Page 2

But I don't have time to go losing myself in the past, mooning over my middle school crush or indulging in explicit fantasies about the ripped mountain man he is now.

My dad's frown deepens. "I know you and that Tucker boy were close, and he was good to your grandmother, but…"

"But?"

"The rest of that crew he's living with." He shakes his head. "I'm not sure if I trust them."

Oh. Right. Cayden had come home from his hitch in the army with Jax in tow, along with three other men, each of them as muscular and rugged as the rest. I've never spoken with any of them during my visits, but I've glimpsed them and their powerful physiques from a distance. They were a damn sight, taking up half the room at the funeral, their shoulders nearbroad enough they could each fill a pew on their own. One was so tall his head almost scraped the ceiling.

I shiver as a low flicker of heat sparks to life inside me. I'm not sure if I trust them, either. Or maybe I should say that I'm not sure if I trustmyselfaround them.

But it doesn't matter. The point is moot. "Don't worry, Dad. I can take care of myself. The chances of me needing to go to those big scary men for help is between slim and none."

His scowl finally softens. "Okay, pumpkin."

"Now go. You don't want to still be on the roads after dark." Up here on the mountain, they can get treacherous.

"Okay, okay. Promise you'll call if anything goes wrong?"

"For the thousandth time—"

"Fine." He pulls me in.

With a hug and a kiss, I basically shove him out the door. He goes, looking back a couple of times as he makes his way to the rented SUV he drove up here from the airport exactly two weeks ago today. I stand there in the doorway, even though it's letting the frigid night air in. I can't feel the cold. All I can feel is the solitude, slowly draping itself around me.

Lonely Peak, indeed.

My father blinks the headlights at me, and mustering one last burst of cheer, I force a smile and wave. I close the door and peer out through the faceted glass as he pulls away.

And then it's real. I'm here. Alone.

I shake off my melancholy the best I can. I should be used to being by myself by now. People have walked out on me enough in my life.

This feels different, though, somehow.

The wind outside howls, and is it just me, or is the siding on this old house more rattly-sounding than it used to be? Oh, God, what if there are animals living in it? Grandma had a whole nestof possums living under the rafters once and had to chase them out.

I can just picture it—her with her glasses on and her gray hair pinned high on her head, screaming while shaking a broom. The image makes me smile, right before it crushes me with a wave of unbearable sadness.

I justmissher, is all.

For a moment, I want to grab my keys and get into Grandma's old truck and chase after my father. Tell him to take me with him or beg him to stay. This house is too much for any single person. My grandmother may have managed it, but she was stronger than I am.

Another gust of wind makes a branch scratch against a window, and I almost jump clear out of my skin. What the hell was I thinking, staying here?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I imagine what my grandmother would say, seeing me freaking out like this. I can almost hear her voice.

"It's fine," I mutter to myself. "It's all going to be all right."

Opening my eyes, I force myself to look around.

There's work to be done here. We're going to have enough trouble selling this old place as it is. Finding a buyer who wants to live on the mountain, out in the middle of nowhere is a challenge, but in this state? It would be impossible.

I hate to admit it, but the place is a total mess. My grandmother may have been strong, but she wasn't strong enough to battle her cancer and the cobwebs both, there at the end. The whole house needs to be cleaned out. Generations worth of my family's things need to be sorted and stored. Repairs must be made. The job falls to me. How could I let my grandmother down, after everything she did for me?

Nodding to myself, I clench my hands into fists at my side and face the wreckage. There's no time like the present to get started.

As emboldened as I'm going to be, I head toward the basement where some of the easiest pickings live. Stuff has been accumulating down there for decades, and I'm pretty sure most of it can be donated or thrown away. The rickety stairs creak beneath my feet. Through the small half-windows set into the cinderblocks, I can see the world outside getting dark.