seemed to glance in one direction—toward the door.
So did Mariah.
Just inside stood three tall men. Mariah didn’t understand why there’d been such a reaction in Fiske’s Hangout. They certainly weren’t the only people to have entered the place since she had arrived.
And surely she was the only one around here whose heart momentarily stopped on seeing Patrick Worley, the one in the middle.
They all wore heavy jackets, but his was unzipped, revealing a deep blue sweater. His eyes played around the room … and stopped when he saw her.
He didn’t smile. In fact, he looked a little … displeased to see her. She wondered why. Well, better that way. She seemed to be reacting all out of proportion to this man who clearly wanted nothing to do with her. She wasn’t a fool. She needed his dogsledding services, and once he had fulfilled that purpose she would never need to see, or think about, him again.
A few loud chords sounded from the piano, and the musician began playing the old, appropriate song, “North to Alaska,” singing loudly. A few patrons joined in as the place seemed to relax, and people returned to their drinks. Mariah’s tablemates resumed eating their dinners.
“You want another of those?” Thea hovered over their table as she did so often that evening. She pointed toward Mariah’s almost empty glass of cider.
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.” Her gaze automatically returned to the newcomers, who had found bar stools near the table where Mariah sat with her interviewees.
Thea leaned down and said conspiratorially in Mariah’s ear, “Real hotties, aren’t they?” She shrugged a hefty shoulder in the direction of the new arrivals. “They all work at the Great Glaciers Dogsled Ranch.”
Not surprisingly, Mariah thought, although she hadn’t met the other two.
“Why did everything go quiet when they came in?” she couldn’t help asking.
Thea looked puzzled. “It did, didn’t it?” Her round face scrunched into a pensive frown. “Coincidence, probably. No one planned it. But.” Her voice tapered off.
“But what?” Mariah asked curiously.
“It’s the kind of thing that my mother used to say meant that even if no one realized it, they all heard an angel whispering and had to stop talking to listen … an angel of death.”
Mariah laughed uneasily. “My grandfather was superstitious and came up with things like that for nearly every occasion.”
“Don’t just laugh it off,” Thea warned. She walked away and, watching her, Mariah found herself looking toward the bar.
Patrick stared right back.
And despite how far he was from her, and the fact the piano music blared again over loud conversations, she had the oddest sense that he had heard every word.
“Is that the lady you were talking about?” Shaun asked Patrick as they stood in the crowd at the bar. Sgt. Shaun Bethune of the U.S. military’s very special Ops unit Alpha Force, was assigned as chief aide to Lt. Patrick Worley, and both held jobs at the Great Glaciers Dogsled Ranch as part of their cover.
“Yeah, I saw her at the ranch talking to my dad and Patrick,” Wes Dawes said. “Too bad I’m not available to take her out for that ride she booked, you lucky SOB. She’s hot.” Wes, a former marine, once had top security clearance. He didn’t know exactly what Patrick and Shaun’s mission was but was aware they were performing a covert operation for the military and was happy to assist by providing jobs for the two men.
Patrick bristled at Wes’s description of Mariah. Sure, she was hot. He just didn’t like to hear Wes say so, though he didn’t know why he gave a damn. “Yeah, sure, I’m lucky. I’m taking her out on the glaciers. That’s all.”
It wasn’t all, though. She had been on that fishing boat in the bay, Patrick was certain. He had sensed her presence, even from that distance. And the people she was talking to now were of real interest to Patrick in fulfilling his assignment here. He hadn’t yet found a way to get together with them and initiate a conversation. Until, perhaps, tonight.
And right now, he could continue eavesdropping on their answers to her questions about the glaciers.
“Your bad luck,” Shaun said. “So, bro, you’re drinking beer tonight?” He elbowed Patrick gently in the ribs as they reached the bar. “I thought you were on the wagon.” Of course, Shaun knew what was what. A few hours earlier, with Shaun keeping watch nearby, Patrick had drunk some of the highly classified and extremely potent Alpha Force elixir.
Combined with an artificial light he traveled with, the elixir allowed beings like him to shapeshift at will, not just under the full moon. Plus, it ensured that he kept all his human awareness and thinking abilities. Invaluable.
It had all but worn off now, but major alcohol consumption so close to that elixir wasn’t a great idea.
Still, a bottle of beer could be nursed for a while. And part of Patrick’s cover was to act like the itinerant drifter he was supposed to be. Someone in his position wouldn’t hesitate to have a beer. Or two.
And maybe get a little outspoken as a result …
“Aw, leave him alone,” Wes said. He had no knowledge of what Patrick really was. To him, Patrick was to be treated mostly as another hired musher, despite being on an undisclosed military mission.
Major Drew Connell had been right. Patrick did have a great cover here. He liked working for Wes and his dad, Toby. Even more, he enjoyed working with dogs and had brought his own—well, his cover dog, since theoretically Duke, one hell of a great shepherd-wolfhound mix and trained as a scent and security dog, belonged to Uncle Sam.
Once they had their beers, the guys elbowed their way from the bar again, Shaun in the lead. He was a good guy whose hobby happened to be wrestling, and he had the beefy, muscular physique of a winner.
They stopped at the edge of the crowd. Patrick took a stiff drink while pretending to look for an empty table—a useless task in this mass of people.
Instead, he was still listening. His senses, while he was in human form, were nearly as good as while he was wolfen, especially this soon after he’d changed. Despite the clinkety-clink piano music, the irritating yet soft sound of people stepping on peanut shells, the offkey singing, all the other background noise, he heard everything being said at Mariah’s table. Nothing especially useful yet, but he would continue to listen. And to keep an eye on her. Not a hardship.
It grew easier to hear when the music stopped. He glanced toward the piano and saw that the other woman from the table, Carrie Thaxton—daughter of the man who was Patrick’s objective tonight—approached the musician, handed him a tip. “Play ‘Jingle Bells’ for me,” she said.
“Gladly.” Soon an enthusiastic rendition of that song reverberated throughout the bar, sung not only by the pianist but by patrons in various stages of inebriation.
Great. This way, Patrick wouldn’t learn anything much since conversations wouldn’t flourish.
But he had an idea. As soon as the song was over, he picked up his beer bottle and went to the pianist himself.
The piano was an upright that had seen better days. Its light wood was scuffed. But it sounded all right. “Hey, your music is great,” he said to the guy who sat there. “I’m Patrick Worley. I’m new around here, work at the Great Glaciers Dogsled Ranch. What’s your name?”
“Andy Lemon.” He was pale, maybe late forties, and obviously pretty nearsighted, judging by the thickness of his small, black-framed glasses.
“You been playing here long?” Patrick asked.
“Not very, but it’s a great place.”
“Sure is. And right now, Andy Lemon, I’d love for you to play some nice, soft, romantic songs