It was better, simpler if it was just him, Cleetus, and Magnus, the stray cat. He had his house. Work that he loved. Good friends. And a place at the table of a family he’d often wished was his own. Wanting more was greedy. And in his experience, greed greased the road to hell.

Cleetus picked up the pace when the white clapboard stables came into view. His hefty hooves were muffled by the few inches of snow on Market Street.

Brick did what he did best, focused on the tasks at hand and let all the what-ifs and what-could-bes go. With his mount fed and tack stowed, he shouldered the saddlebags—his version of a briefcase—and headed up the street. He ducked into the coffee shop conveniently located halfway between the stables and the station where he picked up the usual, a box of assorted pastries.

The small talk between the staff and the two other customers reminded him that no matter where he went on the island, he wasn’t going to escape mention of the troubled redhead.

Yes, he did hear that Remi Ford was back.

No, he didn’t know how long she was staying.

Yes, he supposed she did look just as pretty as the last time she’d been home.

While he’d made a place for himself here, she’d been born into one. The entire island looked forward to her visits because everything was just a little bit brighter, a little more fun with Remington around.

She was the kind of girl that when she gave a guy a nickname, the entire town was still using it over a decade later.

He kept his shoulders hunched against the gusts of wind that funneled between buildings and hurried the final few hundred feet to the station.

The white, two-story building on Market Street always reminded Brick of a church. However, instead of Sunday sermons, it was home to the Mackinac Island Police Department, town hall, and town court.

Slipping in the side door, he took off his hat and coat, hanging them both on designated pegs. There was only one other parka on the rack so far that morning. In season, the tiny department swelled to include dozens of cops policing the streets of Mackinac on foot, bikes, and horseback. But off season, only a handful stayed on to serve the full-time residents.

He took the pastries into the break room, where he found the boss pouring a fresh cup of coffee into her It’s Called Snow, Get Over It mug.

“Morning, Brick.”

Chief Darlene Ford was a formidable woman. A lifelong resident of the island, a windchill of eight degrees didn’t faze her. Not much of anything did. She was tall and athletically built. Her auburn hair, streaked with silver, was scraped back in its usual short, serviceable tail. Her eyes were a cool, assessing green. The rangy build came from a rigid adherence to daily weight training. She could do more push-ups in one shot than most of the rest of the small force.