Hooked (A Romance on the Edge Novel) (50 page)

Gramps stood with Barbarella cocked to his shoulder. He’d just shot a bullet through the hood of the outboard engine they’d just bolted to the skiff. Smoke drifted from the silent steel carcass. Peter and Wes stood nearby. Peter with his hat over his heart, and Wes with his fingers interlocked as though in quiet prayer.

Gramps looked downright ticked off.

“Everything all right, over there?” Sonya hollered over the hundred or so feet of water separating them.

Gramps gave a sharp nod and lowered the shotgun. “Son of a biscuit refused to start after all I did to try and save it! Dagnabbit.” He blew hair out of his eyes. “Figured it was time to put it out of its misery.”

Thank heavens.
Sonya wanted to laugh but didn’t dare because it would hurt Gramps’s feelings. “I think that was a sound decision.”

“
Sound?
” Garrett mumbled behind her. She elbowed him to keep quiet. It was all she could do not to bust up in giggles over the relief of a dead engine instead of another dead body.

“Hope I didn’t scare you,” Gramps called, seeming to realize how Sonya and Garrett might have taken his actions.

“Nope, just wondering what the hubbub was all about.” Sonya waved to her family, disengaged herself from Garrett’s arms, and turned back to the pilot house. She needed a rest after that scare. Her heart felt like it was going to pound right out of her chest.

“Hubbub?” Garrett asked, following her. “We need to have a sit down and explain a few facts to everyone. Roland is still out there. You know what I thought when that gun blast went off?”

Sonya continued her trek into the pilot house and then down the ladder to the bunk. “Yeah, the same thing I did. Do you really think Roland is laying in wait? Ready to come after us as soon as our guard’s down?” She turned to face him as he shadowed her into the small room.

“No, I think we’ve seen the last of him. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to do everything in my power to protect you in case I’m wrong.”

“Anything to protect me, huh?” She inched over to him, trailing her fingers down his chest.

“Absolutely anything.” Garrett’s breath caught as her fingers curled into the waistband of his jeans.

“How about playing big bad trooper to a hell-bent-on-trouble fisherman?”

“We’ve been playing that all season.” His voice went guttural as he pulled her up against his body. “We ought to be pretty good at it by now.”

“I think there are still some holes that need mending.” An afternoon of “mending” sure as hell would make her feel better.

She screeched as Garrett picked her up and tossed her onto the bed.

He stood tall and domineering next to the edge of the bunk, not taking his eyes off her as he slowly stripped off his t-shirt, and yanked free the snap on his jeans.

She wetted her lips and loved how the action caused his gaze to darken as he followed the trail of her tongue.

He knelt one knee on the bed, and his next words sent a thrill tingling through her core. “Prepare to be boarded.”

Oh, how she loved those words.

THE END

N
OTE FROM THE
A
UTHOR

For the purpose of writing
Hooked
, I kept set and drift gillnet fishermen from fishing the same tides together. During the peak of the salmon run, the Department of Fish and Game will open the fishing periods for both set netters and drifters. It’s a mad fight to catch as much fish as we can while fishing the same tides together. As Sonya didn’t have enough crew to do both types of fishing during the same tide, I elected not to show this aspect of fishing. It is insane and would have made great material, but it wouldn’t fit within the story I was writing.

Also, the Naknek-Kvichak District has not fished the Naknek River since 2007. The Fish and Game stipulates that the Naknek River will open to gillnet fishing when the escapement (number of salmon upriver) of the Kvichak River falls below the projected escapement goals. Any given fishing season we never know if we will be fishing the Naknek River or not until the Fish and Game announce it. Otherwise fishing happens in the bay, which the Naknek and Kvichak Rivers flow into. It’s still combat fishing as every drift boat fights to be the first to lay their net on the line. And the fish cops are always outnumbered.

My family was among the first to start both set netting and drifting. Now other savvy fishermen have followed suit, making it even wilder out there. For more information on commercial fishing in Bristol Bay check out the
Alaska Department of Fish and Game
.

SHIVER: A PREVIEW

Tiffinie Helmer

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Aidan Harte stepped out of his rented SUV and right into Hell.

Chatanika, Alaska to be exact, where it was so cold it burned. He’d been born in this forgotten gold-mining town, lost in the interior of the state, north of Fairbanks by about thirty desolate miles.

“Well, Dad, you finally got me back here.” And it hadn’t been over
his
dead body but that of his father’s. Aidan slammed the door shut on the SUV. He was here to exorcise ghosts, while he closed out his father’s life. The faster he saw Chatanika in his rearview mirror the better.

Not much had changed in the—what, eleven, twelve years?—since he’d last been here. It was midafternoon and the sun was already headed to bed, it being November. Snow and ice smothered, sending the landscape into a state of unconsciousness, stunting spruce trees, and stripping birch branches until they resembled fragile bones.

Aidan pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck and wished he’d stopped in Fairbanks and bought a parka. His winter coat, which was perfectly adequate for Seattle, might as well have been a windbreaker in this hostile environment.

The outside thermometer on the Tahoe had said two. Now with the sun setting, the temperature would drop fast. Predicted temp for tonight was negative fifteen.

Aidan picked his way toward the family homestead, his feet crunching through the ice-crusted snow. The cabin’s roof hung precariously over the rotted porch. The porch had been rotting when he’d last been here the summer he’d turned eighteen. He’d clearly remembered falling through and cutting up his leg. And the kiss he’d received from Raven Maiski. She’d had the power to drive more than pain away with her kisses.

It was eerily quiet. Spooky. The kind of night where you could hear yourself breathe and shadows took on a life of their own. He approached the makeshift fence made of twisted chain link and sharp, rusted barbwire. A chain and corroded padlock secured the front gate as well as a screaming red ‘No Trespassing’ sign. He should have figured this. Earl Harte had always been under the delusion everyone was out to get him. Many probably were, or had been. It no longer mattered now that the bastard was dead.

Aidan studied the gate. He could climb it and probably get cut from the barbwire or attempt to knock it down. It probably wasn’t any better built than the rotting front porch. Problem was, his dad was notorious for booby-traps.

He checked around the gate, looking for wires or sharp instruments, and then gave it a solid kick. The gate swung open.

Well, that seemed anticlimactic.

Puffs of air steamed in front of his face. His breathing increased as he struggled toward the cabin. He didn’t want to go in there. Nobody had been living in the dump for four months. Who knew what could have crawled in and died? For that matter, who knew what kind of condition Earl had left it in? His dad had never been the best about picking up after himself.

Aidan took a moment to rethink staying in the cabin while he went through what remained of his father’s life. He could get a room at the Chatanika Lodge instead. But then he was sure to run into people—people he didn’t want to see. Or, more precisely, people who didn’t want to see him.

Maybe he could risk catching a glimpse of Raven.

Nope, the faster he could clean up and clear out the better. No one wanted anymore to do with him than they had his father. No one would miss Earl Harte.

Not even him.

Aidan stepped cautiously, keeping an eye out for anything that looked suspicious. Earl would have a trap or tripwire set on the front entrance that would release something sharp and nasty for anyone stupid enough to bother him. He rounded the corner of the cabin heading toward the back door, hunching his shoulders against the cold and slapping his thin-gloved hands together in an attempt to warm them. The snow was deeper around the side of the cabin. Nothing looked like it had been disturbed. Not even animal prints cut the icy crust of the snow.

Suddenly, he skidded, his arms flailing wide. He regained his balance and looked at what he’d slipped on. A piece of tin. He glanced up and saw where it had fallen off the roof at some point. The place was falling apart. He shook his head and stepped carefully.

Steel teeth of a bear trap sprung, spearing into the flesh of his lower leg.

“Son of a bitch!” He screamed as pain stabbed through his leg.

He clawed at where the teeth of the rusty trap punctured through his jeans, through his boots, and into the tender flesh of his leg. Dropping in the snow, he cried out again as pain seared like fire through his leg, causing him to shake. He moaned through gritted teeth, struggling with the jaws of the trap. Sweat dripped down his face.

He quickly looked around, for anyone—anything—that would help free him from the snare.

Silence.

The only sound was his own choppy breathing, his pounding heart, and his useless moaning. He was alone. He was freezing.

He was seriously fucked.

What kind of sick son of bitch laid traps next to the back door of his own home?

Aidan clenched his teeth, grabbed the edges of the steel-teeth trap, and tried to pry the jaws apart. He roared and strained with everything he had. The effort wasted. Blood soaked through his jeans and dribbled like syrup, staining the snow.

The sun dipped and shadows grew menacing.

And cold seeped in like death.

Aidan’s heart grew heavy in his chest. He sat—spent—in the snow, the heat of his body causing the snow to melt through his jeans and freeze next to his skin.

Think Harte, think.

Damn, but it was hard to think when his body was racked with pain. Maybe, he could crawl to the SUV with the trap and drive for help. He scratched around in the snow until he found the chain attached to the anchor of the trap. He heaved until his muscles drained.

No use. The anchor was encased in ice, frozen into the earth.

Come up with something else quick, or you’re a dead man.

He patted his pockets, and pulled out his keys. Nothing on the key ring that could help him. He pocketed them and felt around for more. A Jolly Rancher. He snorted out a laugh. Not much of a last meal. Then he found his cell phone.

“Yes!” He flipped it open and dialed 911. No bars. “What the—”

He shook the phone as if that would miraculously gain him coverage. Nothing. He moved the phone around him, over his head, searching for reception. “Come on,” he prayed. “Come on.” Again, nothing.

It started to snow.

Big, quiet, heavy flakes that smothered the earth. Despair began to settle in, becoming partners with the throbbing pain. He was going to die here. Born and died in the same place. It was kind of funny. Or ironic.

He wondered when his body would be found and by whom. Would it be spring? Or would an animal find him and have
him
for a last meal? He unwrapped the Jolly Rancher and popped it in his mouth. Grape. He grimaced. It tasted like cough medicine.

Chances were good no one would know what became of him. His therapist had encouraged him to return to Alaska, to make peace with his father, and his past. What a laugh.

His editor might be the one to make some noise but not until his deadline was closer on his next graphic novel. He didn’t have any close friends. For family, his Uncle Roland was hiding from the law, and his cousin Lana was back in college. She’d miss him, but she’d get over it soon. The only thing they had in common besides the commercial fishing operation was that both their fathers were assholes.

The only people who’d really wonder would be the IRS. What did that say about his life?

He heard a howl. Then another. And another.

Wolves.

God, he prayed they waited until he was dead to feast on his carcass. He laughed, the sound bitter. He’d been born under the sign of the wolf. Conceived under the Northern Lights and born in a blizzard. His Athabascan mother, before the booze had drowned all the love and warmth from her, had strung him tales about the power of the wolf he was supposed to possess.

Guess that had been a load of shit too.

He heard the wolves grow closer. He knew what they’d do. They’d circle him. Enclose him in a death ring. That is, if they were brave enough to venture onto Earl Harte’s property. But with a warm meal staked out for them like a buffet, they’d come. They’d surround him, enclosing the circle closer and closer. Yellow beady eyes shining with greed and hunger, gleaming, sharp teeth dripping with saliva, until one of them—the alpha male—would lunge for his throat. At least when that happened, he’d die quickly. He wouldn’t feel them tear into his stomach and feast on his organs, shred the meat off his bones. At least, he hoped.