“That was some fast thinking, to dart him,” her dad said, looking over at her. He wore a hint of worry in his eyes, touched her knee with his hand, giving it a squeeze like he might have when she was a child, and she knew exactly why she’d stayed.

They’d pulled up to the house without the familiar greeting from the dogs, and she hoped Peyton and the dogs were safe. But then she’d spotted the mess with the chicken coop.

Now, she cleaned up the bloody straw, laid down a fresh layer, and added feed to their buckets inside the coop. The chickens squawked at her but didn’t move. Their firm little bodies would keep the place warm.

Her own fingers were nearly frozen by the time she entered the arctic entry, stomped off the snow, shed her coat and hat, and headed into the kitchen. She pulled down a couple plates from the cupboard and walked over to the table to set it.

Her father had made a stew from moose meat, and the scent of garlic, oregano, and thyme filled the great room. Flames flickered in the hearth, the crackle stirring up her night in front of the campfire.

And the arrival of Dodge Kingston as if from heaven.

Or maybe somewhere else, given his response to her this morning.

She could still hear the hurt in his voice. “I want to forget that I gave you my heart—my entire stupid heart—and you spit it back at me.”

She could see how it felt like that, but it had been nearly a decade, and they were different people now.

Maybe too different. She didn’t recognize the Dodge with the cool blue eyes, the stiffened demeanor. With one blink she could see him as he’d been as a teenager, helping her train her dogs. Or taking her flying. Or even when he’d finally stirred up the courage to ask her out.

“You okay, honey?”

She turned to see her father holding the pot. “Yeah. I guess.” She let go of the charm she played with on her necklace. She should probably take it off. What a fool to hang on to it this long. Bygones.

Her dad set the pot on the table. “Bowls?”

Right. She grabbed those too, and he dished up the stew. He’d made bread, too, and added that to the meal.

She could probably eat an entire moose, but for some reason, the food didn’t sit well with her.

“Okay, spill. It’s not just Holly, or the chickens—”

“Dodge is still angry with me.”

She didn’t know why that came out so easily, but her father had always been less of a father and more her best friend. “He told me to stay away from him.”

Her dad had picked up the homemade mayonnaise to add to his soup, and now put the jar down. “I see.”