She was home. Home was safe. As long as no one in her other life figured out where to find her. This was where she would exorcise a few demons, heal a few broken bones, and come up with a plan to fix everything before it was too late.
God, she hoped it wasn’t already too late.
4
“Come on, Brick. I was just having a bit of fun.”
Maybe it was the measly thirty minutes of sleep he’d managed the night before. Or maybe it was the whine in Duncan Firth’s voice as they stood over the mangled frame of the Polaris after it had done battle with a split rail fence and a stop sign.
Whatever the reason, he wasn’t feeling particularly fond of fun in the moment.
“That’s Sergeant Callan to you when I’m in uniform,” Brick said, handing over the citation. “Next time you think about ramping your vehicle, try aiming it away from the fences and street signs.”
“Yes, sir,” Duncan said, morosely stuffing the ticket into the pocket of his snowsuit. The man was in his early sixties, a grandfather of three, and a bit of a daredevil. He was the first islander to test out the ice bridge that connected the island to the mainland every year. The longer winter stretched on, the dumber his decision-making got.
“Pops! Pops! Didja see the video?” Duncan’s seven-year-old grandson jogged over holding a phone over his head.
“Lemme have a look-see,” Duncan said, pulling out a pair of reading glasses.
With a shake of his head, Brick decided it was time to leave before he had to add any other charges to the citation. Knowing Duncan, there was a six-pack of beer buried somewhere in the snow nearby.
His horse, one of the few left on the island for winter, stamped an impatient hoof at the fence. Like his owner, Cleetus was quiet, dependable, and bigger than most. He stood sixteen hands high, his dark coat glossy in the Friday morning sun. Brick stashed his gear in the saddlebag and gave the horse a pat on the rump before heaving himself into the saddle. “All right. Let’s get you some breakfast, bud.”
The big, black horse tossed his head in agreement, and together they headed toward town.
It was the kind of morning that took a man’s breath away. The sun threw thousands of diamond glints off the snow, blinding in their brilliance. Meanwhile, the lake wind worked its way under layers of gear, reminding anyone who stepped out under that brilliant sun that it was still February, still a long haul to the spring temperatures of May.
Brick appreciated the rugged beauty of winter. The long, dark nights. The blanket of quiet. Work was slower, easier. The focus shifted from policing thousands of tourists to keeping an eye on the few hundred neighbors who called Mackinac home all year round.
It was peaceful.
At least it had been until yesterday.
The lights at Red Gate had stayed on all night. He knew that because he’d checked every hour or so, standing in his old bedroom at the front of the house and staring across the street at the cottage.
She’d always been a night owl, always been on the forgetful side. She’d never really had to deal with the consequences since there was always someone walking along behind her to turn out the lights.
But his instincts were telling him this wasn’t just a case of Remi being too lost in paints and adventure to pay attention. Something was off. She was off. He’d seen it in the shadows under her eyes, the way she startled when he’d caught her outside the grocery store.
The snow-covered road stretched out in front of him, woods to the right, glimpses of water views through the trees to the left. The little downtown where most of his adult life had played out was straight ahead. He’d made this place home. Carved out a spot for himself. He wasn’t going to upset the balance by getting too close to her. Not again. He had his reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Remington Ford had been born with wings, not roots.
It was better, simpler if it was just him, Cleetus, and Magnus, the stray cat. He had his house. Work that he loved. Good friends. And a place at the table of a family he’d often wished was his own. Wanting more was greedy. And in his experience, greed greased the road to hell.
Cleetus picked up the pace when the white clapboard stables came into view. His hefty hooves were muffled by the few inches of snow on Market Street.
Brick did what he did best, focused on the tasks at hand and let all the what-ifs and what-could-bes go. With his mount fed and tack stowed, he shouldered the saddlebags—his version of a briefcase—and headed up the street. He ducked into the coffee shop conveniently located halfway between the stables and the station where he picked up the usual, a box of assorted pastries.
The small talk between the staff and the two other customers reminded him that no matter where he went on the island, he wasn’t going to escape mention of the troubled redhead.
Yes, he did hear that Remi Ford was back.
No, he didn’t know how long she was staying.
Yes, he supposed she did look just as pretty as the last time she’d been home.
While he’d made a place for himself here, she’d been born into one. The entire island looked forward to her visits because everything was just a little bit brighter, a little more fun with Remington around.
She was the kind of girl that when she gave a guy a nickname, the entire town was still using it over a decade later.
He kept his shoulders hunched against the gusts of wind that funneled between buildings and hurried the final few hundred feet to the station.
The white, two-story building on Market Street always reminded Brick of a church. However, instead of Sunday sermons, it was home to the Mackinac Island Police Department, town hall, and town court.
Slipping in the side door, he took off his hat and coat, hanging them both on designated pegs. There was only one other parka on the rack so far that morning. In season, the tiny department swelled to include dozens of cops policing the streets of Mackinac on foot, bikes, and horseback. But off season, only a handful stayed on to serve the full-time residents.
He took the pastries into the break room, where he found the boss pouring a fresh cup of coffee into her It’s Called Snow, Get Over It mug.
“Morning, Brick.”
Chief Darlene Ford was a formidable woman. A lifelong resident of the island, a windchill of eight degrees didn’t faze her. Not much of anything did. She was tall and athletically built. Her auburn hair, streaked with silver, was scraped back in its usual short, serviceable tail. Her eyes were a cool, assessing green. The rangy build came from a rigid adherence to daily weight training. She could do more push-ups in one shot than most of the rest of the small force.
Brick excluded, of course. He made it a point to be able to out-work, out-ride, and out-shoot any other officer.
“Morning, chief.” He poured his own mug.
“What did Duncan do this time?” Darlene asked, perusing the pastry selection. She selected a bacon-topped bear claw then offered him the box.
He shook his head, heading for the fridge instead, where his protein shake waited. “Ramped his brand new Polaris into a fence and took out the stop sign on Huron Road.”
“Dang fool is gonna get himself killed one of these days,” she said.
“Anything happen overnight?” Brick asked, taking a hit of coffee.
“Remi’s home.” She glanced down at the protein shake and didn’t bother hiding her shudder.