Tails of Ugly Creek

by Cheryel Hutton

  I grabbed her in a quick hug. “I’m happy for you, Shay.” And I was. Maybe a little jealous too, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t glad she finally caught a break. My sweet cousin’s life hadn’t been easy.

  “Thanks.” She grinned. “You’re next.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” She turned and headed toward her bedroom. “I have to pack. I’m spending a few days in Kentucky with Ace.”

  It took a second for my brain to process what she’d said. “Kentucky? With Ace?”

  “Yep, there’s an animal rescue near where his parents live. The rescue is having an adoption fair, and he asked me to come along.”

  A smug smile pulled at my face. “He’s taking you to meet his parents. That’s awesome.”

  “Don’t say that yet. They might hate me.” She turned toward her bedroom.

  “They won’t. Hey, what about your new manuscript? Didn’t you say your agent wanted you to get it to her by the end of the month?”

  “I’ll take my laptop. I’m almost finished anyway. It’ll be fine.”

  I shook my head as I watched her walk away. I be willing to bet money that she’d come home smiling, and with a non-existent word count. I wasn’t jealous. Really, I wasn’t.

  Okay, I lie to myself sometimes.

  Chapter Two

  Two days later, I was back at the Ugly Creek Library. This time it was for exactly the opposite reason as before. I wasn’t shooting out words like a slot machine jackpot, I was pulling words from my muse one letter about every twenty minutes. In other words, I was in big do-do.

  I glared at my laptop screen as if it was responsible for my inability to type words on it, but it was me I was kicking in the rump. Whatever was wrong with my latest books was my own doing. Not that I had any freaking idea what the problem was. Earlier that morning, I’d spent almost two hours on the phone with my agent going over possibilities, and I still didn’t have a clue. As promised, she’d spoken with my editor, and we discussed everything either of them could come up with. I had a list of things to try with the new manuscript, but nobody was sure if those changes would solve the problem, or make the situation worse. So there I was, glaring at my screen and wondering if I was about to go belly-up in the literary world.

  “Excuse me,” the familiar male voice said.

  I looked up into those gorgeous hazel eyes. “Hunter.”

  “Sorry to disturb you again.” He held a small notebook with a ribbon wrapped around it, and a bow right in the middle. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday. For invading your space and insulting you.”

  I reached for the ribbon-wrapped apology. “Thank you.”

  “I hope this is okay.” He shrugged. “I’ve never met a writer who doesn’t like notebooks.”

  “I like them, that’s for sure.” I slipped the ribbon off and opened the six-inch, hardback, blank, pink notebook. Little silver stars were scattered across the front, and inside the pages had snippets of star trivia printed at the bottom. “This is adorable. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” He gently touched my shoulder. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  He eyed me curiously. “Are you sure you want me and my big mouth at your table?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Hey, if you can’t think of a good reason, then I’m not going to help you.” He took his laptop case around to the other side of the table and sat in the chair opposite me.

  I tried to get into my story, but I just couldn’t concentrate. What was so different from all my other books? Was I just plain losing my writing mojo? Would I have to find a different way to keep myself up in the way I’d become happily accustomed?

  Would I fail at the one thing I was good at?

  I looked across the table. Hunter was a teacher. He didn’t know me. He’d never read my stuff. He didn’t even like women’s fiction. He clearly spoke his mind about literary projects. He could probably tell me the hellacious honeydew melon what was wrong with the story I was struggling to force out.

  I mentally rolled my eyes. He’d probably hate everything about my stuff. He would have his mind made up before he even started. What good would it do to ask the advice of a person like him? The part of my brain with the logic generator answered the question. Because he would have a unique perspective. Because he was trained to know what was wrong.

  What did I have to lose? The part of my brain that was solely me answered: my pride.

  Okay, what was a little pride damage compared to losing my career? But would he even be willing to “waste” his time reading one of my books? Would he hate it so much he’d tell me it was horrible and needed to be shredded and scattered over the nearest landfill? Would he find the problem, save my career, and humiliate me?

  “Are you all right over there?”

  I looked up at him. “What?”

  He frowned. “Your face was scrunched up like you were trying to type with your mind, which was sort of amusing. Then you went pale and your hand is trembling so I thought I’d better make sure you’re all right.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat. Well, this was humiliating. “I’m worried.”

  “Would it help to talk about it?”

  I looked at Hunter, and saw concern. Maybe he had mastered the expression so that he could use it with his students, but right now, it seemed a good idea to assume it was real and see how he reacted to my problem. I leaned toward him. “My last two titles haven’t sold as well as the ones before them.”

  “Define ‘as well.’ Do you mean a few hundred or thousands?”

  I forced myself to look him straight in the eye. “I didn’t hit the NYT list with the last book.”

  I don’t know what I expected, but what happened was his eyebrows pulled together and his mouth opened. “Oh, Terri. I’m so sorry.”

  I shrugged, but it was a pathetic movement. “Could you…would you mind…” Oh great, now I was being a scared baby. The worst that could happen was he’d say no.

  I raised my chin, met his gaze again, and made my mouth ask the question. “Would you look at the last book and tell me what you think the problem might be?”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “Honored?”

  He took a deep breath. “Terri, I may be a big-mouthed, opinionated jerk, but you are a bestselling author. For you to ask me to look at your work is an honor.”

  I tried to make the words light and teasing. “Even if it is women’s fiction?”

  He winced. “I honestly believe literary fiction is the filet mignon of the writing world. On the other hand, I love hamburgers too. Commercial genre fiction is the workhorse. Literary is something you have on special occasions.” He touched my hand. “I’ll be kind to your work, I promise.”

  “Not too kind.” I managed a weak smile. “I want to know what’s wrong with the damn thing.”

  “How many of your novels have been bestsellers?”

  “Five. I sold more of each of my first three releases, then four through seven were solid hits. The eighth hit low, and the ninth didn’t hit at all.” I tapped the top of the laptop screen. “This is number ten.”

  “So it would be best if I read both the seventh and the ninth, so I could compare what worked and what apparently didn’t.”

  I shrugged. “I have copies at home. You can have all of them if you want.”

  He smiled. “I’ll start with the seventh and ninth, then we’ll go from there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but I do have a favor to ask in return.”

  I managed to hold the groan inside. Little voices saying things about making a deal with the devil swirled in my head. “What kind of favor?”

  “I need somebody to show me around town, help me find the places I want to go, and suggest other places or people or things to check out.”

  I studied his expression for a time, until he wiggled in his seat nervously, ass
essing his sincerity. When I was satisfied I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest. “I would be happy to be your guide, but you have to tell me more about what you’re doing, what you intend to accomplish.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I smiled. “I’ll bring you the books tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. Meet me at Ugly Creek tomorrow morning at nine.”

  A smile pulled at my lips. “You mean the tiny picnic area at the actual creek?”

  “That’s the place.” He held out his hand. “Deal?”

  I gripped his hand firmly as I smiled. “Deal. This should be fun.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  I went back to my manuscript wondering what I’d just gotten myself into.

  ****

  Everybody loved Blackwood Antiques, but I doubt that many loved it for the same reason I did: all those wonderful scents. From what I’ve heard, most humans don’t really like the smells that old things give off. At the very least, they dislike dust and the smell of long- ago molded fabric. Me, I love it. I wandered around the shop, trying to be inconspicuous with my sniffing.

  “Good afternoon, Terri. How are things?”

  I smiled at the short, curly-haired woman who had just stepped out of the back area of the store. Then I caught the scent of recent sickness and saw her pale face. “Are you okay, Stephie?”

  She gave a casual shrug. “Fine, just got hold of something that didn’t agree with me.”

  A door opened upstairs and a beautiful, big boy with both Lab and German shepherd heritage loped down the stairs.

  “Hello, Dingo,” I said.

  He rushed over to me with a big grin and a seriously wagging tail. I gave him a good head scratching and told him how he was the best doggie in the entire world, and he lapped up the attention like nectar. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Stephie slipping into the back of the store. A moment later Dingo and I heard her throwing up.

  We looked into each other’s eyes. “Your human isn’t feeling well,” I said.

  He whined a little, letting me know he was concerned.

  I gave him a little smile. “I think she’s going to be fine.” I leaned closer to him. “You might have to learn to share some of that attention you’re convinced you can’t live without.” Footsteps from the stairs pulled my attention from the dog, and I smiled at the man who’d just reached the bottom. “Hi, Jake.”

  “I see Dingo already conned you into giving him attention.”

  “I don’t mind. He’s a nice dog, aren’t you, boy?”

  “He’s a big baby, that’s what he is.” Jake was looking around, and I could smell the concern.

  “Your wife is in the bathroom, I believe. I don’t think she’s feeling very well.”

  He frowned. “I think she needs to see a doctor.”

  The sound of a door opening had him on his feet and headed for the back. I played with Dingo, and tried to ignore the conversation, but ears can’t be closed so I caught the back and forth about doctors, lying down, and when to tell people the news.

  I smiled into Dingo’s fur. Sometimes it was fun to be part canine. You never know when you might discover something that makes all the bad just fly away.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning was damp and chilly. Rain overnight had dampened everything while lowering the temperature. A gust of wind made me shiver, and I wondered how long it would be before it actually started freezing and snowing and such. I’ll admit to being used to warm, sunny Florida, but this was ridiculous.

  I heard him coming, but I didn’t turn until I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “You’re shivering,” Hunter said.

  “Just a little. I think somebody flipped the ‘on’ switch for fall a little too soon.”

  “It’s probably nice and warm in Jacksonville right now.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’ve been researching me.”

  “Just a little Internet searching.” He wrapped his warm jacket around my shoulders, and heat that had nothing to do with insulating material, fired in me.

  “Thank you,” I managed.

  He only grinned as he put his arm around my shoulders and we walked together down the embankment to the edge of the little stream.

  “This creek is anything but ugly,” he said. “How in the world did they come up with a name so opposite reality?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve wondered that myself.”

  His scent rose from his jacket and surrounded me. I liked that a little too much.

  “You didn’t try to find out?”

  “It’s hard to get straight answers around here.”

  “Tell me about it.” He picked up a stone and tossed it into the creek. “Half the time all you can find is a supernatural explanation, not the real one.”

  What if the supernatural explanation is the real one? I looked off into the distance. I couldn’t tell him anything. Nothing. He might smell fantastic, but he was a stranger. Ugly Creek’s secrets had to stay secret.

  A movement caught my attention. I saw a furry leg barely visible from behind a tree. “There are things scientists can’t put into little boxes.”

  “Yet, but there are some things that just can’t possibly be real.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Science says so.”

  I heard voices behind us, and looked back to see a couple and two young children at the concrete picnic table. I smiled, thinking how great it would be to have kids. “What kind of things would you classify as impossible?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Vampires, werewolves, men from Mars, faeries, leprechauns, should I go on?”

  “Bigfoot!” the child’s voice rang through the clearing, startling me.

  I turned to see the little boy, who looked to be about first grade size, come tearing down the embankment toward the water. A man, possibly his dad, came running after the kid, but caught his foot in a fallen tree limb, and stumbled. It only took him seconds to get his balance back, but by then the boy was splashing into the water.

  I dropped Hunter’s jacket and started toward the kid, but Hunter had already reached him.

  “Whoa there, cowboy. Where’re you heading?”

  “I want to see Bigfoot,” the boy said, as he continued splashing through the water.

  Hunter lunged, and his long legs gave him enough advantage to grasp the kid’s arm. “There’s no such thing as Bigfoot.”

  The boy pulled against Hunter in earnest, shoving against him with his free hand. “Yes, there is Bigfoot. Ask my daddy!”

  Hunter pulled the child, arms and legs flailing, toward the shore. “I know it’s awesome to think there are Bigfoot, but there aren’t.”

  Abruptly the boy broke into loud, wailing sobs. “You’re lying!”

  The father reached them, and Hunter released the boy.

  “Tell him, Daddy,” the kid sobbed into his dad’s shoulder.

  “Let’s get you home and into dry clothes.”

  “Why don’t you tell him the truth?” Hunter stood midstream, arms crossed across his chest and glaring toward the other man. “He could have gotten hurt chasing a figment of somebody’s imagination.”

  “Why’s he being mean, Daddy?”

  The man stopped and looked at Hunter. “Thank you for helping take care of Sebastian, I do appreciate it. But you need to mind your own business.”

  Back at the shore, the man headed toward their car while the woman gathered the little girl into her arms and followed after him. She shot a hard glare at Hunter before she turned to put the child in her car-seat. He slogged back through the water to where I stood.

  I’d already rescued his jacket from where I’d dropped it, and I wrapped it around his shoulders. “You’re shivering.”

  “Water is cold,” he said through chattering teeth.

  “Are you staying at Rosemary’s Bed and Breakfast?”

  “Only place in town.”

  “True.” I opened the passenger
door of my car. “I’ll take you so you can dry off and change.”

  “I’ll get your car wet,” he protested, as he slid into the seat.

  I started the car and turned the heater on high. “No big deal. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  He gave me a look and I worked to rein in my giggle. “I have a dog. A collie.”

  “Dogs are great. What’s his name?”

  “Her name is Trixie, and she’s a very special dog.”

  “You’ll have to introduce us sometime.”

  “I’ll do that.” I swallowed the laugh and focused on pulling the car into the tiny parking lot of the Bed and Breakfast.

  We walked together into the building, where he headed toward the stairs and I found a seat in the lobby. The rustic look of the room was meant to be calming, but it made me want to shift and run around outside. I have to admit, the thought of Hunter upstairs, taking off his wet jeans, had me thinking things that weren’t appropriate toward an arrogant, opinionated man like him.

  I picked up the first magazine I saw and flipped through it. I tried to focus my mind on the beautiful homes in Southern Living, but my mind was swirling. I tossed the magazine back onto the table just about the time the door opened and Mr. McDuffy walked in.

  Okay, I’ll admit I’ve never met Mr. McDuffy, or as everybody called him, Duffy, but I’d heard enough stories not to recognize him. The man is not quite four feet tall, has bright red hair, and is rumored to have a stash of gold at his house. Not that anybody had a clue where that house might be. Aunt Ruth says he’s a leprechaun, and I had no trouble believing it.

  Whatever he was, he walked over to the check-in desk and rang the little bell. “Top o’ ye mornin’, doll.”

  A middle-aged woman wearing a soft blue dress that suited her warm brown hair, came out a doorway. “Duffy, what are you doing here?”

  He leaned his hip against the big mahogany desk. “Ya know why I’m here, Rosemary.”

  She sighed as she shook her head. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Never. We’re destined ter be together.”

  A noise drew my attention from the drama playing out in front of me. And I saw Hunter pause on his way down the stairs and stare at the couple at the desk. He shook his head like he was trying to shake away what he had just seen, then picked up the pace the rest of the trip down and over to me.