Sex in the Sticks

by Sawyer Bennett

  "Welcome to East Merritt," Logan says as his truck creeps slowly down the main street, which I note at a small intersection is called Main Street.

  "It's...quaint," I say, and hope that doesn't sound offensive. Most of the buildings are painted in shades of white, pale blue, and green, and some are stained golden brown.

  Rising up on the right side of the town is a mountain, and the buildings--which look to be housing--sort of climb up the slope with a road that zigzags upward to provide access. Most are one or two stories, square shaped with gently pitched roofs, and appear to be all wooden and painted paler colors or wood stained. Not a lot of variety outside of the pretty colors.

  Logan brings his truck to a halt and I realize we've come to a stop sign. This is the first time we've had to stop since leaving Ketchikan. After Logan confirms that we are indeed the only vehicles here at this moment, he proceeds through. It's nearing seven P.M. and there are several people strolling the sidewalks, mostly men, I note with very keen interest. And they all look big and burly, and flannel is the popular choice around here for sure.

  Even though it's almost seven, the sun hangs in such a way that it appears to be early afternoon on the East Coast. That's because the sun won't actually set until close to 9:30 P.M. tonight and I wonder how hard it's going to be to adjust to that. Jeremy kindly warned me that sunrise was close to three A.M., so I came prepared with a sleep mask at least.

  Logan drives down one more block and then pulls parallel to the sidewalk next to a wooden sign that proclaims BILLIOTT'S BOARDING HOUSE.

  Not for the first time since I arrived, I become alarmed. "I thought this was a bed-and-breakfast."

  Logan chuckles as he turns the truck off. "Well, it has beds and Sarah serves breakfast, so..."

  I gather Sassy in close to my chest and then open the door. As I get out I note this is not the charming Victorian-style, three-story home I'd been imagining when Jeremy made my reservations. In fact, it looks like no bed-and-breakfast I've ever seen. It's just a large, square home with white siding and a flat front porch with no railing and no portico to protect a visitor at the door if it were raining. The only hint that charm might be involved is the two battered-looking rocking chairs to the right-hand side of the door.

  I hop down onto the ground from Logan's truck and shut the door behind me. He rounds the front of his vehicle and joins me as I take it all in.

  "Not what you were expecting?" he surmises.

  "Um, no...I mean yes...I mean, no it's not what I was expecting but it's...um...lovely," I stammer.

  Logan chuckles again and brushes past me, and I know he sees right through me. I bend over and set Sassy on the ground, and she immediately runs a few yards away from me to pee in the small green patch of front yard. Then she heads closer to the house and starts sniffing around.

  A suitcase plops down on the sidewalk, startling me and I turn to see Logan pulling another one out of the back of his truck. I wince as that one is set down unceremoniously and I hope my leather isn't getting chafed.

  "You might want to keep your dog on a leash," Logan says offhandedly as he pulls the third piece of luggage out.

  "Oh," I murmur as I try to think if I packed a leash. I mean...I have a dog walker for her in New York. And past that, she's in my apartment with me and never leaves my side. "Is there a city ordinance or something?"

  Again, Logan chuckles, and this time he shakes his head in amusement. He pulls another piece of luggage out of the back of his truck, sets it down. "No ordinance. But if you don't keep her close by, a bear is likely to get her."

  "A bear?" I choke out in shock, then immediately turn to my dog and yell, "Sassy...come here."

  Sassy ignores me and starts to run around the side of the house, where I imagine a bear is waiting. I look frantically to Logan, who is getting my last suitcase on the sidewalk, and then frantically back to the side of the house where Sassy has now disappeared. I want to run after her, but if there is indeed a bear, I'm thinking I'll look like a better meal option than a little three-pound dog appetizer.

  "Could you..." I stammer, and then point to the side of the house. "Could you get her for me?"

  Logan throws his head back and laughs, and when he looks back to me, his blue eyes are shining so bright with amusement my face flames red. He thinks I'm absolutely ridiculous, and while it doesn't happen often in my life, my ego takes a bit of a hit.

  "Forget it," I snap at him, and take a purposeful step onto the lawn, intent on running down my wayward dog and praying to all that is holy there's not a bear back there. Sadly, my four-inch heel sinks into the sod, but before I can free it and take another awkward step to save my dog, Logan's hand comes to my arm. His grip is gentle but halting.

  "I'll get her," he says in a soft rumble, and it sounds so sexy my girlie parts start to tingle. "You go on up and knock on the door so Sarah knows you're here."

  I nod and then his hand is gone. I don't move, though, and shamelessly stare after him. He walks away with an easy, loping grace despite how big he is and disappears around the house.

  When he's gone, I throw up another prayer that he and Sassy are safe from bears, and then set myself a reminder to tear Jeremy a new one for sending me somewhere where my dog could get eaten. Stepping back onto the sidewalk and turning to the front door of the house, I'm surprised to see it open and a woman standing there. She's not exactly heavy, but she's not thin either. I'd call her...um...stout. Yes, that's it. She's wearing a pair of jeans, a blue and black flannel shirt with sleeves rolled halfway up her arms, and her gray-tinged blond hair is pulled back into a bun. She's not wearing any makeup, but her eyes are staring at me kindly. If I had to guess, I'd say judging by the heavy lines in her tanned face she's in her early sixties at least, but she looks tough enough that she could wrestle a bear if need be.

  "You must be Miss French," she calls out from the door, and then waves her hand for me to come in.

  I turn to grab one of my suitcases, which thankfully has wheels, but she yells out, "Leave it. Logan will bring them in."

  So I leave it, and I also think it's both strange and kind of really cool that the chief of police gave me a ride here, is now off rescuing my dog, and will carry my luggage in for me. I wonder if I should tip him or something.

  Feeling somewhat secure for the moment, I walk up the small concrete walkway to the front porch where Sarah waits with a warm smile on her face.

  When I reach her, her hand shoots out and I shake it. She pumps my arm vigorously, and for a brief moment I'm afraid she'll dislocate my shoulder, she's that strong. But her brown eyes are warm and inviting when she says, "Good to meet you. It's going to be so nice to actually have another woman here."

  "Another woman?" I ask curiously as she steps back into the house and motions me inside.

  She shuts the door behind us and says, "Well, the only boarders I usually get are guys coming into the area looking for work. Once they sign on somewhere, they get permanent lodging and move on."

  "Oh," I say as I look around what seems like a regular living room. Well, one I'd imagine a homemaker in Alaska might have. Big, sturdy couches in heavy wood and a faded blue, green, and gold plaid design that has clearly been around awhile. A corner recliner in dark green wool and heavy pine furniture. The walls are wood paneled and there's an honest-to-goodness moose head mounted above the fireplace mantel.

  Sarah must notice me looking at it and proudly announces, "Shot him almost fourteen years ago."

  "Um...that's um...amazing," I say, completely faltering over the appropriate compliment, since I can't imagine shooting anything. I'm not a vegan, and I like meat, but I absolutely don't want to kill it or know about killing it.

  Sarah chuckles and turns to the staircase. "Come on up. I've got your room ready."

  I follow her up a set of creaky stairs to the second floor, which has a long hall with two rooms on either side and one at the end directly ahead of us. All of the doors are closed. She leads me to the first doo
r on the right, but before she opens it, she points at the others. "Across from you is Mike. He's new here. Trying to pick up some steady work as a fishing guide. Beside him is Rusty, and across from Rusty is Portman. They're both loggers."

  Before I can even respond or process the fact I'm on a floor with three men, Sarah slides a key into my door and opens it.

  I'd sort of gotten the hint that this was not going to be on par with the Ritz when we pulled up, and nothing about the interior changed that suspicion. There's a full bed with a plain wooden headboard on one wall, a dresser on another wall, and a braided wool carpet covering most of the worn plank flooring. There's one nightstand with a small lamp, and the window has no curtains but a set of plastic blinds shielding the interior from some of the light.

  Sarah hands me the key and says, "I'll clean your linens once a week and there's a coin-operated laundry back in Ketchikan if you need to wash your clothes. Breakfast is a simple affair but will be ready at six A.M. I don't serve lunch, and dinner's at six P.M. You already missed that, and those are some hungry boys living here, so there aren't any leftovers I can offer you. But you can grab a good meal tonight at The Wounded Caribou, which is just a block farther up Main Street."

  My stomach rumbles the minute she mentions I missed dinner, and my head is trying to process the fact I have to be up a six A.M. if I want to eat breakfast. But I can handle this. I'm going to consider it an adventure, which is the only way I'll keep myself from killing Jeremy when I get back to New York.

  I take the key and give Sarah an appreciative smile.

  "This looks great," I praise her, then ask, "but there's not a bathroom with this room?"

  Because every bed-and-breakfast I've stayed in--which granted was only one and that was on a weekend trip to Vermont with a hot neurosurgeon who wanted to talk about brain surgery the entire time we weren't having sex--had a private bathroom.

  Sarah doesn't laugh at me, which means my question's not all that ridiculous, but she's very matter-of-fact when she says, "That's the door at the end of the hall. The boys usually shower right when they get home from work, so you should have it all to yourself in the morning. The lock's busted on it and I haven't gotten it fixed yet, but I told those boys at breakfast today that a lady was arriving and they had to knock before they went in."

  I swallow hard, not sure what to make of this. On the one hand, the prospect of brawny, hot men sharing a bathroom with me has some appeal on a very base level, but on the other hand, I'm a bit pampered when it comes to my bathroom privacy. I have all sorts of creams and lotions and makeup that I'll need to spread out. How can I possibly exist with three outdoorsmen in one bathroom?

  But before I can even answer my own question, Sarah's turning around and walking out of my room. I follow her back down the stairs, immediately noticing Logan standing at the bottom with my dog, who starts wiggling with excitement in his arms when she sees me. All five of my bags are crowding around him in the foyer.

  When I reach the bottom floor, he hands Sassy to me.

  "Thank you so much," I say as I nuzzle her soft neck.

  "No worries," he says pleasantly, and then nods at Sarah. "Everything okay with you, Sarah?"

  "Just fine, Logan," she says cheerfully. "Had a touch of gout in my right foot last week but it's on the mend."

  "You better get in to see Doc," he replies with concern. "You know they have medicine for stuff like that."

  Sarah rolls her eyes at Logan and then turns to me with a wink. "All you young folk think medicine cures everything. Not nothing a little apple cider vinegar won't take care of."

  My eyes look past Sarah to Logan and he shakes his head at me with a smile. Then he nods down to Sassy. "Make sure you keep her on a leash when you're outside so she stays by you."

  I nod, but then feel pressed to ask for assurances. "Are, um...bears prevalent?"

  Sarah snorts. "This is Alaska, honey."

  Logan gives me another smile, this one reassuring. "They're more afraid of you than you are of them, and shouldn't come near you. But your dog is a different matter."

  "Okay," I say thickly, my heart beating fast over the thought of Sassy getting eaten. "Is there a pet store where I can buy a leash?"

  Sarah laughs heartily. "We're not that sophisticated around here. But I've got some thin rope in my shed out back. I'll help fashion a leash for you."

  "That would be lovely," I say weakly, just starting to realize I'm probably way out of my depth here.

  "Well, enjoy your visit Miss French," Logan says, going very formal on me. Before I can insist he call me Valley, which is what most of my friends call me, he nods at Sarah. "Good night, Sarah. See you around."

  " 'Night, Logan," Sarah says cheerfully, and then he's gone.

  "Cute dog," Sarah observes.

  "Thanks for letting me bring her," I say. When Jeremy offered to plan my trip, my only real prerequisite was that I wanted to bring Sassy. I could be here for a few weeks and I couldn't bear to be parted from her that long. In hindsight, I also should have insisted he put me in a Ritz-Carlton--which gladly accepts dogs--but that's on me I guess for not being diligent in checking behind him.

  "So what's your deal, honey?" Sarah asks as she walks into her living room and takes the corner recliner. She kicks up the footrest and leans back with a contented sigh.

  Because it seems she wants to chat, I follow her in and perch my butt on the edge of one of the couches. The pillows are so deep they sort of suck me in as I hold Sassy on my lap. "My deal?" I ask once I wiggle around and feel more secure.

  "Why is a girl like you in a roughneck place like this?" she explains.

  "Oh, well...I'm just taking a vacation," I hedge, because I have no intention of telling anyone I'm here to sample the local dating scene and hopefully write some kick-ass blog articles about my adventures. I have two working theories. I'll be convinced either that the men back in New York will never measure up, or that I should be entirely grateful for them. Either way, it's going to be fun finding out.

  Sarah shakes her head and looks at me shrewdly. "Nah. There's a story there."

  "A story?" I ask with my mind racing. I didn't think anyone would question a simple vacation, but I'm also realizing this isn't your normal vacation destination for a woman like me.

  "A story," she reiterates. "Like I said...women like you don't come here for vacation."

  And I know deep down she's right. When the nicest accommodations for me and my Louis Vuitton luggage is Billiott's Boarding House where I'm sharing a bathroom with a fishing guide and two loggers, and I'm on constant watch so my dog doesn't get eaten, there's no doubt I'm out of my element.

  So I tell her the first thing that comes to mind. "I'm getting over a bad breakup."

  Sarah's eyes turn soft. "Oh, honey."

  "Yeah...we'd been seeing each other for years, and he wouldn't ever propose, and then...well, I found out the reason was because he had another woman in another state. Well, another family actually. He was married."

  I actually wince internally over that whopper of a lie, all while being slightly impressed with my details. I wanted my story to sound pathetic enough to drive me to this godforsaken place.

  "Men are bastards," Sarah says with venom. "Pure bastards."

  I nod. "Total bastards."

  "So you decided to get far away," she concludes.

  I nod again.

  "To let your broken heart heal among the majestic scenery of the Alaskan wilderness," she adds.

  And, yeah...that sounds good. So I nod again. Sassy lays her head down on my lap and goes to sleep.

  "What you need is rebound sex," she proclaims, and I find myself starting to nod now out of habit, but then I catch myself.

  "What?" I exclaim, then shake my head. "No."

  While I'm not ruling out sex with the right man, I damn well don't want Sarah thinking that's what I need. That's my business and mine alone, and only in the right circumstance.

  "Well, honey...just so
you know, if you do want rebound sex, all you have to do is walk down Main Street. Trust me...it will find a pretty girl like you in no time."

  I smile inside. It's going to be like picking apples off a tree.

  Chapter 4

  Logan

  "Figured out what you want yet?" Ted asks as he pulls my empty beer mug from me and refills it.

  "The Bou Stew and a baked potato," I say without even looking at one of the menus that are stacked sideways in a little contraption that also holds salt and pepper shakers. There are several of them placed periodically down the long expanse of the pine bar I'm sitting at.

  No need for me to tell him what I want on my baked potato. Ted's owned The Wounded Caribou since I took over as police chief and I've eaten a lot of meals here. This is because I'm not that great of a cook, plus I work some hellishly long hours sometimes since I am the one and only full-time law-enforcement officer in this town. As such, it's far easier to just come in here to eat, have a beer, and relax a bit. Luckily, Ted's food is outstanding.

  "Coming right up," he says as he slides a full draft in front of me and turns to the kitchen to put my order in.

  The Wounded Caribou is a bar and a restaurant, neither one figuring to be more prominent than the other. They're both really sort of one and the same. The building is low and squat and perfectly rectangular. The bar runs the length with the kitchen behind and the rest of the space is filled with eight-foot-long tables with wooden benches spaced out in long rows. If the place is packed, people share tables, although there are six booths that run along the front wall of windows. On the east end of the building are the men's and women's bathrooms, and on the west end there's a jukebox, a pool table, and a small raised platform where Deke Mott plays his banjo on Saturday nights.

  The walls are paneled wood, the floors are scratched-up pine, and the air is heavy with the scent of good food cooking, but if you sit too close to one of the fishermen who stop in for a quick beer before heading home, you'll smell fish too. Most nights the patrons are chill, but some nights they're rowdy, which can depend on the time of the year, or perhaps it's the cycles of the moon. Regardless, it's a fun place to hang out, and even though I'm the chief of police, when my badge is off and I'm sitting in here drinking a beer, I'm just an ordinary East Merritt resident.