His stomach had calmed, the pot pie settling like a warm hum inside, along with his nerves. See, he’d be fine.

No one died on today’s flight. It just took a bit to get back into the perils of bush flying again.

No, to settle back into the cockpit again, if he was truthful. He took a breath and cast a look at the game.

The Minnesota Blue Ox were playing the Colorado Blades, Wyatt Marshall at goal. The Blue Ox were up by two goals.

“Dodge?”

He turned and it took a second to place the face. Bearded, with long brown hair tunneling out of his wool hat, the man wore a thick canvas jacket, jeans, and work boots. A Remington Mines emblem on his jacket added a hint, and the recognition slid into place. “Nash?”

“I thought that was you. Wow.” He held out his hand. “When did you get back?”

“A few days ago. How’s the gold business?”

“Full of dreams and enough hits to keep hope alive.” He slid on the stool beside Dodge. “Taken?”

“Nope. Still trying to figure out who I remember in this town.”

“Yeah, well, the town remembers you.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Hard to forget—”

“Let’s try.”

Nash lifted a hand to someone behind him, and Dodge turned to see Mal headed their direction, holding a couple empty beer glasses. He put them on the counter.

“You missed a good practice.” He glanced at his brother Hudson, who jerked his chin in greeting. Mal must have updated him. Dodge returned the gesture.

A couple years older than Dodge, Hudson had taught him a few things when they’d played hockey together.

“Not sure if I’m in yet,” Dodge said to Mal as Vic filled the glasses. Although the idea of slapping the puck around had stirred something deep inside him. And it wasn’t just about hockey.

“Worried you’re too out of shape?” Mal made to give Dodge a friendly gut punch, but a self-protective instinct had Dodge knocking his fist away. All in fun, but Mal still frowned.

Oops. He probably shouldn’t be so jumpy. He’d healed just fine.

“I’m in shape enough to take you,” Dodge said, covering up.

“Sure you are. Show up for practice Wednesday and we’ll see. No pads.” Mal picked up the beers.

“Hey,” Dodge said, “did they ever find out if that bear killing was poaching?” He didn’t know why he asked, but something about the grizzly today at the Farleys’ didn’t sit right.

Mal shook his head. “Hank said no, but I guess Charlie isn’t satisfied. He thinks it was a den killing. But you know how crazy Charlie is about his bears.”

“You’d think a guy who’d survived a mauling wouldn’t be such a fan of grizzlies,” Nash said.