not the only one who makes me want to do everything to take care of him.
With a possible murder hanging around a certain pretty someone’s past like jet fumes, I gotta wonder if Felicity’s in deeper than she can handle.
I wonder just how much that trouble might threaten my son, if I fall in too deep with a girl I can’t get out of my head.
* * *
All that talkabout kids and parenting has me wrapping things up and heading home, after making sure Blake gets Holt safely home to the ranch he shares with Libby.
I had a feeling I’d tapped out any intel on Fliss I was gonna get from those two, anyway.
Damn.
Feels like I’m poking at her like she’s a suspect or something.
I don’t like that feeling.
Even so, after I fought tooth and nail to keep Eli?
Still, I can’t let anything, even something that seems innocent on the surface, threaten him.
Which is why my heart catapults out of my chest when I pull up to the little drive in front of the cabin and my headlights sweep over his fear-whitened face, standing outside on the front porch.
He freezes in the middle of dashing for the front steps.
I’m out of the Jeep in a second, jolting toward him, gripping his arms hard.
“Eli? What happened? Are you hurt? Where’s Haley?”
Warren and Haley Ford, Charming Inn’s owners, kindly agreed to watch him while I was away.
He shakes his head fiercely, staring up at me with his eyes wide and too bright, but it’s a few seconds before he speaks. “I—I’m fine, Dad, I was just—they let me come back here for a pop. I was going to run to Ms. Wilma’s house to get help and—”
“Help? What happened?” I realize my urgency is probably scaring the ever-living crap out of him when he already looks rattled.
Deep breath. If I can’t calm my own tits, then I can’t comfort my son.
“Okay,” I say, putting on my Dad Voice, making myself speak more slowly now that I know he’s not hurt. “Talk to me. Why did you need help?”
Eli follows my cue, gulping in deep breaths before his jaw firms.
“There was a guy at the cabin,” he says. “I was out walking, taking some photos in the woods after I grabbed that pop, and when I came back...this guy was digging around with the firewood. I got some pictures, though, but when he saw me with the camera he took off.” He bites his lip. “He had a big truck. It was really loud, Dad. It kept making this popping noise like the muffler was going bad or something.”
Fuck.
The wood pile.
The gold.
Were we followed after all?
I’m stuck wondering what Felicity’s tangled up with, so I’m not expecting it when Eli drags his digital camera out—he’s always too nervous about banging it up when he’s hiking—and starts flicking through the screen.
“See? That’s him,” he says shyly.
A familiar face pops up on his screen and my teeth pinch together.
Gavin goddamned Coakley.
I haven’t seen him since the mining days in Alaska. Figured he’d be pissed enough at me to stay there, too. Not so furious he’d follow me all the way here.
And apparently start spying on me—the only logical conclusion if he knew where to start digging for that tarp full of gold.
Sonofa.
I keep my inner swearing to myself in front of Eli while he watches me worriedly. “Do you know that guy, Dad?”
“Might,” I clip. I don’t want to get him too worried, so I ruffle his hair and force a smile. “Hey. Can you head on up to the big house and ask Haley and Warren and Ms. Wilma if they mind you eating dinner there tonight? I bet you can sneak Mozart a few scraps.”
All it takes is one mention of that cat and he lights up like nothing ever happened.
“Yeah!”
He’s practically skipping. I stand guard and watch as he dashes toward the big plantation-style house at the heart of the Charming Inn. He’s moving so fast, his shirt flies behind him.
I don’t rest easy till I see the back door open, Ms. Wilma greeting him warmly and ushering him inside.
For a second, she pauses, glancing in my direction.
It’s hard to tell if she’s looking directly at me at this distance with her old eyes, but it feels significant.
Or maybe that’s just the weight of this new discovery pressing down on me.
Once she goes back inside, I haul ass around the side of the cabin and drag away the top layer of logs. They’re hastily stacked, thrown back on.
Not the careful arrangement I made to ensure the entire blue tarp was invisible on first, second, or even third glance. The fold-over sack I left looks open, the top flap flipped up.
Fuck.
No jumping to conclusions, though.
I push wood away from the whole mess.
Count it all, glancing over my shoulder at every hint of headlights passing by on the highway.
And come up two short.
Mother. Fucker.
Gavin stole them.
It’s not the two bars I’m worried about, even if losing them to a thieving rat does make me blinding pissed.
If he does something reckless, if word about the gold gets out—I have a sneaking suspicion it could get Felicity into a whole world of trouble.
Poor Fliss. Guess she’s not the only one whose past is catching up with her and chewing through the wiring of her life.
I need to figure out where Gavin’s gone.
It’s my turn to catch up to him.
He doesn’t just owe me two bars of gold anymore.
He owes me some big fat chewy answers, and I want them now.
* * *
I’m still rackingmy brain for how I’ll find Gavin when that truck of his does the work for me.
I thought about asking around the diner, maybe the gas station, and see if anyone meeting his description stopped in to top up his belly or his tank.
Now, I don’t have to.
Before I even round the corner to the town’s only gas station, I hear that piece of shit.
The distinct gunfire-like bang and pop of a truck backfiring. The same kind of junkers he survived on back in Alaska—and it looks like some things never change.
Thank God I’ve got a kid who thinks fast with his camera.
I swerve around the corner, hoping to catch him before he takes off.
Instead, I catch him tossing two gold bars into the trash can next to the pump with an angry shake of his head. Casual and plain as day, like he’s throwing out some leftover packaging from burgers and fries.
What the fuck?
Who goes to the trouble of stealing what’s probably five figures worth of gold, and then literally throws it away?
I gun the engine, slewing my Jeep into the parking lot just as he’s firing up his truck with another rattling thunder-pop from hell.
I deliberately stab my vehicle in front of him, blocking off his path, then cut my engine and get out.
Casting a wide stance, I wait, folding my arms over my chest like a hall monitor who’s just caught an insanely boneheaded teenager.
Coakley freezes, his lip curled in a sneering curse, only to go silent as his washed-out grey eyes lock on me through the windshield, the color of muddy rainwater beneath his thatch of unruly reddish-brown hair.
Oh, yeah.
He recognizes me.
He also knows that I know damned well what he did.
Balling one hand into a fist, I flick one finger up and crook it, beckoning like I’m talking to an unruly kid. “Out. Right the fuck now.”
He spits out something I can’t hear from the corner of his mouth, then grudgingly pushes his truck’s door open and steps out, dropping down and slamming it shut behind him.
“You got a problem, Charter?” he snarls without preamble.
“Depends. Seems like you’ve got a problem with me, Gavin,” I answer. I’m not taking his bait. “Having a little tourist hop through town? What a coincidence, you washing up my way.”
“I’m just passing through.” Sullen, sulking, he’s avoiding my eyes. “Small fucking world. If I’d known you were here, I’d have risked running out of gas between here and Missoula.”
“Nice to see you too, asshole. So much for hoping you didn’t have any hard feelings about the mine.”
“Don’t fucking talk to me about hard feelings or that stupid mine!” he snaps, narrowing his eyes. “You weren’t the one left holding the bag with nothing, practically living on the street like a bum.”
“You don’t know what my life was like. So don’t think you know what I sacrificed to survive after things went bust.” I stare at him coolly. “And don’t lie to me, man. It’s interesting that you didn’t know I was in town, but you knew enough to go stealing from behind my woodpile. What are the odds? One in I-think-you’re-full-of-shit-tillion?”
His shoulders jerk.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re crazy.”
“So you didn’t just toss two gold bars into the fucking trash?”
“...don’t make me laugh. Gold? That’s some spray-painted rocks.” He starts toward me with his teeth bared, his fists balling up. “That how you’re scamming people now? Tungsten-plated bricks and you bilk ’em out of even more fucking money? You’re a sick dude, Paxton.”
He can’t be serious.
Right?
But if by some unholy miracle he thought the gold was fake, that explains his epic stupidity.
“I never scammed anyone,” I throw back, my hackles up, my fists clenched tight—but I stand my ground. “Least of all you.”
“The hell you didn’t, Charter,” he cries. Next thing I know, I’ve got a man coming at me like a freight train, all raised fists and plowing force. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking kill you for what you did!”
So tiresome.
Looks like I’m in for a world of hurt. He may be a third my size—still big by most people’s standards—but he’s pissed enough to leave a few bruises.
Still, I’m damn glad he doesn’t realize the gold’s actually real.
Now I just gotta rescue those two bars in the garbage and get them home before anyone else gets up in our business.
Even if it means weathering a little of that pain Gavin’s been storing up for me for what looks like ages. Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty to return the favor.
Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I don’t.
I don’t know.
I just know I need to get rid of Gavin and his pathetic grudge.
I’m not letting this angry little hornet of a man pile more grief on Felicity’s plate.
