The Alaskan Catch. Beth Carpenter
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to her efforts, it thrived. She kept waiting for Dad to notice. But then he got sick and appointed his golf buddy as manager. Dana had tried to tell Dad she could handle it, but he said he didn’t want her to put in the extra hours in the office when he needed her at home taking care of him. And somehow, he’d never gotten around to updating the will. “I just couldn’t work under Jerry.”
“You worked under him for two years after Wayne had his first heart attack.”
“Yes, but that was when I thought—Never mind. It shouldn’t take too long to finish up my business here. I’ll be home before you know it. In the meantime, Ginny can take care of everything. You’ll be okay, won’t you?”
“I suppose so.” Her mother hesitated. “Just be careful. Don’t they have wild animals or something up there?”
Dana glanced out the window at the suburban neighborhood. A pair of birds soared in front of the green mountains rising behind it. She’d never seen a more peaceful vista in her life. Still, Mom had shown a smidge of concern for someone besides herself. That was progress. Dana smiled. “I’ll be careful. Bye, Mom.”
Dana set her phone on the table. Some things never changed. Shopping was her mother’s overriding passion. Almost every day brought another shopping bag of stuff into the house. Once Dana was old enough, her after-school job was to find the items that still carried price tags and return them to the store so Mom would have enough cash to buy groceries and household supplies. Fortunately, Mom’s favorite department store was still downtown then, within walking distance of their house.
Dana hated the walk of shame to the customer service window every other day, but the employees were understanding, all except one. When Mrs. Valens, the owner’s wife, happened to be working returns, she always threw out a catty comment guaranteed to turn Dana’s face crimson.
But in spite of Dana’s efforts, the house overflowed with furniture, clothes, knickknacks and decorations. That was one of the reasons Dana loved her own little cottage, with a minimum amount of clutter despite all the gifts Mom tried to foist onto her. She’d lined up her favorite books in neat rows on the bookshelves, sorted kitchen utensils into bins in the drawers and corralled pens and pencils into pretty mugs. It was comfortable, and she could use some of that comfort right now.
But what Dana needed was a plan of action. She wasn’t going home until she’d come to some sort of understanding with Chris. With her father gone, she was determined to bring Chris back into the family. He said she could stay in his house and use his car, so he must have a soft spot for her somewhere. She could just wait here until he came back. How long did fishing trips usually last, anyway? A day or two?
In the meantime, she might as well settle in. She carried the cold mug of coffee to the kitchen, poured it down the sink and opened the refrigerator door. Mustard, ketchup and three bottles of beer. Definitely a bachelor’s place.
She found a pad in a drawer and started a list. Milk, bread, eggs and a few more staples. And she’d get ingredients for chocolate chip cookies, Chris’s favorite. Homemade food always softened him up. After washing the mugs, she grabbed her purse and Chris’s key ring and stepped through the kitchen door into the garage.
A gleaming red convertible greeted her, parked in the shadow of a pickup with a camper shell. Wow. Maybe Chris’s taste in cars had evolved. But how could he afford a house and three cars on a job that allowed him to start a fishing trip on a Tuesday afternoon? A few unwelcome possibilities flitted through her mind. Was “fishing” a euphemism for something else?
Chris wouldn’t do anything...illegal. Would he? Not the Chris she knew. But then, she didn’t know him anymore. Still, if he were some sort of criminal, he would have jumped at the offer of ready cash. Right?
She slid onto the soft leather seats of the car. A big step-up from her six-year-old compact. She rested her hand on the stick shift and smiled, remembering Chris’s patient, if ineffective, tutoring. With the press of a button, the garage door opened. After a little fumbling, trying to decipher the key system, she located a start button and the engine roared to life, then settled into a smooth purr. Cool.
The car prowled up the street. Dana slowed to a crawl and inched over an unusually large speed bump. She didn’t want to take a chance on messing up Chris’s gorgeous car. She almost felt guilty for using it to run errands. It was designed for something much less mundane, like swooping around the curves of a scenic highway in a dramatic chase scene for a movie.
She’d passed a grocery store in the taxi on the way, so she headed in that direction and found what she needed.
After arriving home and putting away the groceries, Dana nibbled on a salad from the store deli. In spite of the daylight still gleaming through the windows, the clock on the microwave read nine thirty, which would make it well after midnight in Kansas, where she’d started the day. She yawned and found the sheets Chris had mentioned and then carried them into a spare bedroom. A large desk dominated one side of the room, with a single bed beside the thick curtain covering the window on the other side. She made the bed, changed into pajamas and opened the closet door to set her suitcase inside.
A blue canvas bag took up the floor space. She tried to push it with her foot but found it surprisingly heavy. Curious, she unzipped the top. It seemed to be filled with heavy ropes mostly, but also two helmets. She lifted one of the helmets and drew back. A red pistol sat atop the ropes. Dropping the helmet back inside, she zipped the bag closed. Her suitcase would be fine under the bed.
She slipped between the sheets and closed her eyes. Maybe Chris would be back tomorrow. Maybe he would have changed his mind. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe.
* * *
SAM YAWNED AS he dug American bills from the back of his wallet to pay for the taxi. The aggravations of travel on top of twenty-eight straight days of twelve-hour shifts always left him feeling like a bowl of mashed potatoes. He usually spent his first two days at home catching up on sleep.
He hefted the huge duffel over his shoulder and climbed the steps to the front door. Even at three in the morning, enough predawn light leaked over the mountains to allow him to fit his key into the keyhole.
He flicked on the lights, dumped his bag and wandered up to the kitchen. Might as well wind down with a beer before bed. He had to rearrange milk and eggs to reach the bottle. Odd. Chris’s truck was missing, so he’d assumed Chris would have cleaned out the fridge before going. He scavenged through a drawer, searching for the bottle opener.
“Hold it right there.”
Sam blinked. He knew he was tired, but was he hallucinating? A woman wearing flowery shorts and a pink tank top stood in his living room, near the hallway. She couldn’t have been more than five-two or -three, but the red gun in her hands more than made up for her petite size. Especially since the hands seemed to be shaking.
He set the beer bottle on the counter. “Easy, there.”
“Put your hands up.”
He raised his hands, slowly. “Who are you?”
“Never mind who I am. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I’m Sam MacKettrick. This is my house.”
“This is Chris’s house.”
Sam nodded. “Yes, Chris lives here, too. You know Chris?” He spoke slowly and gently, as he would to a timid child.
“Chris is my brother. He said I could stay here.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know Chris had a sister.”
The gun wobbled. “Maybe you don’t know Chris at all. Maybe you’re making it all up. Maybe you’re here to rob the place.”
“Calm down. That’s not a real gun, you know. It’s a flare gun.” Not that he found that reassuring. Flare guns weren’t particularly accurate, but if she managed to hit him with a flare, it wouldn’t be pretty. Even if she missed, she might burn the house down.
Her