Called By Blood

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Alex stood at the door, his heart pounding. He had no plan for this—he wasn't a planner at the best of times, and he was in no shape for last-minute stratagems. Even though the temperature hovered in the twenties, he was on fire. As he'd flown across the country, he'd imagined her as a beacon drawing him ever closer. Once he hit the tarmac and took his first breath of thin, bone-dry mountain air, the pull became tangible.

Yet he'd never met her. Three days earlier his mother had pressed a scrap of paper into his hand. On it was a name and a fragment of an address. Information she'd gleaned from a dream. The key to his future.

He stepped back and gave the house a dubious once-over. The sprawling behemoth was worlds different from the row house he'd grown up in, or the loft he lived in now. The faded pine wreath on the door, the basket of pinecones and deer antlers on the stoop struck him as exotically Western. The doormat said, "Bless this Mess." He stamped the snow off his feet, ran his hand through his hair, muttered "Fuck it," and rang the bell.

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