Forbidden Ground (Cold Creek #2)(3)
The sound of the doorbell sliced through his thoughts. He glanced at his watch. Someone was early, probably Gabe and Tess so they’d be here when the others arrived. Tess was bringing her oldest sister, Kathryn, with them, the woman who would be his partner for the wedding, the maid of honor to his best-man role. He barely remembered what she looked like, and that was from years ago. As he hurried toward the door, he smelled something delicious in the kitchen, heard the caterers clinking china or glassware.
To his amazement, Brad stood outside, looking as if he’d already been partying but hardly dressed for the occasion. He lived fifty miles away, and he looked like hell. Maybe his high-flying bachelor life was doing him in.
“Brad. You all right? You should have called.”
“And get ’nother lecture about not declaring bankruptcy for my paper mill—the Lancaster Paper Mill owned and run by the brilliant, the illustrious Bradley Mason, younger bro of the brilliant, the illustrious, grand Grant Mason of Mason Lumber Mill of Cold Creek? Hell, Grant, I laid off the last workers today and closed the place. America the beautiful’s cutting back on paper in this big, bad digital age, and my mill’s jus’ ’nother victim of that.”
Brad’s shoulder bumped against the door frame as he half walked, half stumbled into the house. Grant could smell the liquor on his breath when he got out of the June breeze. Had he driven fifty miles drunk?
“I hope you got your booze just uptown,” he told him.
“Yep. My fav’rite ole watering hole in new town.”
Looking at Brad, drunk or sober, was always like seeing a slightly younger version of himself, although Brad’s blond hair had darkened over the years. Grant was outside enough that his stayed fairly bleached, but they both had their dad’s light blue eyes. Grant was slightly taller at six foot two, but their features showed their family ties, and they were both built like the lumbermen from generations of Masons, though since Grant had worked in an office these past years, he’d lost some of his bulk.
“Ah, the old homestead,” Brad muttered, looking around. “But looking ever new with the lord of the manor’s stamp on it big-time. I’m hoping you’ll give me a good job—just tempor’ry—in Dad and Grandpa’s old mill, for which you’re caretaker now.”
“Which I own,” Grant said, closing the door behind him. “Own because I bought you out and stayed here to keep it going while you skipped town.”
“Yeah, well, I still know the ropes. A job there’ll do for now, foreman or somethin’.”
“You know Todd’s the mill foreman. His life is trees, living and dead.”
“Yeah, good ole Todd, the modern-day Tarzan, climbing trees when he’s not buzzing them into boards for fancy furniture.” Brad got only as far as the arm of the leather couch before he sat down, nearly tipping over onto the cushions. He tried to give the Tarzan yell, which came out garbled and made him start to cough.
Grant’s heart went out to him, however frustrating he was.
“Hey, you’re having a party—with a bar! I see my timing’s good. I’ll go up to my old room and clean up a bit. Clothes in the car, but I’ll jus’ borrow somethin’ of yours, like in the old days. So, what’s the occasion?”
“A pre-wedding party for Gabe McCord, Tess Lockwood and guests.”
“Todd coming, then?”
“And Paul, as a matter of fact.”
In addition to Gabe McCord, Todd McCollum and Paul Kettering had been the Mason boys’ best friends growing up. Gabe had been away that fateful summer when the rest of them had taken a blood oath, swearing never to tell anyone else about what Grant always thought of as “the death chamber.”
“Gabe’s deputy, Jace Miller, and his wife are coming, too,” Grant went on, trying to keep calm. “And a veteran detective he’s close to from the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. If any of them knew you’d driven in here drunk—even a couple of miles—it wouldn’t be pretty. Gabe’s mother, who lives in Florida, will be here, too, and one of Tess’s sisters...”
“Okay, okay, I get it. Steer clear. Don’t embarrass the lord of the manor. Bet you don’t even want me to stay here for a while, right, bro?” His voice rose, and he stood unsteadily. “Look, I won’t beg, but I’m telling you I need a tide-me-over job or maybe an investment for a new path—and if I don’t get some help somewhere...”
“You’re welcome to stay here for a while, but I can’t free any capital right now, not the kind you’d need to start another business or bail out the paper mill. The digital age would have taken the lumber mill under if I hadn’t diversified into things like mulch and log-cabin kits and concentrated on sales to hardwood-furniture stores and some other side projects.”
“I don’t need that lecture again. I’ll go on upstairs,” Brad said, holding up both palms as if to fend him off. He suddenly seemed sober, steadier, and his voice turned hard and cold. “Look, Grant. I only have one real big financial asset left, and I’m getting desperate enough to sell it—rare, precious and mysterious as it is. Wonder how much it’s worth? Prob’ly priceless.”
Grant’s head snapped around. “The four of us swore never to do that or even tell others. I wish we could put all that back, erase what we did and saw.”