Page 9 of Fool Me (Timberline Peak #1)

“What are you doing here, Canyon? Aren’t you supposed to be in Montana?”

“Surprise! I’m moving back. Mom gets both her boys back in Timberline Peak for good. Isn’t that nice for her?”

Fuck, so he knows he’s got me raked over the coals. I can’t leave Timberline Peak, and he won’t—not if it means getting under my skin.

My mom sniffles, her emotions clearly getting the better of her, because, genuinely, this is what she’s wanted for years—for Canyon and me to reunite and her to get her family back.

Now I feel like an asshole. Just not the kind of asshole who’s ready to forgive someone who’s never shown an ounce of remorse. Despite her inability to see my brother’s many faults, she’s a good mom, but we will one hundred percent be having words about this little stunt.

“Where are you staying?”

So I know where to avoid.

“Here.”

Just perfect. There go my plans to get closer to my parents. I guess they’ll still be coming to visit me.

I lift an eyebrow at my dad.

“Just until he gets a job,” he clarifies.

“Carl, you make it sound like he doesn’t have a plan.” My mom pats Canyon’s knee as she scolds my dad. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need, sweetie. We won’t kick you out.”

“Thanks, Mom.” There’s that smile again. Where everyone else sees charm, I see through it to the smarm that lies beneath.

“What’s your plan?” I ask.

He can’t be going back to the search and rescue team after what Harlowe told me. There’s no way they would allow it.

The soft smile he gave my mom turns cocky.

I’ll give him one thing, he’s the king of manipulation.

“Nothing’s official yet, but the Incident Commander job will be opening up soon with Timberline Peak Search and Rescue.

I’ll have to apply and go through the process, of course, but the job is as good as mine. ”

What the fuck. He can’t actually think there’s a chance.

“Didn’t you leave the team on short notice?” I ask, not wanting to believe what I’m hearing.

“Keeping tabs on me? Careful, I’ll think you care.”

I abso-fucking-lutely don’t—not about him. About the people his actions hurt? Yes.

When I don’t respond, he laughs. “Still as serious as always, big brother.”

“Maybe you should try it. Some things in life aren’t a damn joke,” I bark back at his condescending tone. We might only be a year apart, but it feels like so much more with the way he acts.

Canyon snorts like it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard, and it’s painful not to walk across the room to shake some sense into him.

Not that it would do any good; my brother is allergic to consequences.

Thankfully, the emergency line for the office vibrates in my pocket before I’m forced to respond.

I walk out of the room without a word. “Mrs. Franklin, is everything okay with Betty?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Betty’s beak looks mighty shiny tonight. I’m worried it’s from all the fruit. Should I bring her in?”

“Has the texture changed?”

“No.”

“It’s most likely just a sign of healthy grooming habits, but if you notice it gets glossier, we can take a look.”

“Oh, well, okay. I’m sorry to bother you, you’re probably busy.”

“Never too busy for you, Marilyn.” I’ve talked to Mrs. Franklin almost every day and learned that her husband took a job as a fishing guide.

For the first time in their thirty-year marriage, he’s away from home for long stretches, and I’m almost certain that Mrs. Franklin is extremely lonely.

“Anything else I can help with?” I ask, half-hoping for more questions, but she lets me go and I hang up.

Annoyed that I was put in this situation at all, I walk back inside.

My mom has the decency to at least look apologetic.

Dinner is easily the most awkward meal of my life.

Dad clears his throat with every other bite—a nervous tick—while Mom, whose smile has faded now that she realizes her surprise didn’t magically fix years of separation, pushes the grilled trout around her plate, asking us both questions in hopes of breaking the tension.

I ignore Canyon, and he’s smug as fuck, enjoying the hell out my discomfort. Most of the meal is filled with him talking about himself, but as soon as I finish, I stand, holding out a hand to clear my mom’s plate, and take it to the sink, where I become overly interested in hand-washing the dishes.

I don’t stick around for dessert—even though my mom tries to tempt me with her peach cobbler—blaming a headache, which is certain to become a reality if I stick around.

Taking the long way home, I drive past Hey Jude, the local bar that’s been around for nearly as long as the town. It’s not the bar, but the baby blue International Harvester Scout that catches my eye, the same one I’ve seen parked outside my clinic.

If there’s one person in this town who seems to dislike my brother as much as me, it’s Harlowe Corbin. And there’s truth to the saying: misery loves company.

Giving into my impulses, I pull into an open parking spot.

The bar is only half full when I walk in, but even if it was packed, Harlowe would be easy to spot in the crowd.