Bear The Fire (Firebear Brides 4) by Anya Nowlan Page B

a reputation. Not a good one. Yes, he was competent at his job and yes, he was one of the best out there. He was young, brave—almost too brave—and his type of blood-boiling anger would ensure that he would always come out of the fire by the skin of his teeth if need be. He never quit.
    But he also had a temper, and after a few assault and battery charges and a few more that had been dropped by colleagues in different states, it was becoming harder and harder to find a job. They called him a liability. He called them cowards. At the end of the day, they still had their jobs and Rhodes was slumming it in Idaho, feeling like he’d barged in on a triple wedding in the making.
    “I’m not sure you’re the one to talk, Arson Investigator Hamilton. There’s like what? One arsonist every twenty-years here?” Rhodes taunted, seeing whether or not he could get a rise out of Ragnar at the expense of the dark memory both of them shared.
    As assumed, he could not. Scoffing, Rhodes pulled a hand through his hair, slicking his dirty blond locks back. He was getting antsy. His hands were itching to do something other than build the damn workshop, which he’d thrown up with the rest of the Hamiltons in a day. The grounds had plenty of work for able-bodied men before they could bring livestock in or plant anything, but the thought of staying in one place like that, shackled to the land, made his stomach knot.
    No, he needed to keep going.
    “You going to keep running, then?” Ragnar asked as Rhodes got up.
    He whipped around, scowling. “You think I’m running?”
    “I know you’re running, Rhodes,” Ragnar said, taking a swill of his beer. “Question is, from what?”
    Rhodes met the question with silence, considering Ragnar’s stoic features. He hadn’t changed a bit, it seemed. Though there was a glow about him, like the pieces had fallen into place and suddenly his existence made more sense. Rhodes couldn’t help but envy that, considering the currently fucked-up nature of his own.
    “How’s Kali?” Ragnar asked, seemingly determined to test the limits of Rhodes’s patience that night.
    Like a hot iron prod being shoved between his ribs, Rhodes sucked in a strangled breath before throwing his brother a murderous glare. Any other man would have been decked for that, but Ragnar could sit there, unflinching, as Rhodes’s rage wafted around him like a blood-red cape.
    “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Rhodes huffed, slamming his beer down on the table and stalking toward the door leading into the kitchen and the rest of the house.
    “If it isn’t mine, whose is it?” Ragnar asked, his words echoing in Rhodes’s ears as he skulked through the house, heading toward the bedroom he’d occupied on the third floor.
    No one’s, he thought grimly. No one’s at all.
    Ragnar was the closest thing to a real friend Rhodes had ever had. Or managed to keep, anyway. His temper got in the way of a lot of things—lasting friendships and bonds being one of them. A green-eyed, laughing face floated up in his memories, smiling at him sweetly and making him and his bear tense with expectation.
    No, you’re not going to start this shit again, he told himself firmly, wiping the memory aside. Kali has nothing to do with this.
    He trundled up the stairs and pulled the door shut so hard behind him that the whole floor seemed to quake. As usual, just a poke and a prod and he was on his hind legs, roaring and spitting at the world at large. That inkling of peace he’d thought he’d felt in his heart was gone again, as if whisked away by the wind—which seemed to be lacking in dry, scorched Idaho, it seemed.
    Flustered, he threw off his shirt, boots, and shucked off his pants and lay down on the bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. Being alone with his thoughts was always difficult. Even with the alcohol sloshing around in his system, the morose and agitating thoughts he managed to avoid so well during the day