Page 13

Nora

The Spring Rescue Auction looks less like a fundraiser and more like a small-town riot with beer.

By the time I walk into Devil’s Peak Lodge, the place is already packed wall to wall with flannel, denim, and loud laughter bouncing off the timber ceilings. Strings of white lights hang across the rafters, country music blasts from old speakers near the bar, and somewhere near the back of the room somebody’s yelling over a bidding war involving a fishing trip and a chainsaw sculpture.

I stop just inside the entrance, taking it all in.

“This is insane,” I mutter.

A woman carrying a tray of beers brushes past me and grins. “You haven’t seen anything yet, honey.”

Apparently not.

A group of women near the stage shriek as a tall blond man in a black henley winks at them while flexing theatrically beside an auction table.

“That’s Rune West,” the woman beside me says knowingly. “Land developer. Professional flirt. Margie’s been trying to marry him off for years.”

“Margie?”

“The woman currently threatening the auctioneer with a wooden spoon.”

I glance toward the stage and immediately spot an older woman with bright red lipstick aggressively shoving a stack of papers at a laughing man holding a microphone.

“Lord help us,” the woman sighs fondly.

“I’m starting to think everyone in this town knows everyone.”

“They do.”

That doesn’t exactly comfort me.

I move deeper into the lodge, camera bag hanging against my hip while I scan the room automatically, watching conversations stop and restart as people notice me. Some of the looks are curious. Some annoyed. A few openly suspicious.

Reporter from Seattle.

Trouble from the city.

The woman asking questions about missing hikers.

News travels fast in Devil’s Peak.

I head toward the bar, slipping onto an empty stool just as the bartender slides a whiskey toward a dark-haired man beside me.

“Another?” the bartender asks me.

“Tequila,” I answer.

The bartender nods approvingly. “You’ll survive longer up here drinking that.”

I’m halfway through the first sip when someone drops onto the stool beside mine.

“Careful,” a deep voice says. “They’ll eat you alive if they smell fear.”

Dark hair. Scar near his jaw. The kind of face that looks permanently amused by chaos.

“I thought sharks smelled blood,” I reply.

“Mountain people smell weakness faster.”