Frankie had met the bastardo only once for a few seconds at the wedding. The conservative crackpot had already decided she was a bad influence on Kit. He’d pressured Kit until she’d stopped calling, writing, or visiting.

Unwilling to cause problems, Frankie had honored Kit’s withdrawal. Obviously, that had been a mistake.

Before Obadiah, they’d always been there for each other. Through missed job opportunities and celebrations and relationship disasters. After Kit moved, they’d spent hours on the phone. When Kit’s husband died, Frankie had flown to Texas, cared for Aric, and kept things going while Kit mourned.

When Frankie’s marriage fell apart, Kit had come to New York. After lots of handholding and enduring the wailing and weeping—because Frankie wasn’t a silent sufferer—Kit had pushed her out of the house and back into living.

Although not back into dating. Kit had always been more of an optimist there, which seemed strange since she had lousy taste in men. The dominant guys she fell for inevitably turned out to be creepers or controlling or basic assholes. Kit’s miserable childhood had left a glitch in her nice-guy radar.

But Obadiah? “You really picked a bad one, this time.”

Frankie read over the letter again.

Alaska—seriously?

But there was no way she’d leave her bestie or her godson with some abusive asshole. With luck, all Kit needed was someone pulling strings to get her and Aric out.

I’m good at making things happen.

If Kit needed more than that, well… Frankie pressed her lips together, determination rising inside her. She’d do what she had to do.

She punched the office intercom button and waited until the shared administrative assistant answered. “Hey, Nyla. How would you like to hold down the hot seat for a while?”

Her family would just have to cope.

Chapter Two

By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. ~ Benjamin Franklin

No taxis, no skyscrapers, no people. And now that she was off the Sterling Highway, there weren’t even paved roads.

Welcome to Rescue, Alaska, huh?

Admittedly, the scenery on the drive from Anchorage had been spectacular with stark, snow-covered mountains and foothills, deep river valleys, and miles of lush forests. Every time the road curved, another view had taken her breath away.

As Frankie turned off Dall Road and onto a muddy dirt road, branches from the dense forest on each side clawed at her rented sedan. She winced at the harsh scraping noises. Sorry, car.

Was the Patriot Zealot property around here? The teenaged gas station attendant in Rescue had given her directions, but there were an awful lot of small roads that branched off of Dall.

She drove around another corner, and there it was. The home of the Patriot Zealots.