Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

"You didn't know that when you bought her, did you?"

He shrugged. "Bigger dog. Better protection."

"No, bigger dog means my bedroom is getting smaller by the day."

"You talked about getting out of there. Building a proper cabin. Got lots of property. Shouldn't have the smallest room anyway." He looked at Scout, who was zooming back and forth now. "We'll talk about it. Go jog. Need the exercise. Work it off."

"Me or her?"

"Both," he said and waved us on our way before heading toward the lodge.

I went for a ten-kilometer jog, which took me through the town of White Rock. Usually, on a weekend, I'll bypass it. When the weather is still decent, everyone's up and about early--kids on bikes, folks walking their dogs, homeowners working on their yards. If you're a local who doesn't get into town more than once or twice a week, and you try jogging through, you're guaranteed to get stopped a half dozen times. Today, though, I wanted to be seen. Establishing my alibi a little more.

I didn't overdo it. For most who tried to stop me, I just waved and smiled. I did pause for a couple--Benny Durant from the real estate office, who had questions about land near the lodge, and Rick Hargrave from the liquor store, telling me he might close shop early in case I needed more beer for my nightly bonfire.

By the time we got back to the lodge, we'd worked up a lather, so we took a dip in the lake. In mid-October, it's nearly ready for a skin of ice. Refreshing, to say the least.

As I walked up to the lodge, I caught the familiar scents of cinnamon buns and wet grass and wetter dog, and I listened to a woodpecker in the treetops and a clatter in the boathouse, as Owen came out, fishing pole in hand. I waved. He waved back as if it was any other morning and I'd never left. I watched his slightly stooped, white-haired figure trudge down the path to the lake.

I was home. I was me again. Not Dee, part-time Mafia hitman. Not thirteen-year-old Nadia, the girl who'd lost her cousin. Now I was Nadia Stafford, lodge owner. I could say that's the real me, but no, it's just the most comfortable part. It doesn't exist without the others. Still, this is my favorite part of myself and every time I find it, waiting here, it's like rediscovering a forgotten treasure.

As I neared the porch, Emma came out, her dyed red hair nearly blinding in the morning sun. Scout took off with a happy yelp. Emma saw her coming and zipped behind the door faster than you'd think possible for anyone on a hip-replacement waiting list.

"Don't you two come in here like that," she called through the screen. "Wait right where you are. I'll grab towels."

I climbed onto the porch as she disappeared into the lodge. I tried the door but found it latched. As I slumped into a Muskoka chair, Scout seconded my sigh and took the one beside me. When Emma came out, she sighed herself as she looked at us.

"Are you trying to give me extra work?" she said. "Getting mud all over that chair?"

"Scout? Down."

"I didn't mean her." Emma tossed us towels. "What are you doing back? You better not have cut your vacation short. I told you we weren't busy. They changed the forecast, but we still had one cancellation."

I finished towel-drying my hair and started on Scout. "I stopped by to see John yesterday." That was the name she knew Jack by--ironic now that I knew it was his real one. "We got to talking about those ATVs he fixed, and I mentioned the snowmobiles. He offered to come up for the weekend and check them out."

"Oh, he did, did he?"

"Is that a problem?"

She gave a small, self-satisfied smile. "Not at all. Your cousin is welcome here anytime he likes."

I'm pretty sure she knows Jack isn't my cousin. For one thing, there's the complete lack of a resemblance. More damning, I suppose, is the fact that I'd never mentioned him until he needed a place to stay last spring, and since then he's bought me a dog and has come up for several midweek visits.

So what do they think is going on? I suspect it's more than the obvious. Emma and Owen never question my unplanned "vacations." Nor do they question my ability to buy hot tubs and gazebos despite being intimately acquainted with the lodge's tight cash flow. When our teenage helper, Sammi, vanished last year, and I was suddenly taking off with my newly rediscovered cousin John, they didn't question that, either.

They don't suspect the truth. I'm sure of that. As understanding as they are, the truth goes beyond what I think they could comprehend or accept. They probably figure I'm another type of vigilante, like a detective, and that Jack is a private eye I met on my investigations. Whatever the case, they like him coming around. As Emma said the last time, "He makes you as happy as that damned dog does." Which, I suppose, is true, though I doubted Jack would appreciate the comparison.

As Emma and I talked business I saw a figure pass by the screen door and into the kitchen.

"I think a guest is awake," I said.

"Then they can help themselves to coffee and buns, which are all laid out." Emma pegged a dishcloth on the line. "They asked for breakfast at ten, and I'm not serving it earlier."

"Yes, ma'am."

The door opened a minute later. It was Jack, changed and shaven, balancing two plates with cinnamon buns on two mugs of coffee.

Emma didn't attempt to exchange more than the most basic pleasantries with him. A lifetime with Owen had taught her that some people don't go for that sort of thing. But Jack made the effort, asking about her hip and making sure she was okay with him staying.