“There.” He pointed. The building sat at the intersection of Sweetgale and Dall—the road that led to the resort. A long outside deck overlooked the oval-shaped lake.

“That’s a great location.”

He eyed the place, as if he hadn’t noticed before, and nodded. Not exactly the type to talk a girl’s ear off, was he?

A huge wooden sign hung from the aged log building. The name: Bull’s Moose Roadhouse arched over the silhouette of an antlered moose. “I thought the term was bull moose.”

“It is. The owner’s name is Bull.”

The man’s parents had named their child Bull. How wrong was that?

The chief pulled open the door, and she walked inside. The massive logs making up the walls had been stained a satiny dark gold.

Wagon wheel chandeliers hung from solid beams, high overhead. A frame of stretched animal hides divided the bar section from the restaurant. In the bar, distressed wood tables and wooden chairs took up the middle of the sawdust-covered wood floor. A small raised stage on the right had an open area for dancing. The décor included antlers hung on the walls, but thankfully, there were no animal heads or bodies.

Was there a decorating category called Alaska rustic?

“We’re not open,” a loud bass voice yelled from the back. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Got possible wait staff for you.” The police chief guided her forward with a hand on her low back.

When he stepped away, she felt the loss of the almost-comforting touch.

“Gabe? ’Bout time you got here!” The owner strode out of the back.

Good God. No wonder he was called Bull.

This man was taller than the big police chief by another two or three inches and simply huge. With a shaved head, a graying black goatee, and black eyes, he was frightening in a whole different way from the cop. Meeting the chief was like unexpectedly coming face-to-face with a wolf—a danger she’d never had to worry about in Chicago. Bull was a city bus that’d flatten a person without the passengers even feeling the bump.

Bull gave the chief a rough one-armed guy-hug, complete with a wallop on the back. “What took you so long, old man?”

Look at that. Chief MacNair actually almost smiled. But…had Bull called him old? She frowned. The cop looked a few years older than she was, probably in his thirties, but still, nowhere near forty.

“Did you say you had help for me?” Bull asked.

“Yeah.” The chief nodded toward her. “Juliette Wilson.”

Bull’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her face.

Eff-it-all. In the bright light, her bruises probably showed through the makeup.

The black gaze swept over her again. “From Outside, I’d guess.”

Seriously? She glanced at the door and said politely, “Yes, we came in from outside.”