My hackles rise instantly. “Don’t tell me to relax!” I hate being told to relax.

He gives me a look and then juts his chin forward. “Come on, open it.”

I sigh. “This conversation is not over.” But I’m too tired and hungry to argue with him. I pick at the twine that holds the wrapping together. “How is she? Still threatening to chop off her son’s limbs?”

Jonah smirks. “He still has both hands. For now.”

“And her grandson?”

Mention of the boy who’s alive today because of Jonah’s bravery—or insanity, depending on who you speak to—brings a wide smile that instantly melts my irritation. “Huge and running around.”

“Must be all that muskrat his grandma feeds him. What is this?” I break through one layer of newsprint, only to find another beneath. It’s something hard, that much I can tell. Hopefully not something morbid. That woman has an odd sense of humor.

Jonah pulls out a long, brown strip of jerky from the brown bag and offers it to me.

I shake my head. I already learned the hard way that it is most certainly not beef.

“Can’t be that hungry, then,” he teases, ripping off a chunk between his teeth.

“You’re not kissing me again until you brush your teeth.” I unravel the last of the paper to find a sculpture inside. It takes me two hands and a moment of rolling it this way and that, taking in all the angles, to identify the two coiled birds. “Wow. Is this handmade?” I ask, sliding my thumb over the surface. It’s smooth.

“Yeah. Ethel carved it over the winter,” he says between chewing. “It’s ivory.”

“Ivory?” I feel the apprehension fill my face.

“Walrus ivory,” Jonah corrects. “Alaska Natives are allowed to hunt them. And don’t worry, every last part of that animal would have been used to help Ethel’s family survive the winter.”

“I don’t doubt that.” I study the two birds. They’ve been shaped to perfection. “The raven and his goose wife.” I smile softly as I hold it up for us to admire.

Jonah shakes his head. “That woman loves her stories.”

“She got this one wrong.” I am not Jonah’s goose wife. Or perhaps I am, but I’m a goose wife who survived to see the spring thaw, and who is determined to thrive alongside her raven. “It’s beautiful.” I already know where I’m putting it—on the top shelf of the rustic curio cabinet that I ordered last week. That Jonah doesn’t know about yet.

Jonah’s gaze isn’t on the sculpture, though. It’s on me, and his face is a grim mask.

My stomach sinks. “What’s wrong?” With that look, something is definitely wrong.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Calla, but …” He hesitates for a few beats, long enough that my anxiety spikes. “You really need to take a shower. I’ve never seen you so filthy.” A grin splits his face.

“Shut up!” I smack his chest, equal parts relief and outrage slamming into me. “Believe me, I’m trying to, but no one will let me go home! First Muriel, now you!”

“You have dirt all over your face.” He rubs the pad of his thumb across my jaw and pulls back to show me the smear of brown sludge. “It looks like you were trying to avoid enemy fire out there.”

Great. I went to Roy’s looking like I was playing war games? “Do you have any idea what my day has been like?”

“Did it involve rolling around in a pile of mud?” he asks with mock innocence, reaching up to pick a twig from my topknot. “What were you trying to do? Blend into the forest?”

“Okay, you know what, smart-ass? I’m leaving.” I stroll past him, housewarming gift in hand. “If you want a ride on the ATV, you better get moving.”

“I’d rather walk, thanks.”

I can’t help but laugh, even as I throw my middle finger in the air.

“Seriously, though, if you wait by the side of the house, I’ll be there in ten minutes to hose you off. You shouldn’t step inside our house like that.”

“You know what? Screw you and your brussels sprouts!” I holler as I push through the door.

I’m working my shampoo into a rich lather—the muscle ache from today’s labor already settling into my shoulders and arms—when the bathroom door creaks open. A moment later, Jonah is pushing the shower curtain open and stepping into the tub behind me.

“Need some help?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, gripping my hips to spin me around.

I revel in the feel of his touch as he massages my scalp with strong, skilled fingers.

“Marie called.”

My heart skips a beat, nervousness splicing through the moment of peace. “And?”

“He’s gonna survive.”

“Oh, thank God!” I fall against Jonah’s broad, bare chest, the soft blond hair tickling my cheek. I’m surprised with myself for feeling this much relief over an animal that isn’t mine, that I’m quite certain has been scaring me to death, lurking around for the past two months. “What about his leg?”

Jonah’s hands keep working, sliding all the way down to the ends of my strands. “Still attached. She doesn’t know how much use he’ll have of it, though. He’ll definitely have a limp forever.”

“She really is amazing,” I murmur, even as a troubling thought stirs. “Roy said he didn’t want a lame dog.”

Jonah snorts. “Roy’s full of shit. He called her office, like, thirty seconds after we left his place and demanded she do whatever is necessary to save him. No cost was too high. And when Marie called him back with the news, he thanked her.”

I feel my eyebrows pop as I try to consolidate that with the miserable old man we dealt with not that long ago. “He actually used the words?” He knows the words thank you?

“A few times. And then he asked when he’d be able to come get him.”

I shake my head. “What is that guy’s problem?” Teddy did warn me that, more times than not, we’d face the wrong side of Roy Donovan. But, to be that confrontational just because we want to run a charter plane business? It doesn’t make sense.

“I don’t know.” Jonah’s soapy hands smooth over my back. “But you did good today, Barbie.”

“I did do good. Muriel was about to shoot him.” The dog would be dead.

“She was doin’ what she thought was right. And if Marie hadn’t been there, it probably would have been the right thing to do.” Jonah gives my shoulder a squeeze, earning my whimper. “From workin’ outside?”

“Yeah. Muriel is not only an executioner, she’s a tyrant. I’m amazed she didn’t bring a whip with her.”

“It looks great back there. You did an incredible job.” Jonah gives my shoulders a soothing rub.

I wince, even though his hands feel like a masseuse’s touch. “It’s going to take way more ass-kissing to get me to plant your stupid brussels sprouts, Jonah.”

His chuckle fills the tiny bathroom, carrying over the running water. “Believe me, we haven’t even gotten to the ass-kissing part.”