He opened the door, standing behind the glass of the storm door as his cousins stepped off the low-built machines and looked up at him.
He almost frowned. They were dressed in the lightweight, ultra-cold-weather gear that Crowe had managed to procure in the military as he worked in some of the coldest climates in the world. A ride from Crowe Mountain to the house wasn’t long enough and the weather really not cold enough — was it? — for the snow camo outerwear.
Rafe stepped back as Logan reached the porch and watched him grip the door handle and lazily pull it open.
Even his eyes were hidden behind the dark goggles until he stepped inside, stripped off his gloves, then eased the goggles from his face.
He would have to make certain he thanked Logan nicely for slipping out, obviously well before dawn, to inform their cousin Crowe of Rafe’s houseguest.
Logan’s dark pine-green eyes were filled with laughter as he stripped the cold-weather gear and hung it carefully on the specially made hanger at the side of the door. Crowe was following suit, but unlike Logan, his eyes weren’t filled with laughter. He was staring around the kitchen and living room carefully, no doubt noting even the slightest change to the rooms since he had been there the week before.
“You two are out early,” Rafe stated as he moved back to the coffeepot, slid the decanter free, and set it in the center of the kitchen table, close to the cups, sugar, and cream.
“Not early enough, it would appear,” Crowe grunted. “Where’s your houseguest?”
Rafe slid Logan a look of promised retribution. “Had to run and tattle, didn’t you, Logan?”
“I know; it’s normally your job.” Logan sighed mockingly. “But you appeared to be slacking this week, so I thought I’d help you out a bit.”
Rafe almost rolled his eyes.
Logan could be the bane of his existence when he wanted to be. There were times that Rafe and Crowe wondered if Logan had ever matured past the age of sixteen.
As the middle cousin, he seemed to have inherited Rafe’s father’s sense of practical jokes and teasing games.
“’Preciate that, Logan,” Rafe drawled. “I’ll be sure to return the favor soon.”
Logan chuckled as he followed Crowe to the kitchen table and the coffee.
The two men couldn’t have been more different.
Logan had his mother’s dark blond coloring rather than the dark Callahan hair. His skin was bronzed, a trait all Callahan men had, a reminder of their deep Irish roots. His eyes were the same the deep pine-green his mother’s had been.
Mina Rafferty Callahan had been slender, delicate, and winsome. Thankfully, her son had only inherited her coloring. The rest of him was pure, tall Callahan. At six feet-two inches tall, powerful and broad, he could be a mean gutter fighter in the face of the enemy or project a charming, teasing familiarity with vulnerable children or frightened women.
Crowe on the other hand, was one hundred percent Callahan, from his midnight-black hair to his eagle-fierce golden-brown eyes. His harshly hewn features could never be called handsome, but women gravitated to him like bees to honey no matter where the Callahans went. At the very least, the women moved as close as possible, as though to draw in the aura of danger and the oddly shaped crescent birthmark they all carried on their right hip. He was an inch taller than Rafe, more than two years older than Rafe, and always seemed too determined to watch over and protect his younger cousins, whether they needed it at the time or not.
Rafe, on the other hand, was a plainer version. He had the black hair, but he had his mother’s, Ann Roberts’s sapphire-blue eyes rather than the Callahan brown eyes. In looks, the men were more like triplets than cousins, despite Logan’s dark blond hair. Even as infants they had been almost impossible to tell apart until Logan’s hair lightened.
Crowe was the image of the Callahan brothers, Samuel, Benjamin, and David. Rafe missed it only in the color of his eyes. They were as close as brothers and sometimes it seemed they shared the same bond triplets did as well.
Rafe leaned back against the counter with his own coffee as his cousins poured theirs. Strangely enough, Crowe sweetened and creamed his, while Logan took his straight and black. It always seemed as though it should have been the other way around.
It had always amazed Rafe that his eldest cousin could be found adding to the perfectly rich, aromatic taste of the specially grown coffee beans Rafe went to the trouble to buy and grind himself. It was almost a sacrilege, what Crowe did to his coffee.
It was the coffee that always seemed to tie them. Since Clyde Ramsey, Rafe’s great-uncle, had taken then in, he had taught them the value of coffee, the kitchen table, and long discussions.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Rafe asked as he arched a brow and brought the cup to his lips, sipping at the coffee and preparing himself. He had a feeling he knew what was coming. Crowe was there because of Cami.
“I thought you might need some backup.” Crowe shrugged as he leaned back in the chair, his oddly colored brown eyes sharp as Rafe met his gaze.
“What kind of backup do I need?” Rafe could almost feel the tension beginning to tighten at the back of his neck.
It was damned foreboding. That sense of coming danger or problems that would result in more trouble than anyone needed.
Hell, all he’d wanted to do was try to enjoy the few days fate had given him with Cami.
“They’re clearing the snow blocking the road not far from here,” Logan said then. “It won’t be long before they find Ms. Flannigan’s car. And her uncle is in the lead with the plow. Eddy Flannigan isn’t known for his even temper.”
Eddy Flannigan simply didn’t suffer fools gladly, and he sure as hell didn’t tolerate so much as an iota of danger where his niece was concerned. Eddy would know, though, that the last thing Rafe wanted would be to hurt Cami in any way.
Rafe’s lips tightened in irritation at the thought as he moved to the refrigerator, reached up, and flipped on the police and emergency band radio he kept there. Turning the dials, he tuned into the channel he knew the road crew used whenever they were clearing snow and wanted to keep their conversations more private.
It wouldn’t hurt to know ahead of time who else was on that crew and whatever they may have to say.
“Sheriff, I hope you brought that rifle of yours,” a voice drawled over the radio. “Eddy may want to borrow it.”
“Then why are you laughing, Martin?” Archer Tobias, sheriff of Corbin County, a man who had once, long ago, been a friend, came over the line.
“’Cause if that’s Eddy’s niece’s car out there like he thinks it is, then we may get to have a Callahan killin’ after all,” Deputy Martin Eisner came back. “Don’t worry, Eddy, I’ll testify for it. Justifiable homicide.”
Rafe glared at the radio.
“You want me to break your fucking legs, Eisner?” Eddy Flannigan came back, his voice entirely serious. “Because I can. And I will.”
It was obvious the deputy was getting on the wrong side of the smart-assed, wisecracking uncle of Cami’s.
“Hell, Eddy, I’m trying to do you a favor here,” Martin snapped. “Those boys work fast, remember? We’ll be lucky if she’s not already dead.”
“Let’s not allow our imaginations to get out of control here Martin,” Archer snapped.
“Yeah, that’s what your daddy said when Jaymi went missing that night too,” Martin snapped back as the sound of the plow’s motor revved and geared higher. “You saw her car, Sheriff. That tire—”
“Martin, concentrate on clearing that snow and let me concentrate on what may or may not have happened,” Archer snapped back, the heavy command in his voice working for a minute. “That’s my job, remember?”
But no longer than a minute.
“We should call out the National Guard and have them bring the helicopter in. We maybe could use the help against the three of them boys now that they’re back from the military.” Eisner sounded worried, concerned. “Didn’t we hear they were snipers or some shit?” He was obviously only worried about himself.
Rafe rubbed at the side of his face in frustration. Son of a bitch, Eisner sounded as though they were facing a full battalion of Callahans rather than just three of them.
Rafe knew the deputy well enough to know for a fact that it wasn’t worry or concern he was feeling unless it was for himself. It was pure gleeful anticipation cloaked with a highly false, somber demeanor.
“Martin, we don’t need a helicopter,” Archer promised him patiently. “Eddy, take your plow up to the house and I’ll drive your niece home, if she’s ready to go.”
“What do you think he means by that, Eddy?” Martin questioned with almost rabid curiosity. “What’s he implyin’?”