He knew of plenty of times that those same road crews had refused to do more than pile more snow at the mouth of the graveled road that led to the house.
He hadn’t expected his time to run out in the form of his cousins’ arrival, though. Especially Crowe’s.
Grimacing, Rafe pulled extra coffee cups from the cupboard, set sugar and creamer in the middle of the table, and glanced toward the stairs that led to the second floor.
Cami was showering.
She had borrowed a razor, and the water in the shower had only just begun running. He might get lucky and his cousins would be gone before she finished.
He had a feeling it would be the other way around. His cousins would arrive and wouldn’t leave until after she did. That was more the way things ended up working for him.
His fist clenched at the thought of her leaving. At the thought of not holding her in his arms when he climbed into his bed. Of not being there to share that first cup of coffee, even if she was madder than hell at him.
And he sure couldn’t use the kitchen table properly if she wasn’t there, he thought with amusement as the snowmobiles moved quickly toward the house. Damn, Crowe and his tinkering with the vehicles’ motors. They were now twice as fast and twice as powerful as they had been when the cousins first bought them. That meant if Crowe were of a mind to, he could easily get Cami back to town. Just as Rafe could have.
It wasn’t long before the steady, hard throb of power eased into the yard, pulling up to the small area of shoveled show that Rafe had worked on as Cami slept that morning.
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.