Page 7 of Thaw of Spring (Knife’s Edge, Alaska #2)

A fter midnight, Christian leaned against the rough wood siding of the Kattuk family mercantile, arms crossed, boots set firm in the gravel.

Across the narrow road, the sheriff’s office sat quiet under a mist that curled and lifted with the breeze, too thin to be rain, too thick to ignore.

The silence had weight to it, like the town was holding its breath.

Tika sat to his side, the wolf-pup’s ears flattened in what looked like ease.

He yawned wide, jaw splitting with the slow, lazy stretch of a creature comfortable in the night.

Christian reached down and scratched behind one of those ears, fingers moving in the familiar rhythm.

It grounded him more than he’d ever admit.

The door to the station creaked open. Ophelia Spilazi stepped out, gaze sweeping the street. She found him instantly and came down the stairs to cross the road on a pair of very fashionable boots.

Brock’s woman loved her boots.

Tall, all angles and confidence, with long black hair pulled back and eyes that saw more than most people wanted her to, Ophelia was a force. The scent hit him halfway across the street—strawberries. Not strong, but deliberate. Brock’s favorite. Of course.

Christian hadn’t expected his brother’s happiness to come wrapped in a city girl with a badge who looked like a model with a gun. But she’d shown up and stayed, and more than once she’d proved she belonged in a place like this.

“Hey,” she said, slipping her hands into the pockets of her black leather jacket.

“Hey.”

Another thing he liked about her—she didn’t press. Didn’t ask why he hadn’t walked into the station. Didn’t try to fix whatever she might see wrong in him. She let people be who they were. Just like Amka did.

“Brock’s sending the box, lighter fluid, and note to Anchorage along with the small bits of shrapnel from the device,” Ophelia said. “There’s an FBI agent there. We’ll see if we can get fingerprints.”

That was way too much of a longshot. “I’m not counting on it.”

“Neither am I.” She looked up at the station, jaw set. “But it’s arson, and Amka might be the target.”

Christian’s hand stilled on Tika’s head. His spine straightened, barely. “Maybe.”

Ophelia stretched up on her calves as if breaking in the boots. “I offered to drive her home after she gave her statement, but she insisted on driving herself.”

“I followed her home and made sure she got inside safely.” His voice was quiet now, the kind that came after a long time not talking. “Teller’s rig was in the driveway.” Although the asshat should’ve gone to the station with her and then driven her home.

“At least Jarod’s keeping an eye on her,” Ophelia said. “Who do you think would want to hurt Amka?”

Christian shook his head. “Absolutely nobody in the world.”

Ophelia nodded. “That’s my feeling as well. But somebody’s obviously taken an interest. We have to assume they waited until she was inside that building before igniting the explosion.”

“I took another look at it,” Christian said. “It was rigged so when the door opened, the flame lit. They couldn’t have known it’d be Amka. It’s shared with Friday’s Grocery—they keep overflow in there.”

“I know,” Ophelia said. “But the note was left outside the tavern.”

Irritation and heat flared up inside him, crawling under his skin and sharpening every nerve. “I know. But the grocery store had already closed for the day.”

Ophelia sighed and pushed a strand of hair out of her face, only for the wind to slap it right back. “The town’s been open for two weeks, and we’ve had tons of tourists coming through. Plus, a lot of the mountain people have been down. We need to get some security cameras in place.”

Christian winced. “The topic was brought up at the town meeting a few years ago and it was a shit show, or so I’ve heard. I was still in the Navy, halfway across the world at the time, but news gets around. People live here because they like their privacy. Nobody wants cameras.”

Ophelia shifted her stance. “I know, but come on. At some point the town has to join the modern times, at least a little.”

He shook his head, his jaw aching. He had to stop clenching it. “I hate the thought of cameras all around, but I would like to know if somebody is watching Amka or the Fridays.”

Ophelia looked up at him from under lowered lashes. “What’s your interest in her, Christian? Is there something?—”

“No.” He cut her off before she could expand the question. “We’re friends, and she’s in my town. Sometimes I drop by the bar and help out, and she always feeds me. That’s it. There’s nothing more.”

Ophelia arched a brow. “If you say so.”

“I do,” he said, firm and flat.

“Okay.” She backed off without pressing. No smirk, no challenge, just a clean shift of energy. “Well, it’s probably a good thing since apparently she’s getting married in June. What do you know about Jarod Teller?”

Christian cocked his head to the side. He’d smile if he remembered how. “Are you interviewing me?”

Ophelia’s lips ticked up. “Maybe. I don’t think this is an FBI case, but who knows? The local law can always request FBI assistance.”

Christian snorted. “Yeah, but we’ve got a problem with the whole local law situation, don’t we?”

She winced. “Yes, but no one seems to care about it, including my boss in DC.” Her gaze drifted to the sign stretched across the street declaring that Knife’s Edge had the only sheriff in Alaska. “I’m surprised no one’s challenged that.”

Christian lifted a shoulder. “There’s never been a need. I thought maybe Brock would at one point, just to get out of the job.”

The town had come up with its own sheriff system decades ago, back when they were too far out for anyone to respond in time.

It was unofficial, but nobody cared. State troopers still handled the major cases in most of Alaska.

A few larger towns had their own police departments, but even they didn’t have sheriffs.

Knife’s Edge clung to the title like it was part of the landscape.

Ophelia chuckled. “If Brock gets tired of the job, he might try to change it.”

That wasn’t going to happen. “People like tradition here,” Christian said. “Whether we’ve got the only sheriff or not, no one’s looking to change that.”

“I understand,” she said. “I’m not getting involved in any jurisdictional issues, but arson and attempted murder are serious crimes.”

“I’m aware.” Christian’s jaw tightened again. At this point, he was going to deserve the migraine he was giving himself. “As for Jarod Teller, he moved to Anchorage when he was around twenty and worked one of the fishing outfits for a few years. Then he bought the local motel.”

Ophelia scanned the area. “The one that burned down.”

“Two years ago,” Christian said. “An inspector from Anchorage confirmed that faulty wiring caused the fire.”

Ophelia didn’t speak right away, just watched him, her expression unreadable. Then she gave a slow nod. “Still…two fires in a small town.”

“They were two years apart,” he said. “So maybe it’s nothing. But I’ve thought about it too.” He nudged her with a shoulder, careful to keep from being too rough. “Why are you still an FBI agent? We could use an assistant sheriff around here.”

She snorted. “An assistant sheriff? I don’t think so.

Right now I’m solid in my job. There are several missing persons in Alaska, as you know, plus a couple of cases I’m still working.

” She wiped dew off her forehead. “Word came in earlier. The district attorney decided not to prosecute Flossy for Hank’s death. ”

Relief slammed through Christian. He’d loved Hank, who’d been his guardian, and understood why Flossy helped him die in December after his cancer had progressed so horribly. When she’d confessed, so had most of the town, so there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute anybody. “That’s a relief.”

Ophelia frowned. “I know, but still. I don’t like going around the law.”

There wasn’t much of a choice, and the district attorney had the final say. Christian focused on Ophelia. “Are you happy here?”

“Yes.” She blinked as if caught a little off guard by her own answer. “Yes, because of Brock. Definitely.” Her eyes sparked, softening. “But I also like the town. I like the people. Plus, the pace of life doesn’t suck.”

“Good.” He didn’t want her deciding Knife’s Edge was too remote and packing it in. Brock had enough weight on his shoulders in the form of demons from their childhood and from the service. Seeing him content for once? That mattered.

“I’m not going to hurt your brother,” Ophelia said, dead-on reading him without needing an invitation.

Christian relaxed. That was all he needed. While he might never find peace, he intended for each of his brothers to do so. Whether they liked it or not.

Amka peeled off rain gear inside the narrow vestibule of her quaint home, the fabric cold and slick in her hands.

Water dripped onto the mat, the steady rhythm of it loud in the stillness.

Her shoulder ached from hauling stock all day, and her fingers were numb.

She wanted a shower. Maybe tea. A moment to breathe.

She stepped into the cabin and stopped cold.

Jarod was passed out on the sofa again. One arm dangled toward the floor, and his boot hung half-off, mud crusted along the sole.

At least he wasn’t in her bed this time.

She crossed the room and kicked his foot. Harder than she meant to. A shock of pain ricocheted up her leg.

“Ouch,” she hissed under her breath.

Jarod groaned, rolled onto his back, and looked at the ceiling. “Oh. Hey. You’re finally home.” He sat up, squinting. “Did they find out who sent that note to you?”

“As much as I appreciate your concern, they have not.” Her voice stayed even. “You don’t need to be here, Jarod. Go back to your place.”

He scrubbed his face with both hands, the bleariness fading just enough to show behind-the-eyes calculation. “No, I think I’m gonna move in. You know, since I’m your fiancé. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Cut the crap.” Her jaw locked. “You’re not moving in. We are never living together.”

He stood, sudden and unsteady, and she stepped back before she realized it. The room shrank around her. Sometimes she forgot how big he was until he pushed into her space.

“I am moving in,” he said. “My lease is up at the end of the month. So get used to it.”

“Absolutely not.” Her voice came out flat. He could continue living out at the Willows, a depressing landscape of run-down duplexes, and away from her tidy home. She kept her feet planted.

He looked at her, head tilted just slightly, like he was trying to decide how far he could push it. “Wrong.”

She wasn’t fighting about this. “We’ve been engaged because you said you needed it for respectability or whatever bullshit reason. I agreed to a temporary arrangement. I’ve said that since day one.”

Jarod smiled then, showing too many teeth. The smile he used at barbecues and fundraisers. The one that used to fool people. “Well, I decided we are getting married.”

“No.” Her tone sharpened. “I’ve gone along with this because I haven’t had a better option. That’s it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” he said, and the way he said it chilled her more than the weather ever could.

Her pulse thudded in her throat. “Enough is enough. You have to be respectable by now. I can’t do anything else for you.”

He leaned in and grabbed her arms with both hands. “You just don’t get it. Why I want this.”

Pain ripped through her so fast she gasped.

“It’s you. It’s been you. I want you. Yeah, the respectability of being engaged and then married to the town's golden girl is definitely appealing, but we’re in this together. You and me, and you're not going anywhere.” He jerked her toward him and pressed a hard kiss against her lips.

She struggled and nearly dropped as more pain slashed through her ribs.

He kissed her harder, reaching for the hem of her shirt. She struggled, panicking. He’d tried this once before, and she’d shut him down. “Stop.”

“No.” He yanked her closer.

She shifted to the side and brought up her knee, nailing him in the groin.

He coughed and released her, shoving her.

“Damn it. Bitch. All women want it and just don’t realize it.

You will.” He stepped back, his face an angry red.

“I'm moving in this weekend, so get used to it.” He turned and walked to the door, opened it, then looked over his shoulder.

“We are going to be married in every possible way.” He slammed the door.

As he left, she sank onto the sofa and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

What was she going to do? He was getting more and more sexually violent.

As hard as it was to admit, she had thought about dropping his ass in a creek. She probably couldn’t kill anybody, but it was tempting. Still, the blackmail he had on her was real, and if she made the wrong move, it would get out. Somewhere, somehow, it was waiting to be released.

She picked up her phone, needing to talk to somebody. The problem was, she didn’t know who.

The line clicked. “Hello?” A very sleepy Doc May answered.

“Hi, May. Do you have a minute?” Amka asked.

“Of course. Are you hurt?”

“My ribs are killing me,” she admitted, pressing a palm against her side like it might help.

May’s voice sharpened. “Okay, I’ll meet you down at my office?—”

“No. I’ll come to you.” Amka was already headed back for her raincoat and her green knit hat. It was cold out there. “I need to talk.”