“Fuck Björn!” The tap shuts off with a dull thud. A moment later, Jonah emerges, scowling. “It’s perfect, Calla. It’s got a toilet, a sink, and a shower. What the hell else does he need? Nothing. He just wants to find things to bitch about. That’s what he does. Complains about everything. I warned you he would, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

The mattress sinks beneath Jonah’s weight as he slides into his side of our bed. “Don’t let him get inside your head. You’ve worked your ass off to get that place ready in time for them. Look at this.” He scrolls through the pictures I took of the cabin yesterday with Simon’s trusty Canon. “It’s gonna be the nicest rental within a hundred miles of Trapper’s Crossing.”

“It is nice.”

Jonah sinks back into his pillow. “The least the dickhead could do is be respectful.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, you need to ease up, Jonah, or these two weeks are going to feel twice as long and nobody will enjoy themselves. Especially not your mother.”

“Yeah, I know. He just pushes my buttons so easily.”

“Still. You need to bite your tongue.”

“When have I ever been able to do that?”

“Never.” I love that about Jonah. Usually.

He smiles, but it falls off quickly. “He refused to let me pick them up in the plane, but then he complained the entire way here.”

“About what?”

“About everything. The two-hour drive, the music on the radio, the Jeep being too bumpy and cramped and not good in the snow. Which I agree with—”

I groan. “Don’t start this again.”

“I’m worried about you going off the road.”

I shake my head. One snowfall in October and Jonah decided he didn’t like the way my Jeep Wrangler—a birthday gift from him—handles the slippery terrain. “There’s nothing wrong with my Jeep. It’s literally designed for handling bad roads.”

“Fine. I’m worried about you handling the bad roads, okay?”

My mouth drops open. The truth comes out. “I’m a good driver!”

“You drive too fast.”

“I do not! And that is so rich, coming from you.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirks. “How many winters have you driven in?”

“That’s not the point.” Neither is the fact that I backed into a moose on my driving test, and if he brings that up right now, I will scream.

“If I were flying a plane recklessly, you wouldn’t want me up there anymore.”

“Uh, you crashed two planes,” I remind him dryly. “Have I told you to stop flying?”

“That wasn’t my—”

“Ah!” I raise a pointed finger at him.

His lips twist as he searches for a suitable retort that he can’t make because one of those crashes was his fault. He wasn’t being smart.

I school my tone, because we’re about to end up in a shouting match. “It’s my Jeep. I love my Jeep. I’m not selling it, and I’m not driving ten miles an hour. If you don’t want to drive it, buy yourself a nice, new, reliable truck. We have the money.”

I get a flat look in return, but it doesn’t seem Jonah’s in the mood to argue. “Anyway, I told Björn he could have rented a car and driven himself instead of getting door-to-door valet service.”

“What’d he say to that?”

“That he already spent enough money on plane tickets, and he shouldn’t have to rent a car, too.”

“Flying from Oslo to Alaska isn’t cheap.” I know because I looked up the cost. I was going to offer to pay for their flights. Jonah talked me out of it, saying Björn would consider it an insult.

He waves my words away. “The stingy bastard has plenty of money. He just wants to complain because he’s a miserable prick.”

“He didn’t seem that bad.” Grouchy, sure. A bit abrupt, maybe. “Plus, he’s sixty-nine and he’s probably been awake for a day and a half. I’d be miserable, too.”

Jonah frowns at me. “When did you become so tolerant?”

I laugh. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious. You’ve been hangin’ around Muriel and Roy too much. They’ve conditioned you to put up with too much shit.”

“Oh! Speaking of Roy … I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet.” I shut my laptop and set it on the nightstand, then slither in next to Jonah. He lifts his arm without prompting, allowing me a spot to rest my head against his broad chest.

I relay the details of Delyla’s letter.

“So, you’re telling me you snooped through a highly private man’s personal mail?”

“It was right there.”

“That’s something Muriel would do.”

“It’s not the same!”

“Okay, Mini Muriel.”

I swat his stomach playfully and his muscles tense. “She would have stormed back out to the barn and badgered him with questions. I didn’t do that.”

“Because he’d probably threaten you with his gun.”

“Whatever. Anyway, none of this is the point.”

Jonah smiles, as if humoring me. “Okay. What’s the point?”

“He’s not going to contact her.”

“And that’s his choice. It’s his business. We don’t know what happened between him and his family all those years ago. Maybe he doesn’t want anything to do with them.”

I bite my tongue against the urge to say that, actually, we do know. I know, because Roy told me, that dreaded night back in August when Jonah’s plane crashed in the valley. I’ve never repeated what Roy shared to anyone but Simon, and I did that because Simon doesn’t judge.

Jonah would judge. Harshly.

Roy has already done an adequate job of punishing himself, isolated in his cabin in the woods for the past thirty-three years, relying on barn animals and feral dogs for companionship.

“What about forgiving past crimes and letting go? Aren’t you the one who pushed me to give my father another chance?” And Jonah did that because he didn’t give his father another chance until it was too late.

“Yeah, but Roy’s not dying. Besides, Wren was a decent guy. Roy is … Roy.”

“Roy’s decent.”

Jonah snorts. “Last week, when he came by to trim Zeke’s hooves, he was wearing that goddamn raccoon-fur hat again. Bandit wouldn’t come out.”

“He’s decent in his own way,” I amend. “And, you know, I was thinking, if Agnes hadn’t taken it upon herself to call me, I never would have come to Alaska. I never would have gotten to know my dad before he died. We never would have met.”

“So?” Jonah’s voice has taken on a wary edge.

“So … I took a picture of Delyla’s contact info.”

He rolls, shifting me onto my back. “What kind of crazy plan is going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“I don’t know yet.”

His fingers stroke my hair off my face before he peers down at me. “He’s not like Wren was, though. He’s more like a wild animal. One that finally trusts you. That can all be erased in a blink if you do something to break his trust, and you’ll be back to square one with him.”