Brick closed his eyes and took a breath. “Where’s my snowmobile?”

“He’s not gonna like it,” Spencer predicted.

Brick opened his eyes and looked at Remi. She pointed to a snowmobile-sized hole in the ice a few yards away. His hands closed into fists on his thighs.

“How mad is he?” Spencer asked in a stage whisper.

“He’s bundled up. I can’t see the veins in his neck,” Remi replied.

“What were you doing riding out here, and how aren’t you dead?” Brick demanded when he’d regained the power of speech.

“Spence and I were just messing around with time trials. The bridge is a little bumpy in a couple of spots, so smarty-pants here thought he’d do his last run on fresh ice,” Remi explained.

“So you weren’t on board?” Brick clarified.

“I was at the finish line with the timer,” she said cheerfully.

“Are you mad, B?” Spencer asked. “You look mad.”

“Mad?” Brick was several steps past furious. “Why should I be mad that you two are out here pissing around being irresponsible? Why would I be mad that you destroyed my only mode of transportation—”

“You still have Cleetus,” Spencer said helpfully.

Remi punched his brother in the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Why would I be mad that I’m the one who has to ride to the rescue and play clean up?”

“Sorry, Brick,” they said together.

Damn it. He hated when they said things in unison. Hated being reminded that he was somehow separate from the two of them. Hated that he was on the outside of their inside jokes.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he muttered.

18

She wasn’t squeamish by nature. Her mother had taught Remi and Kimber when they were young how to clean up scrapes and cuts common to growing up on a rugged island. Remi, of course, had required more first aid than Kimber. While Kimber had been reading books and hanging out with cool teenage friends, Remi had been climbing trees, pushing snowmobiles past their limits, and playing street hockey with the boys.

Blood didn’t bother her.

At least it hadn’t until it was Camille’s all over her hands, dripping into the snow.

Now, it was Spencer’s. Who was going to be just fine.

“Just fine,” she repeated to herself.

She’d gone with the Callan men to Mackinac Island Medical to make sure there wasn’t anything terrifying about Spence’s head wound and to make sure Brick didn’t decide to murder his little brother. She’d excused herself immediately upon hearing from the not very impressed Dr. Ferrin that his “thick head” just needed a handful of stitches.

Brick had looked at her like he was going to argue about her leaving, but she hadn’t given him the chance. She’d ducked out of the waiting room and, after doing her best to wash most of the blood off her hands, she’d hightailed it home.

Her hands were still red. Her gloves were unsalvageable, thanks to Spence’s fountain-like geyser of O+. Her coat also looked a bit like she’d been an accomplice or a victim of a murder.