Page 80 of Hunter

“Pretty dumb robber to make trouble at the sheriff’s house,” she says, all saucy.

“Well, lucky for you,” I say, joining her on the couch, where she’s folding a mountain of warm, clean, tiny clothes. “I’m not here to make trouble.”

At our feet, five-month-old Wren lies on her back on a colorful playmat, reaching for mobiles hanging just within her reach. When she grabs onto one, she coos and giggles with glee.

“Hey. Look at that! She’s playing!”

“Yep. She loves this playmat. She can roll over now, too. We’re working on sitting up.”

“How’s the sleeping?”

“Better!” says Harper. “We put her down at eight, and she sleeps until one. She has a boob or bottle for fifteen minutes, then sleeps until six.”

“Not bad.”

“I’ll take it,” she says. She tilts her head to the side and narrows her eyes at me. “What’re you doing here?”

“Wanted to talk to my very wise sister.”

“As in wiseass?”

“Nope. As in almost married and sagely.”

“Wow. Okay.” She sits up straighter and faces me. “What’s up?”

“I got offered a job in Seattle.”

She blinks at me. “I had no idea you’d applied for jobs in Seattle.”

“I didn’t,” I tell her. “I heard from a work colleague fromThe Astonishing Race. She’s putting together a team of location scouts for a TV show shooting there.”

“And she wants you.”

I nod. “Yeah. She offered me a job.”

Harper’s lips twitch. “I thought everyone who worked on that show was an asshole.”

“Kit was the best of them,” I tell her. “And—so far—the only one who apologized.”

“Points for Kit.”

“So…what would you think if I worked in Seattle for a few months every year?”

“How many months are we talking about?”

“Five, maybe. Six, max.”

“Which months? Summer or off-season?”

“Off-season, for sure! I don’t want to hurt the business. I would never leave Stewart Tours or the campground permanently. This is my home. I love it here. I love all of you. I’d come back every spring like clockwork.”

“Like a grizzly emerging from torpor.”

“Yeah,” I say with a grin. “More or less.”

“That’s good. Dad would have a conniption if you weren’t here for the high season,” she says, picking up a onesie and carefully folding it into fourths.

“Harp, I’dalwaysbe here from the beginning of May until the end of September. No problem. No question,” I reassure her. “But let’s face it, the off-season is slow. There’s barely enough work to go around. We make ninety percent of our annual income in the summer. From October to April it’s one-off tours, the occasional family reunion or corporate retreat, and repairs and maintenance on the campground. Would it really be that big a deal if I lived somewhere else during those months? Between Tanner and McKenna, Parker, Sawyer and Reeve, Dad, Gran and Paw-Paw, everything would get handled. I wouldn’t be missed.”

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