Beverly Hills interior designer Lane Bishop follows her
heart to take on a huge job restoring a remote Alaskan
lodge, and take on its owner the uber-sexy Dylan Brodie.
Dylan knows why he is paying top-dollar to bring Lane to his
home, and although she is a more than competent designer, it
is her red-headed sexy self he wants close.
Although AGAINST THE WILD has its genesis in the Raines
of
Wind Canyon series (book 9, Against the Mark) it is the
beginning of an almost completely separate series, The
Brodies. Three gorgeous brothers in beautiful, quirky
Alaska is an intriguing set-up for what promises to be
another set of skillfully-written romantic suspense tales
from the prolific Kat Martin.
The mysterious elements from Native American (Tlingit)
folklore as well as a murder to be solved contrast well with
the emotionally mute eight-year-old Emily, faithful Irish
wolfhound Finn and the warm and welcoming housekeeper
Winifred Henry. Although the true culprit is revealed toward
the middle of the story, enough red herrings are drawn to
keep a reader guessing far into the book.
AGAINST THE WILD is a solid and interesting beginning to Kat
Martin's newest series. I look forward to more Alaskan
adventure in book two of The Brodies , Against the
Sky, due out in February 2015.
Alaska - Where the men are as bold and untamed as
America's last wilderness
It's been three years since Lane Bishop tragically lost
her fiancé, and she's finally ready to risk her heart on
someone else. The hot look in Dylan Brodie's eyes says he's
going to be that man.
But when Lane flies to the remote 1930's fishing lodge to
help him renovate, she discovers a little girl who won't
speak, eerie legends and strange sounds in the night. And
when she investigates the history of the lodge, she uncovers
a legacy of injustice and murder.
As danger stalks his daughter and the woman he is coming
to love, Dylan must risk everything to uncover the shocking
truth.
Excerpt
The low moaning of the wind awakened him. The old fishing
lodge, constructed in the thirties, was built of hand-hewn
logs, the chinking between them worn by time and weather,
leaving spaces for the air to blow through. An eerie
keening echoed inside the house, a chilling sound that sent
shivers down Dylan’s spine.
Just the wind, he reminded himself. Nothing to do with
stories of ghosts and hauntings. Just an inconvenience,
nothing more.
Still, he had Emily to think of. Dylan Brodie swung his
long legs to the side of the bed, shrugged into his heavy
flannel robe, and padded barefoot down the hall toward his
daughter’s bedroom.
Dylan had fallen in love with the place the moment he had
seen it, perched on Eagle Bay like a guardian of the two
hundred forested acres around it.
Old legends be damned. He didn’t believe in ghosts or any
of the Indian myths he had heard. He’d waited years to find
the perfect spot for his guided fishing and family vacation
business, and this was the place.
The wind picked up as he moved down the hall, the air
sliding over rough wood, whistling through the eves, the
branches on the trees shifting eerily against the window
panes. Dylan picked up his pace, worried the noise would
frighten Emily, though so far his eight-year-old daughter
seemed more at ease in the lodge than he was.
Frosted glass wall sconces dimly lit the passage as he
walked along, original, not part of a remodel of the
residential wing done a few years back, before the last
owner moved out and left the area.
The four bedrooms and bathrooms upstairs on this side of the
building weren’t fancy but they were livable while he worked
on the rest of the lodge. The master suite had been
updated, but it wasn’t the way he wanted it yet.
Eventually, he would rebuild this section, as well, bring it
all up to the four-star standard he’d had in mind when he
had purchased the property.
Dylan paused at the door to Emily’s room, quietly turned the
knob and eased it open. His daughter lay beneath the quilt
that his housekeeper, Winifred Henry, had made for her as a
Christmas gift, princesses and unicorns embroidered in puffy
little pink and white squares, all hand-stitched to fit her
youth-size four-poster bed.
His gaze went to the child. Emily had the same dark hair
and blue eyes that marked her a Brodie, but her complexion
was as pale as her mother’s. Unlike Mariah’s perfect
patrician features, Emily’s mouth was a little too wide, her
small nose freckled across the bridge.
She was awake, he saw, her eyes fixed on the antique rocker
near the window. It was just her size, fashioned of oak and
intricately carved. She loved the old chair that had been
in the lodge when he bought it.
Emily never sat in it, but she was fascinated by the way the
wind made it rock on its own. Dylan found it slightly
eerie, the way it moved back and forth as if some invisible
occupant sat in the little chair. She was watching it now,
her lips curved in the faintest of smiles. She mumbled
something he couldn’t quite hear and Dylan’s chest clamped
down.
It hurt to watch his little girl, see her in the make-
believe world she now lived in, forming silent phrases,
nothing he could actually hear.
Emily hadn’t spoken a single audible phrase since her mother
had abandoned her three years ago. Not a meaningful word
since the night Mariah Brodie had run off with another man.
Dylan’s hand unconsciously fisted. Maybe he hadn’t been the
husband Mariah wanted. Maybe he’d been too wrapped up in
trying to make a life in the harsh Alaskan wilderness he
loved. Maybe he hadn’t paid her enough attention.
Maybe he just hadn’t loved her enough.
Guilt slipped through him. He never should have married
her. He should have known she would never be able to adjust
to the life he lived here. Still, it didn’t excuse her
cruel abandonment of their daughter. An abandonment Emily
had not been able to cope with.
Dylan forced himself to walk into the bedroom. Emily’s eyes
swung to his, but she didn’t smile, just stared at him in
that penetrating way that made his stomach churn.
“Em, honey, are you okay?” She didn’t answer, as he knew
she wouldn’t. “It’s just the wind. The lodge is old.
There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Emily’s gaze went to the window, where a lone pine branch
shifted restlessly against the sill. Ignoring him as if he
weren’t there, she snuggled back into her pillow and closed
her eyes. She blamed him for the loss of her mother, he
knew. It was the only explanation for why she had withdrawn
from him so completely.
Tucking the quilt a little closer beneath her chin, he
leaned down and kissed her cheek. The wind picked up as he
walked out of the bedroom and eased the door closed. Emily
was his to watch over and protect, his to care for and
comfort. But he had lost his daughter three years ago.
When he had driven her mother away.
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