“You’re the reason Mrs. Sopp has me changing the batteries in the smoke detectors?”

“No reason to be an ass about it. Gimmie the batteries, and I’ll do it myself.”

“Yeah? So you can fall off a chair and break your other arm?” He started down the sidewalk, shaking his head and muttering uncomplimentary phrases.

She jogged to catch up as he strode past inns and souvenir shops shuttered for the season. “Does this crabby cowboy routine actually charm any girl out of her thermal underwear?” she asked.

“Shut up, Remi.”

Feeling marginally more cheerful now that she’d annoyed him, she fell into step and stuffed her hands into her pockets. It was a sunny, ten-degree morning. The light coating of snow on the road was groomed by snowmobiles, the island’s primary mode of transportation for the season. Snowmobiles, horses, and feet were a resident’s options for traversing the four miles of hilly, forested island.

To some folks, Mackinac Island was a novelty. An entire island without cars? A community with a shelf-life of about four months before the interminable, brutal winter set in?

But to Remi, it was home. And home meant healing.

They made the rest of the walk in silence. She hurried ahead of him to unlock the gate, painted a brash, lipstick red. Tall hedgerows protected the white brick cottage from prying eyes on the sidewalk, but the rambling two-story Victorian across the street could look right over it.

“You painted,” she said as Brick brushed past her with the groceries. The house had once belonged to his grandparents, who had opened their home to two troubled grandsons. Back then, it had been white on white on white. Now, the cedar shakes and board and batten sported a deep navy. The wide front porch centered on a red front door, a color combination Remi approved. He’d kept the low picket fence along the sidewalk a pearly white.

With the snowy front yard and low-growing evergreens, it was picture perfect.

He grunted—because Brick had a daily word allowance of about fifty—and headed around the side of the cottage to the front door. Rather than a porch, Red Gate had a low cedar platform. In the summer, there was a table and chairs with an umbrella for sitting and appreciating the unbeatable view. In the winter, the deck held neat stacks of wood for the small fireplace in the bedroom.

Remi unlocked the door and barely suppressed an eye-roll when the mountain of a man insisted she go in first. Grumpy chivalry held a limited charm.

The cottage, on the other hand, was overflowing with it.

Agnes Sopp—Mackinac’s real estate mogul—had redone it with wide plank pine floors and creamy stucco walls. In the living room, an off-white sofa with deep cushions faced the gas fireplace. The kitchen was tiny, with white cabinets and glossy butcher block. But a small, stainless steel island on wheels added storage and counter space. The windows on the front wall had all been replaced to make the most of the view.