Denali Dreams (11 page)

“Jolie!” the shrill pitch of her mother’s voice carried through the house faster than a sonic boom.

Blowing air out and vibrating her lips, making the annoying noise her mother hated so much, Jolie sat cross-legged.
Young ladies don’t sit like that, Jolie.

Purposefully, she stayed in place.
Really, Jolie. Sit up straight. Show some pride, darling.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, how did you ever put up with her for thirty years?”

But her father had seen the sun, moon, and stars in her mother’s eyes. The only thing Jolie saw was a black hole of antagonism.

Below, the creak of the office doors preceded the
click-click
of her mother’s heels.

Maybe if Jolie lay flat, her mother wouldn’t see her.

“Jolie, are you up there again?”

She rolled to the side and slid the volume back in place. Tracing its spine, she tucked her heartache away, something her mother expected. “Just reading,” Jolie called.

A huff. She stood in the doorway. “Baron is here to see you.” Another puff of air. “Although I’m not sure what you two need to discuss. James said he’d take care of everything. You don’t have to worry, Jolie.”

James Sheppard. Her father’s best friend. The man who probably should’ve taken power at D. I., or even Baron. Anyone but her.

“Nobody’s worrying. We’re just doing our best to honor Daddy’s legacy.” Jolie pushed to her feet and made her way to the spiral staircase. As she descended, she saw the man who would be her right hand at Decoteau Industries. “Hello, Baron.”

Her mother sparkled in a tailored silk pantsuit and heels, thanks to the diamond necklace, earrings, and rings. Hair perfectly highlighted and coiffed, she could grace the cover of any magazine and be mistaken for a forty-something rather than a sixtyish woman.
Au natural
, at that. Jolie had inherited her mother’s fine bone structure and thin build, but she’d reflected her father’s quick mind, blond hair, and tall height.

A gong resounded through the house.

“Now, I wonder who that could be.”

“It’s probably James and Aidan Sheppard, Mother.” Jolie motioned Baron to the leather seating that separated her father’s desk from the wall of books. Stepping onto the carpeted area, she drew in her courage. “They’re picking me up for the trip, remember?”

Touching her fingertips to her forehead, her mother feigned light-headedness. “Oh, Jolie.” She placed a hand on her chest, her chin puckering. “I keep telling James I don’t want you on that trip. Please, darling, don’t go.”

“I’ve already told you—”

“Why on earth would you go there? After … What if you die like Gael?” Her eyes glossed, threatening her perfectly applied makeup. She cast a look to Baron then composed herself. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Her quick steps warned Jolie of the panic chasing her mother through the doors, which Baron, trailing her mother, closed.

Jolie eyed the doors as Baron returned to the hand-carved Persian rug and leather seating appointment. “Is everything okay?”

“Please,” he said as he motioned to the sofa while he took the wingback chair. “I wanted to talk with you privately.” Tugging up his slacks, he perched on the edge of the leather seat. His gray eyes bore the weight of whatever was coming. Quite honestly, it made Jolie want to squirm. Instead, this was one of the times her mother’s insistence on “saying less” could be worked to an advantage, though Jolie had always struggled with that rule of Marceline Decoteau Etiquette Rules.

Coiling her anticipation and anxiety in her hands, Jolie placed them in her lap.

“Look, there’s no easy way to say this, and you know I don’t say things lightly.”

Jolie laughed. “No, Daddy always lamented that you were as silent as a monk most of the time.” Her smile faded. “Unless it was important.”

“It is.” He swallowed. “Jolie, I don’t believe your father’s death was accidental.”

Heat splashed down her spine and numbed her mind. “But the reports …”

“I know.” He motioned his hands in a placating manner. “It’s quite an accusation, but there are a number of things bothering me.” He scooted forward. “I’m glad you’re going on this trip because it will get you out of harm’s way while I sort through this….” He paused, meeting her eyes. “I’ve hired a private investigator.”

Heart thumping a little faster, Jolie crossed her legs. “Do you think I’m in danger?”

He dropped his gaze. “You’re the CEO of Decoteau Industries, and I won’t lie to you—that decision flew in the face of a lot of influential and powerful people.”

“Including you.”

He shrugged. “No, not really.” In his late forties, Baron had always taken things in stride. But being overlooked in favor of a midtwenties girl?

How insane! “Baron, you were my father’s confidant. You and James knew everything. You both advised him in every single decision.”

“Including the one that named you as CEO.” His genuine smile warded off a plethora of concerns. “Trust me, Jolie, I agreed with your father. You’re young, yes, but you’re fresh. You have a new perspective, and you have years of sitting under your father’s tutelage to guide you.”

“Two.” She thrust her hands into her hair. “Two years, Baron! That’s all.”

“Two, officially, but all your life unofficially.” A lengthy sigh eased a smile from his face. “Do you know what I did for Amaury?”

“Advised him.”

He snorted. “Well, yes, but I also handled all his data encryption and secured his files.” Alert, keen eyes peered at her, burrowing deep. “A side … benefit, is that I knew when to invest…. So, while I do not hold the fortune your father—and now
you
—held, I am not lacking for money.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “In addition, I became well versed in monitoring traffic.”

“Hacking.” Jolie couldn’t help but smile. “You’re the one who taught Gael to hack.”

He laughed. “Guilty.” He nodded then shook his head. No doubt the same grief clutching him as it did Jolie. “Anyway.” He swiped a finger across his upper lip. “Your father had me watch the network surreptitiously. And since he died, I’ve kept the same regimen.” Sorrow lined his forty-something face. “It’s my own fault. I should’ve noticed it—might’ve saved Amaury …”

“Baron, don’t.” Jolie yanked hard against the anchor-like weight of guilt. “Don’t blame yourself. Please. He never would. And I never will.”

She heard a commotion of voices from the grand foyer. No doubt her mother arguing with Mr. Sheppard and his son, Aidan, about the trip, about the lunacy of taking her “only remaining blood relative back to
that
mountain.” Losing Gael had been hard on everyone, but it seemed to pluck the last thread of strength from her mother. For Jolie, not having her brother here to tease and pester left a huge hole, but there were far too many pieces to pick up to sit and mope the way her mother had.

Hands fisted, eyes darting back and forth over the carpet, Baron said nothing. Finally, his shoulders drooped. “Okay. You’re right. I can’t save him, but I can save you.”

“Me?”

“I believe someone is trying to take Decoteau Industries out from under you. And I have a suspicion of who.”

“But they can’t!” Her voice squawked. “Who? Who is doing this?”

“I’d rather not say till I have firm proof. It’s part of why I asked James Sheppard to take you on a trip.”

“You asked?” Jolie hesitated. Here she thought it’d been Aidan’s idea. They’d talked through high school of making the trip, but after Gael’s death … they hadn’t spoken of it again. She pushed to her feet and moved to the windows, where her father so often did his thinking. “It’s so crazy. Daddy should not have put me in charge.” Turning back to him, she felt a chill of dread pour over her thoughts.

“He talked many long hours, weighing the cons and pros about you taking over.” Baron joined her. “He believed in you, Jolie.” Passion filled his voice. “He saw how seriously you took your education. He knew you sat up there, pretending to read, but you captured everything. You listened to him, learned from him.” He motioned to the loft. “Why do you think he started taking you on trips, including you in board meetings?”

Jolie shook her head and looked out over the stunning landscape. “Mother always said those trips were to help me find a husband.”

“Bah!” Baron threw his hands up and growled. “Your father wanted you to see what the corporation was about. Do you honestly think he asked your opinions because he
needed
them?”

She drew up straight and considered the man before her, the man so like an uncle. “He was testing me.”

“You bet your leather boots.” His wide grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You passed, Jolie. You’re a natural.”

Heat infused her cheeks. “I’m not—”

Clicking, like a woodpecker, severed her response. Her mother’s shoes on the wood floors, hurrying from the foyer where the others waited.

“Jolie!” Her mother flung open the doors. “Please. Please tell me you won’t do this.”

Though Jolie hated the angst her decision caused her mom, this trip had significant meaning. It would cut down to size the mountain that killed her brother.

“Why are you here, son?”

David Whiteeagle looked into the wizened features of his father, who sat in the bustling café with him, grilling him. Again. He glanced down at the plate of eggs, sausage, and biscuits. Hearty helpings. It’d be his last homemade meal for a good while. “Eating?” He lifted one shoulder.

“You’re not fooling me.”

David breathed a laugh. “I’m not trying to fool you.”

“You sit up there”—his father stabbed a finger toward front door—“and waste away.”

Ah. This again. David set down his fork. “Dad, we’ve been through this.” He lifted the cup of strong, black coffee and took a gulp.

“No,
I’ve
been through it. You’ve been
around
it.” His father waved his big, thick hands, the same ones he’d passed to David. “You ignore.”

Irritation clawed its way up David’s spine. “I have a
job.
I’m not wasting away.” Why he even voiced those words he didn’t know. He’d said them a hundred times since returning to Talkeetna four years ago.

“She’s gone, David. Gone!”

A loud bang reverberated through the small, packed café. Only as pain spiked up his arm did David realize he’d slammed his fist on the table. Swallowing his anger, he drew his arm back. “I have to get to the station.” He plucked a ten from his wallet, laid it on the table, and pushed to his feet.

A vise clamped around his wrist. “She was my daughter. Don’t think I don’t miss her, too. But it’s time—I want you to move on.” Craggy lines marked brown eyes with wisdom, and David remembered all too well the feeling of utter exposure when those dark orbs set on him.

“Move on to what, Dad?” He slumped back down in the chair. “I’ve got a job. You and Mom are here.”

“But your heart isn’t.”

Each breath felt as if he were trapped beneath a glacier.

David clamped his jaw and ground his teeth, staring at his half-eaten breakfast. “Dad, please … don’t—”

“You’re a good man. Find a wife. Get on with your life. Don’t waste it trying to save what can’t be saved.”

“
Lives
are saved.” Breathing hurt. “Every time I’m up there.”

Lips taut, his father stared at him, hard. David felt he’d committed some great crime as those penetrating eyes unraveled his secrets. “When will it be enough?” His father rapped his knuckles on the table. “How many will it take to appease your guilt? To help you stop punishing yourself?”

“You’ve got it wrong. I’m—”

“Do I?” Challenge pulsed through the dark brown irises that were so like his own.

“How we doing over here, Mr. Whiteeagle?” Deline Tsosie, the café owner’s daughter and manager, cut through the thick tension with her buttery-sweet voice. Her smile had little welcome and plenty of warning. “David?”

“Just fine.”

Deline, the only true Aleutian beauty in the shadow of the High One, smiled at him. And … it was fake, which meant she agreed with his dad. No surprise there. It wasn’t the first time he was the odd man out.

Back-stepping over the chair, he grabbed his jacket. “I need to get to the station.”

Stoic, jaw set in resolve, his father stared at the table.

David shook his head and started for the door.

“David.”

Between two tables, he hesitated. Glanced back.

As if the clouds parted and the sun shone through, his father’s face changed, relaxed. “May God keep you in His hand …”

Three heaving breaths later, David finally completed the saying. “… but never close His fist too tight.” The words nearly choked him. He wasn’t in the mood for platitudes or feel-good mantras. But it’d been a tradition long held in his family to not part without it, and despite his objections to his father’s words, any venture up into Denali could be a climber’s last.

A slow nod was his father’s only reply. And it shoved David around. He punched open the door and stepped into the gloomy day. Why did his dad have to start that? And on the day when David would head up for his patrol. Why’d he have to remind David of Mariah, of Denali exerting her power over the weak humans who dared trespass her rugged beauty?