Page 12 of One Last Chance

“Wait.” She sat back. “Wasn’t that where Aven?—”

“And we’re done.” Axel pushed up from the table. “Actually, Shasta, here’s your headline. Nobody died. Not today. That’s all that matters.” He climbed out.

She stood up. “Axel, c’mon. I didn’t mean to?—”

“Nope, we’re good.” He was walking backward and smiled, lifted his hands in surrender, then winked, pointed at her. “Stay out of trouble.”

She scowled at him.

He turned and headed to his car. Got in and pulled out.

Yeah, all this television hype was going to his head.

He pulled away from town and headed for his parents’ home, the family’s hand-built log A-frame overlooking the Copper River just outside town. Passing the airport, he spotted the red Air One chopper tied down, so apparently Moose had stuck around.

North of Copper Mountain, the terrain thickened, the forest closing in. His parents only lived a mile from town, but it might have been in the depths of the bush for all the population this direction. He passed a few timber-framed homes set back from the road, and of course, if he kept driving north another ten miles, he’d end up at the Starr Lodge.

He turned onto a dirt drive and followed it back to the clearing where the A-frame house sat, perched over the river, the apron porch wrapped around the first-story exterior, the lights glowing from the ground-floor media room, the guest room, and his father’s beloved sauna.

Moose and the old man were probably hashing out today’s adventure.

On the first floor, the light-blocking blinds covered the master bedroom, his mom probably asleep with her earplugs and mask. Even in summer, with the sun at its twenty-three-hours-a-day height, his mother kept her sleeping hours. Had to, really, because the Last Frontier needed its five a.m. cinnamon rolls for the early hiking crews.

He pulled in and parked, left his kayak on the rack but retrieved his pack and climbed the stairs to the entrance. The door whined, but the front room and kitchen were empty, and yep, the master-bedroom door was closed.

From the media room rose the sounds of a hockey game—probably the final games of the Stanley Cup tournament, so likely instead of the sauna, his old man, Ace, would be settled into his recliner, occasionally yelling at the screen.

Axel untied his boots and left them by the door, along with his jacket, then brought his gear up to his room on the upper floor.

A short hallway separated the lofted area into two small rooms, a window at the end of the hall overlooking the river. Moose’s door was shut. Coming home always felt like he’d reverted back to his teenage years.

Really, he should get his own place. But he liked staying with Moose down in Anchorage. Had the run of the basement of Moose’s luxury, palatial, inherited home.

He dropped his gear on the bed, pulled off his shirt, and headed to the bathroom for a steaming shower.

Twenty minutes later, fatigue hit his bones, and he emerged shirtless, wearing his pajamas. Past midnight, and still it looked like it might be twilight through the hallway window.

Moose opened the door to his bedroom, just across from Axel’s room, and leaned against the frame as Axel walked down the hall.

“You’re still up?”

“Heard you come in. Waited. You good?” Moose, always the big brother. He wore sweatpants and a cut-off thermal shirt, folded his arms over his chest.

“Yep.”

“Guy told me about what you did. Apparently you freaked them all out, going into that cave.”

“I knew what I was doing.” He reached for his door handle.

“I know. But . . . you know.”

Moose’s soft tone stiffened Axel. He took a breath, nodded. “I’m good.”

Moose’s mouth made a tight, grim line. Then he sighed.

Oh.“What’s going on?” Axel asked.

Moose looked out the window, toward the river. Back to Axel. “He’s back.”

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