Page 1 of Alaskan Blackout

One

Quinton Kingsley wasn’t surprised when the ride he’d hired dropped him off at least one hundred yards from his destination on Amaknak Island in Alaska.

In the rain.

“Sorry, man. Mud season is vicious here,” the young driver called back to Quint over the threadbare headrest of a sedan model that had been obsolete for at least a decade. “This is as close as I can get to the bar without getting stuck.”

Of course it is.Quint stuffed his phone deep inside a pocket of his leather messenger bag to protect the device from water damage. To the driver, he lifted his hand in a gesture of acknowledgment visible in the rearview mirror. “I understand. Give me a minute and I’ll be on my way.”

“Sure thing,” the twenty-something driver mumbled from his seat up front, long hair hiding his face as he bent over his phone.

Over the span of the seventy-two hours he’d been in the aptly nicknamed Last Frontier State, Quinton had careened from one travel disaster to the next. First he’d been stuck in Anchorage waiting for favorable winds to fly to the Aleutian Islands. Then he’d bounced through violent headwinds in a prop plane once the weather cooperated enough to allow the daredevil pilot through the storm front. Next he’d been forced to coerce a ride from a local to his destination, since the car service he’d reserved hadn’t been able to accommodate the adjusted date of his trip after the Anchorage delay. So he could hardly have expected this last leg of his two-thousand-mile odyssey to go smoothly.

But nothing would stop him from confronting his half brother, Clayton Reynolds, whose last known address was the dilapidated building bearing a generic Open sign in a small front window visible even through the driving rain. Clayton had purchased the place three years ago when he left Silent Spring, Montana, after a blowup with their father. Quint had never known his half brother well, since Duke Kingsley had never formally claimed his oldest son born outside of his marriage to Quinton’s mother. Clay had drifted in and out of their lives back in Silent Spring, Montana—a couple of weeks in a summer here and there—spending the majority of his formative years with his mom on the West Coast. But three years ago, Clay had spent a few months in Silent Spring to work things out with his birth father. That attempt at mending the old rift had gone south in a hurry.

Quinton had already been living in Silicon Valley at the time, working on his tech company, so he didn’t know the specifics. No one did except for Clayton and their father, who’d died the winter before.

Rain pounded the roof of the car as Quint reached for the door handle. At least he’d stopped off at his hotel before driving on to the Cyclone Shack perched on a muddy rise near Dutch Harbor. He’d been able to change out of his leather loafers and into a pair of boots. The all-weather footwear and jacket were going to prove invaluable on this last leg of the trek.

A journey he was months overdue in making since Duke Kingsley had died months ago and Quinton hadn’t been able to locate Clayton to settle some details from the old man’s wildly unfair last will and testament. The will had ignored Clayton. But Quint refused to let their dad’s prejudice ostracize his half brother.

If only he could locate him to make the situation right.

Now, shoving open the vehicle door with one hand while he yanked up a rain hood with the other, Quinton stepped out into the driving rain. Immediately, the downpour pummeled his head and shoulders through the jacket. Water sluiced around his boots as it ran down the hill while he elbowed shut the car door. Tucking his messenger bag close to protect the important paperwork he needed to have signed, Quinton kept his eye on his destination while he navigated the slippery terrain.

Aluminum sided and one story tall, the run-down structure could have been one of the equipment barns on the Montana ranch where Quinton had been raised. The place was functional looking with a wooden wheelchair ramp next to the steps to the metal front door, a faded sign bearing its name hanging to one side of the entrance.

The soggy ground sucked at his boots as he heard the sedan drive away, the squeaking of an engine belt loud enough that he could hear it even over the racket of the storm. And the waves. The bays and inlets of the Bering Sea were normally calmer at this time of year, according to the guidebooks Quint had skimmed on the plane. But today, the sea churned against the rocks, the sound carrying across the road and up the hill. Rainy season was just beginning now that they were midway through September, and that meant deluges. Low pressure systems.

Even the occasional cyclone.

With any luck, Quint would be far from Amaknak Island before more severe weather hit.

He had no idea why Clayton hadn’t answered his letters, calls or emails, but he hoped confronting Clay in person would allow them to settle things. With that comforting thought in mind, Quint reached the front door of the bar. As he tugged it open, the wind pulled at it so hard he had to wrestle the thing closed behind him.

Eyes adjusting to the dim interior of the metal building with only a few windows, he felt the weight of curious stares from all around him. Twenty patrons, perhaps, populated the bar on a Thursday evening. Modern country music played from an unseen source, the tinny reproduction suggesting an undersized speaker. A handful of no-frills pine booths and high-top tables filled the interior, while the long side of the building boasted a bar illuminated by industrial-looking metal pendant lamps.

The shelves of liquor were the establishment’s main decoration, although a bulletin board stuffed full of papers and photos had been nailed to a wall in the far corner near a digital register.

Quinton paused on the front mat to wipe his boots when a female voice sounded over the twang of steel guitar on the sound system.

“If you’re here to eat, take a seat wherever you like,” the voice—low and slightly musical—called to him. The words weren’t accented, exactly, but there was a cheerful quality in her smoky tone that made him turn around to see the speaker. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

Scanning the space, Quinton glimpsed a hint of copper-colored hair disappearing behind the bar. Since he definitely wasn’t standing inside the Cyclone Shack for the purpose of eating, he headed toward the makeshift serving area that looked like someone had built it on sawhorses. Plywood filled the space in front of the stools, though the countertop appeared to be genuine hardwood.

In his mind, Quinton was already calculating what his brother could do to improve the place with his share of the Kingsley inheritance. Just as soon as Clayton could be convinced to take it off Quinton’s hands.

With the renewed energy of a man who has finally reached his object after a long journey, Quint waited impatiently for the figure that had disappeared beneath the countertop to reemerge. Because unfortunately, as his gaze swept the gloomy interior of the place once more, he didn’t see anyone else working at the Cyclone Shack today. In particular, he didn’t see Clay.

Damn it.

“What can I get for you?” That low, smoky cadence hit his ears again, snapping his attention front and center once more.

A copper-haired knockout frowned at him, like something unwelcome that had washed up on the dark rocks that lined Unalaska Bay. Her pale skin and freckle-covered nose were delicately shaped, but those features were the only dainty thing about her. Her bright hair was long and windblown, as if she’d just stepped in from a cyclone herself. As if she couldn’t be bothered to primp and preen for anyone’s sake. And her mouth was unabashedly sexy. Full and generously shaped, her lips were a deep, rosy pink without any trick of cosmetic that he could detect.

Dressed in a heavy fleece hoodie and bright orange bib waders, the woman held a stack of laminated menus in one hand and a massive tackle box in the other. Assessing, marine-blue eyes narrowed as they took in his jeans and boots. His still-dripping oilcloth jacket, which he hadn’t worn since the last time he’d herded cattle. All more suited to a ranch than an Alaskan fishing port.

Perhaps that was why, when he didn’t respond to her question right off, she smirked at him. “Welcome to Alaska, by the way.”