“Could say the same to you,” I respond, cinching my pack closed. “Thought your hunting trip lasted through Friday.”
“Got cut short.” The tired lines around Nash’s eyes tell memore than his words. “Had some trouble with those eco-activists again.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Not this time.” Nash takes a long swallow of coffee. “But they crossed a line, Finn. Left death threats pinned to our gear. Slashed the tires on our ATVs. A clear message they wanted us gone.” Eco-activists. Exactly what I needed. Another damn fire to put out, and these ones play dirtier than most.
I stop what I’m doing. Nash isn’t the kind of man who flinches—he’s spent too many seasons carving paths through untamed land. The tension in his stance tells me everything.
“You report it?”
“Yeah. State troopers took statements, but you know how it goes. By the time anyone investigates, the trail’s cold.” He sets his mug down, watching me pack. “TV crew done filming?” he asks.
“Not yet. They ran into some delays. I told them I’d catch up—meet them further in.”
Nash raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
I shrug and reach for my pack. “They’ve got three weeks scheduled for the shoot,” I say, adjusting the weight across my shoulders. “And either way, the contract guarantees rental income for the full summer. That should cover what I need.”
Nash grunts. “With what they’re paying, you ought to have it under control.” He picks up one of the bank notices pinned under a smooth rock on the kitchen table. “Found these while I was making coffee.”
My stomach tightens. I’d meant to put those away somewhere safer before leaving with the expedition.
“Forgot they were there,” I mutter, reaching for the notices.
Nash holds them out of reach. “Three months behind, Finn? Why didn’t you say something?”
“It’s under control.”
“Doesn’t look that way to me.” Nash gestures around the empty lodge. “Still haven’t recovered from the avalanche repairs, have you? Not to mention that windstorm last winter.”
“I know my business,” I snap, then regret the tone. Nash means well.
“Your business is about to belong to First Alaskan Bank unless you accept some help,” he counters. “I’d be happy to contribute, and I’m sure Reid, Rhys, and Kane would come through too.”
“I don’t need handouts.” The words come out harsher than intended.
“It’s not a handout.” Nash’s voice remains even. “It’s family helping family. Hell, even Dad would pitch in if you’d swallow your pride long enough to ask.”
That got under my skin. The lodge sits on land my parents gave me, but everything else—every nail, every board, every window—I built with my hands. Taking their money now feels like admitting failure.
“I built this place,” I say, adjusting my pack. “I’ll fix it.”
“You built it on family land—with help,” Nash reminds me. “No shame in needing it again. That avalanche would’ve bankrupted businesses twice your size.”
He’s not wrong. Between the avalanche that took out two cabins and the windstorm that damaged the main lodge roof, Crystal Creek hasn’t had a chance to recover. But accepting help means admitting I can’t do it alone, and that’s a truth I fight admitting.
“I need to think about it,” I say, shouldering my pack. “After I get back.”
“From meeting the actress.” Nash gives me that steady look of his, all quiet assessment.
“What’s her name again?”
“Lena. Lena Kensington.”
“Right.”
“You good on gear?” he asks.
