The man mumbled a few words, tapping his fingers against his chest in an erratic pattern. There was something wrong with him, cognitively speaking.
“Come on then,” Wilder said gruffly. He didn’t want company but he’d be damned if he’d leave a confused man alone on a night like this.
SAWYER KANE, BRIGHTWATER’S sheriff, hung up the phone and stood, hooking a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, that’s the shortest unsolved mystery in Brightwater’s history.”
Quinn’s shoulders slumped in relief. She’d only been in the sheriff’s office a few minutes but panic had clawed her insides to shreds. “Someone found him?”
A troubled look passed over Sawyer’s ruggedly handsome features, gone so fast Quinn wasn’t sure it had ever been there at all. “My brother of all people. Your dad was cold and confused, but he’ll be okay.”
“Archer found him up by Hidden Rock Ranch? But that’s miles away.”
“No.” Sawyer took off his hat and tossed it on the edge of his desk. “My other brother, Wilder. He’s recently back in town, been living in Montana for years.”
“Must be great having more family close,” Quinn said, distractedly. “If I could just get his address, I’ll get out of your hair and—”
“You sit tight,” Sawyer said, grabbing his jacket. “I can collect him just fine.”
“No, no.” She jumped to her feet. “It’s no trouble, I’m anxious to see him.”
There was that mystifying look again. “My brother isn’t great with strangers.”
“Oh.” Quinn didn’t know how to process that information, but there wasn’t time to ponder. “I won’t stay long. In and out. I’ll grab Dad and hit the road, keep ahead of the blizzard. I need to figure out what happened at his facility. This situation can’t be repeated.”
Sawyer hesitated and she froze, feeling scrutinized—but why? Whatever the reason, the sheriff gave an almost imperceptible nod, coming to some private decision. “You know what? You’re right. You should go. My brother is gruff but he’s a good guy deep down.”
“I’m sure he’s wonderful.”
Sawyer cocked a brow and jotted something on a notepad, tearing it off to hand to her. “Here’s his address. It’s not far.”
She swallowed a gasp. “Castle Falls Lane?”
Wilder Kane. The great and mysterious W. Kane.
A lick of heat shot up her spine. Too bad she hadn’t solved the mystery under better circumstances, but still. At last she’d made a definitive crack in the case of W. Kane and his eclectic book selections, so many titles that were her own personal favorites.
She left the sheriff’s office and strode to her parking spot behind A Novel Experience. Her stomach muscles gave an aching twinge as the silver Tacoma pickup came into view. This had been her dad’s truck, his baby. She remembered sitting in his front yard during warm Brightwater summer days, sinking her fingers into the lush grass, tilting her face to meet the sun’s kiss as cool air blew down from the mountains while he waxed and washed it in the driveway.
These days, he didn’t even remember that he owned a truck.
She started the engine and it sprang to life despite the temperatures. After this storm passed, she’d take Dad for a drive along the country back roads. Let him listen to all his classic rock favorites without a single eye roll. Heck, she’d even sing along.
Right after she raised holy hell with his facility. How could Mountain View have been so careless as to allow him to escape and wander? Yes, he was around twenty or thirty years younger than the average resident but still.
Thank God, Wilder Kane found him.
At the town outskirts she turned left and then hooked a hard right past the crooked road sign that said “Castle Falls Lane.” She had never come down this way. Once she’d asked Dad about it because she wanted to see a waterfall so close to town, but Dad shook his head with a vague, “Not today, honey.”
Or any day, it turned out. No one ever went to Castle Falls and eventually she sort of forgot about the place. There were so many other things to do while visiting Dad: four-wheeling, going for long day hikes in the John Muir Wilderness, or trout fishing. Activities that would never occur to Mom to do in five squillion billion years.
Things Quinn loved.
The truck radio started playing “White Christmas” and she hummed over the potholes. She loved musicals and adored Christmas. The holidays would be bittersweet this year but no shame in clinging to the simple comforts of the season.
“401 . . .” She peered at what appeared to be a rusted trailer. “403” was a burned out foundation surrounded by thorns. “Cheese and rice,” she mumbled. Brightwater was such a cute, charming old Western town. Castle Falls Lane was like a dark and dirty secret.
405. There was a black mailbox and a long winding driveway enclosed in a dark tunnel of pines. Ominous. She swallowed but her throat remained thick.
“Stop being silly.” There was nothing creepy here. Just the textbook definition of a dark and stormy night, the clichéd backdrop triggering her subconscious.
She parked her car in front of a stone cabin trimmed with forest green shutters and a dark green tin roof. Her headlights illuminated two black windows in the front, but smoke spiraled from the chimney. Someone must be home.
She stepped outside, slammed the door and tendrils of hair whipped from her loose ponytail, slapping at her cheeks as she trudged to the house. Imagine Dad out in this weather? He must have been scared to death. Fresh tears threatened. Yes. Thank baby guardian angels for Wilder Kane. Who cared if he lived in a creepy place? She’d bake him a pie as a thank-you, actually scratch that, she could barely boil water. She’d buy a large bourbon pecan one at Haute Coffee. Her boots skidded on black ice and she caught herself, just.
Throw the bakery’s new pumpkin spice latte pie into the mix as well.
Right after giving Dad the biggest hug.
She kicked snow off her boots on the top step before crossing the small porch. As she raised her hand to knock, the door swung open, the space filled by a man’s enormous silhouette. She was in two-inch heeled boots and he still towered over her. So much for the wiry hipster of her imagination. This hulk read Little House on the Prairie and The Great Gatsby?
Does not compute.
“Hello there, quite a night, hey?” she said, sticking out a hand in greeting while grappling for her brightest tone. It wouldn’t do to sound scared or suspicious. “I’m Quinn. Quinn Higsby from the emails? I mean, from A Novel Experience. We email a little. About books. Obviously.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, um, thanks so much for rescuing my father. You’re a real hero.”
“Where’s Sawyer?” he snapped, ignoring her offer of a handshake. His voice was rough like someone had enthusiastically sandpapered the edges.
“The sheriff?” She blinked, lowering her palm and wiping the sudden sweat on her denim-encased thigh. “Your brother? I—I—why, I told him I’d come instead. You did find my father, right?”
He folded his arms. “You shouldn’t have left him alone, he isn’t a well man.”
“I know that.” Nerves had frayed away her manners. If he wanted to parry, she’d bring an axe to the sword fight. “This wasn’t intentional.”
He didn’t move.
“So may I come in?”
“Inside?” He pronounced the word as if it were a tricky piece of foreign language.
She rubbed her hands over her arms. “I’m sort of freezing out here. Blizzard and all.”
“Right. Yeah. Sure.” He half-shook his head and raked a big hand through shaggy disordered hair. She couldn’t discern much from his features, only harsh lines; a tough, angular, and scruffy jaw; one seriously craggy brow; and an unrelenting gaze. Somehow those severe eyes of his were oddly brilliant, catching light, but from where? The interior was dark except for the small fire burning in the hearth. It looked cheery enough despite the chill he projected, a cold that could rival the wind lashing the back of her neck. She stepped forward and he flinched as if she were a repellant magnetic force.