Page 102 of One Last Chance

“Lug.”

Axel grinned and handed the burger to Flynn. “How’s gold mining?”

“Busy. We found a new lode and are opening operations, but Dad’s trying to get some financing for it, so he’s meeting with investors today.” He took a drink of the beer. “Going to throw today?”

She looked at Axel. “Throw?”

“Axel here is a champion axe thrower. At least in Copper Mountain.”

Axel held up his hand. “I won a couple years in a row.”

“Four. Four years. He was only unseated because he went away to be a Coast Guard hero.” Nash singsonged the last word.

Axel rolled his eyes.

“The Remington brothers are in it, so . . . you know. You might have a rep to defend.”

“I don’t need to defend my rep. I’ll always own those four plaques in the VFW.”

“I knew you still cared.” Nash grinned. “See you at the pit.” He put his arm around Peyton’s shoulder and steered her away.

“Axe throwing?” Flynn said.

“Hey, it’s a thing,” he said as he unwrapped his burger. He smiled at her, but it seemed reserved. Something had shifted between them over the past two days since he’d come off the mountain.

Maybe she could blame the hug she’d given him—clearly a little desperate—and maybe that’s when her heart had left the station, because all she could think was she’d nearly lost him on the mountain and . . .

And wow, she’d only known him for three, now five, days and she’d practically unraveled. So, yeah, maybe they should both just cool off these flames.

She unwrapped her burger and bit into it. Tangy, with sauce and pickles and lettuce—"This is delicious.”

“It’s actually part moose, part hamburger—the tourists wouldn’t love full-on moose. Too gamey. But this sells.”

Booths lined either side of Main Street, most of them local artists hawking their wares, everything from knitted goods, dream catchers, polished rocks, oil paintings, and wood carvings to canned jams, wild honey, relishes, fresh-baked nut breads, and monster cookies. A country band played an Oaken Fox cover from a stage set up beside Northstar Pizza, the music drifting into the street. Tourists walked with their leashed dogs, children eating cotton candy and standing in line for pony rides around the block.

Sale signs hung from Denali Sports and Bowie Mountain Gear, as well as the Last Frontier, and even Gigi’s, a cabin turned grocery store, had a sale on their homemade granola bars.

A crowd in front of Bowie Mountain Gear watched a demonstration of a beautiful Bernadoodle as he hunted for the KONG that his handler hid. The handler, a man in his early thirties, maybe, dressed in a pair of green canvas pants and a black T-shirt emblazoned with a logo of some sort, handed the black KONG to a girl, maybe ten, and asked her to hide it.

She found a place behind a flowerpot of geraniums.

The handler let the dog loose—he found it in less than a minute.

“And imagine now that the KONG is a person buried under two feet of snow. Orlando is trained to find you.”

Clapping. Next to her Axel stilled. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

As the crowd dispersed, he finished off his burger and walked over to the man, crumpling his wrapper and throwing it in the trash. “Jericho Bowie. I can’t believe it.” He held out his hand.

Jericho wore his brown hair clipped close to his head, had a military build, a sort of self-possessed aura about him.

Flynn followed Axel, also finishing her burger, trying to remember why that name sounded familiar. Clearly a Bowie . . . Wait. The other brother, gone for years.

And now back . . .

But that didn’t fit the profile either.

Jericho met Axel’s hand but clearly struggled to place the name. “Moose?”

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