"Worse than me." There's a hint of affection in his voice. "Elias runs the family ranch. Quiet type. Boone's the fire chief."
"Also a smoke jumper?"
"Was. Now he stays closer to home. Then there's Finn, does security work. Travels a lot. Luke's the youngest. Has a daughter, Lily."
"Six McKenna men running Grizzly Ridge? The town doesn't stand a chance." I'm only half joking.
"Seven, counting me. Though I don't run anything."
"Except your mountain."
He nods, conceding the point. "Town's just past this ridge."
The trees thin out, revealing Grizzly Ridge below us. It's exactly what a small Montana town should look like—a main street with western facades, mountains rising behind it, smoke curling from chimneys. Charming in a way that can't be manufactured.
"It's like a postcard," I say, genuinely impressed.
"Tourist bait," he replies, but there's no real cynicism in his tone. "Town plays it up for the summer visitors."
As we drive down the main street, I notice people turning to look at our truck. A few wave. Caleb nods in acknowledgment but doesn't slow down.
"You're quite the local celebrity," I observe.
"Not me. Just don't come to town much. People notice."
"And now you've got a woman with you. I bet that really has them talking."
His hands tighten slightly on the wheel. "Town runs on gossip."
"Does that bother you? People talking?"
He considers this, turning onto a side street. "Used to. Not so much anymore. Learned to tune it out."
We pull up to a small motel at the edge of town—the Grizzly Inn, according to the vintage neon sign out front. Not exactly the Ritz, but it looks clean and well-kept.
"Figured you'd want a shower, real bed," Caleb says, parking but not turning off the engine. "Barbecue's not until six."
The consideration behind this gesture catches me off guard. He's thought about what I might need, planned ahead for my comfort. It's a small thing, but it speaks volumes.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it. "A shower sounds heavenly."
He nods, finally shutting off the engine. "I'll help you check in, then head to Sawyer's. Pick you up at five-thirty?"
"Perfect."
Inside, the motel is exactly what I expected—dated but clean, with a friendly older woman at the front desk who barely conceals her curiosity when Caleb walks in with me.
"Caleb McKenna," she says, genuine warmth in her voice. "Twice in one year. The apocalypse must be upon us."
"Marge," he acknowledges with a nod. "Need a room for Ms. Monroe."
Marge's eyes widen almost imperceptibly as they shift to me. "Of course. How long will you be staying, honey?"
I hesitate, realizing I haven't thought this far ahead. "Just tonight for now."
She nods, typing something into an ancient computer. "Room 4 has the best view of the mountains. And the hot water lasts longer than the others."
"That sounds perfect, thank you."
