“Yes, sir,” Duncan said, morosely stuffing the ticket into the pocket of his snowsuit. The man was in his early sixties, a grandfather of three, and a bit of a daredevil. He was the first islander to test out the ice bridge that connected the island to the mainland every year. The longer winter stretched on, the dumber his decision-making got.

“Pops! Pops! Didja see the video?” Duncan’s seven-year-old grandson jogged over holding a phone over his head.

“Lemme have a look-see,” Duncan said, pulling out a pair of reading glasses.

With a shake of his head, Brick decided it was time to leave before he had to add any other charges to the citation. Knowing Duncan, there was a six-pack of beer buried somewhere in the snow nearby.

His horse, one of the few left on the island for winter, stamped an impatient hoof at the fence. Like his owner, Cleetus was quiet, dependable, and bigger than most. He stood sixteen hands high, his dark coat glossy in the Friday morning sun. Brick stashed his gear in the saddlebag and gave the horse a pat on the rump before heaving himself into the saddle. “All right. Let’s get you some breakfast, bud.”

The big, black horse tossed his head in agreement, and together they headed toward town.

It was the kind of morning that took a man’s breath away. The sun threw thousands of diamond glints off the snow, blinding in their brilliance. Meanwhile, the lake wind worked its way under layers of gear, reminding anyone who stepped out under that brilliant sun that it was still February, still a long haul to the spring temperatures of May.

Brick appreciated the rugged beauty of winter. The long, dark nights. The blanket of quiet. Work was slower, easier. The focus shifted from policing thousands of tourists to keeping an eye on the few hundred neighbors who called Mackinac home all year round.

It was peaceful.

At least it had been until yesterday.

The lights at Red Gate had stayed on all night. He knew that because he’d checked every hour or so, standing in his old bedroom at the front of the house and staring across the street at the cottage.

She’d always been a night owl, always been on the forgetful side. She’d never really had to deal with the consequences since there was always someone walking along behind her to turn out the lights.

But his instincts were telling him this wasn’t just a case of Remi being too lost in paints and adventure to pay attention. Something was off. She was off. He’d seen it in the shadows under her eyes, the way she startled when he’d caught her outside the grocery store.

The snow-covered road stretched out in front of him, woods to the right, glimpses of water views through the trees to the left. The little downtown where most of his adult life had played out was straight ahead. He’d made this place home. Carved out a spot for himself. He wasn’t going to upset the balance by getting too close to her. Not again. He had his reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Remington Ford had been born with wings, not roots.