Just what he needed—some nosy neighbor trying to woo him with homemade treats. He’d sworn the local lawyer to secrecy, but somehow word must have gotten out he was here. Well, she wasn’t the first woman to make a play for him since he’d become successful, and like all the others, she was doomed to disappointment. He whistled for the dog and returned to the cabin, dropping the note into the trashcan under the sink. He started to pitch the rolls in after it, but his stomach growled, reminding him he’d not yet had a chance to buy milk for his raisin bran.
No sense letting good food go to waste. He picked up a roll and bit into it. Cream cheese frosting melted in his mouth. He chewed, savoring the blending of fresh bread and sweet cinnamon. Quite possibly the best cinnamon rolls he’d tasted since he was a boy, visiting his grandmother’s house. He took another bite. These might in fact edge Gram’s off the middle podium. Shame he wouldn’t be getting any more once she figured out he was a lost cause.
He poured a cup of coffee and sank into a chair at the scrubbed pine table, pushing aside a pile of mail he’d found in a box when he unpacked. A return address caught his eye. A bill from the private investigator. Chandler had sounded almost apologetic about billing him for the hours spent following leads that went nowhere, but Mac didn’t care how much it cost, how many possibilities turned out to be dead ends. They couldn’t quit. Not until they found Andi’s killer. Eventually, they would. People didn’t just vanish.
He set the bill aside to pay later and slid the newspaper from its sleeve. A subscription offer fluttered to the ground. He opened the paper and took another bite of cinnamon roll. And another. There was something restful about perusing local politics and events that didn’t concern him. By noon, he’d written a check to the investigator, unpacked all the boxes marked kitchen, called to subscribe to the Anchorage newspaper and wiped out the entire plate of cinnamon rolls. He washed the plate and set it in the drainer to dry. His family used to eat off blue-and-white plates not too different from this one when he was a boy.
His job was to wash dishes, and his mother would dry. She’d wipe each plate, stack them in the cupboard and sigh because there were only seven. He’d heard the story a dozen times. How her cousin had taken home a plate of leftovers one evening and moved off to California without ever returning the plate, leaving her with an incomplete set. He was never clear exactly why Mom couldn’t have asked for the plate back or bought another one, but she didn’t. Instead, she mourned the loss nightly.
He eyed the plate in his drainer. According to the note, the woman lived in the big house on the next property over. He needed to drive into Seward that afternoon to buy groceries. He could easily drop off the plate on the way. But his polite gesture could be misconstrued as a friendly overture, which posed a danger to his privacy. If he ignored her, she’d leave him alone.
And that was really Mac’s only goal in moving to Alaska. To be left alone.
* * *
URSULA HAD WAITED three long days, but the call never came. How was she going to convince the guy it was in his best interest to sell if he wouldn’t talk to her? Her cinnamon rolls seldom failed, but maybe he really didn’t eat gluten. Time to pull out the big guns.
She took a jar of smoked sockeye she’d canned last summer from her pantry. Chopped green onions, lemon juice, cream cheese and a few secret seasonings turned it into her special salmon dip. She filled a crock and tucked it into her backpack, along with a bag of moose jerky, and strapped on her snowshoes.
A fresh snow had obliterated the tracks on the ski trail since their aborted outing a few days ago. No doubt the groomer had laid fresh tracks on the main trails but he could no longer reach her property with the gates closed. Getting them opened should be her first order of business.
She reached the gate, relieved to see the SUV parked between the house and the garage. Good. He was home. Hopefully, the dog was in the house with him, but if not, she had a plan B. Ursula rattled the gate and waited.
Sure enough, a black-and-white blur bounded toward her, almost disappearing into the deep snow between leaps. The dog must be in great physical condition to be able to bark and run at the same time.
The pit bull reached the gate and bounced into the air, almost head high, barking. Ursula wasn’t sure this was going to work, but she had to try. She laid down her ski poles to take off her backpack. The barking stopped. She looked up. The pit bull still watched her. Ursula reached toward the poles, and a low rumble emanated from the dog’s throat.
Aha. “Bad experience with a stick? Poor puppy.” Ursula left the poles lying on the ground and spoke in a gentle voice. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’d never hurt you.” She unzipped her backpack, pulled out a stick of jerky and tore off a bite-size piece. “Would you like a treat?” She tossed the bite to the dog.
The dog jumped into the air to catch the tidbit. Tail wagging, it waited expectantly. Ursula smiled. “That’s a good boy.” She checked. “Girl, I mean. Want some more?”
The pit bull cocked her head. Ursula tossed another bite. The dog came closer and stuck her nose between the gate and the fence, wagging her tail harder. Ursula handed her another bit of jerky. The dog licked her hand and gently took the meat from her. “All that bluster is just for show, isn’t it? You’re really a marshmallow.”
The dog wagged in agreement. Leaving the ski poles behind, Ursula pulled the chain up over the post to unlatch the gate and slipped inside. She fastened the gate behind her and gave her new best friend another bite of jerky. Together, they crossed the meadow between the gate and the house, Ursula on snowshoes and the dog crashing through the snow beside her.
Before she reached the house, Ursula noticed a light in the window of the oversize detached garage. When Betty’s husband built it forty years ago, he’d included a woodworking space as well as room for cars. The light was coming from the workshop area.
The dog headed straight for the workshop and squeezed through a new dog hatch cut into the outer door. The door must not have been completely latched, because it opened when the dog pushed against it. Ursula removed her snowshoes, pulled the crock of salmon dip from her backpack and followed the dog inside.
The workshop featured an arctic entry, a small alcove inside the door leading to another door off to one side to keep the wind from blowing in every time someone opened the door. The inside door stood open, and the dog padded on into the main room. A bench against the wall held a box full of carved wood. Curious, Ursula picked up one of the pieces.
The polished wood retained the natural curves of a tree limb, but a face peered out from the wood grain—an inquisitive gnome with shaggy eyebrows and a long beard. The piece gave the impression that the face had been in the wood all along and just needed a skilled craftsman to let it out. A quick glance showed maybe a dozen similar carvings, each face unique. Enchanting.
The sound of the dog’s toenails clicking across the concrete floor of the shop reminded Ursula why she was there.
She returned the carving to the box and stepped inside, inhaling the piney scent of fresh sawdust. At the far end, a man perched on a stool. His profile revealed a strong brow and a determined jawline. A few gray threads wove through thick brown hair that could have used a trim. His full concentration was on the blade he was using to remove chips of wood from the chunk in his hand. The dog, lying on a cushion at his feet, wagged her tail when Ursula appeared. The man looked up and seemed anything but pleased to see her there.
Before he could speak, Ursula jumped in, determined to be friendly. “Forgive me for just walking in. The door was open.”
He didn’t smile back. “The sign says No Trespassing.”
“Oh, but I’m your next-door neighbor.” She took a step closer. “Ursula.”
He remained where he was. “How did you get past the dog?”
“We’re friends. Aren’t we, sweetie?” The dog trotted over to her and nudged her hand. Ursula sm
iled. “She likes my jerky.”
The man let out a huff of exasperation. “What do you want?”
Ursula licked her lip. “I came to see you. That is, I brought you some salmon dip. It’s homemade, from Copper River sockeye I smoked myself.” She held out the crock. “I hope you found the cinnamon rolls I left a few days ago.”
He made no move to accept her offering. “No, thanks. I’m busy right now, so—”
Okay, the friendly approach wasn’t working. Time to get down to business. She straightened to her full height. “This won’t take but a minute. What are your plans for the house? Are you fixing it up to sell? Because if you are, I’m interested in buying.”
“No. I have no plans to sell.”
“What if I’m willing to pay, say, ten percent more than you did? That’s a decent rate of return for a quick investment.”
“Not interested.” He returned his attention to the carving in his hand and flicked away a stray curl of wood.
For the first time, Ursula noticed more of the carved faces lying on the workbench beside him. Unlike the ones she’d seen in the box, these seemed tortured, in pain. The half-finished carving in his hand appeared to be screaming. She looked away. “If you do decide to sell, will you let me know before you list the property?”
“Yes. Fine. If I ever do, you’ll be at the top of my list. What was your name again?”
“Ursula. Ursula Anderson.”
“All right, Ms. Anderson. But don’t hold your breath.” He pushed his knife blade against the wood.
“Your carvings are amazing. I saw the ones on the bench in the entryway. Is there a name for that sort of sculpture?”
He concentrated on a cut he was making before he replied. “People call them wood spirits.”
“Wood spirits. That’s perfect.” She stepped closer and touched one lying on the workbench that appeared to be weeping. The wood was cool and smooth under her finger. “How do you decide what sort of face to carve?”
He gathered up the carvings and set them out of her reach. “I don’t have time for a discussion right now. If you’ll excuse me...”
She held up a hand. “Just one more little thing and then I’ll let you be. I don’t know if you know, but I run a bed-and-breakfast inn. The main skiing and hiking trails are just behind and to the east of your property, and there’s always been a right-of-way through your back corner connecting the ski trails to the trail across my property.”
“No. I don’t know anything about that.”
“Well, there is. Your gates are cutting my guests off from the trails. I’d much appreciate it if you’d open them.”
He stared at her as if she’d suggested he cut off his foot. “You want me to let a bunch of strangers traipse across my property?”
“Only that little corner in the back.”
“That rather defeats the purpose behind private property, don’t you think?”
“Not at all. I’ll make sure my guests understand they are to stay on the trails and not disturb you in any way.”
He stood, towering over her by a good six inches. “But I am disturbed. You’re disturbing me right now. One of the main selling points of this property was that it’s completely fenced and private.”
“Betty lived here for fifty years. She always kept the trail open, and never had a problem.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not Betty.”
“I’ve noticed.” Ursula couldn’t keep the frustration from her voice.
“Good. I’m glad we understand one another. Now, Ms. Anderson—”
“Ursula, please.” One more last-ditch attempt at friendly conversation.
“Ursula. Could you please take your salmon and your jerky and any other bribes you might have in that backpack of yours, and let yourself outside the fence before I have you arrested for trespassing?”
She bit back a retort. “I’ll go. But if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
“If you do, I’m the Forget-me-not Inn. You can get my number or email from the website.”
“Goodbye.”
Ursula gave the dog one final pat and left, shutting the door with more force than was necessary. She strapped on her snowshoes and returned the salmon dip to her pack. Looked like her guests arriving that evening would be getting a little extra treat to help make up for not being able to ski from the inn to the trails. At least she hoped it did, because it didn’t look like she was getting those gates opened anytime soon.
She wasn’t giving up. There had to be some way to convince the old grouch that a few skiers in the back corner of his lot weren’t going to kill him. She’d even have offered to pay an access fee if he’d let her talk. What was his problem anyway? He may have been a natural-born people hater, but there was more to his story than that. The agony in those wooden faces told her so.
* * *
“SOME GUARD DOG you are,” Mac growled. The pit bull hung her head and crept closer to him, liquid brown eyes begging for forgiveness. Mac laughed. “You don’t even know what you did, do you?”
She wagged her tail and licked his hand. The dog might put on a good show of ferocity for people ringing the doorbell or walking by, but she’d never actually met a person she disliked. And she seemed especially fond of this Ursula person. Of course, she was easily bribed.
Pushy woman. And yet Mac couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt for the way he’d treated her. She wasn’t a reporter, using him as a way to sell papers. She just wanted access to the ski trails. She wasn’t going to get it—Mac had no intention of allowing strangers on his land and he needed the fence for the dog—but it wasn’t an unreasonable request. And she had dropped off those amazing cinnamon rolls.
His mouth watered, thinking of them. She probably made an excellent salmon dip, too. It was bound to be better than the bologna sandwich he was probably going to have instead. He loved Copper River salmon. One of his favorite restaurants in Tulsa always had a special promotion in May when the first Copper River salmon arrived. Maybe the neighborly thing to do would have been to accept the food and politely refuse her request.
Listen to him—as susceptible as the dog about food bribes. Ursula seemed like a nice woman. She had the sort of face he liked, intelligent eyes with crinkles at the corners as if she smiled often, a faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
But even if Mac had wanted company, he was in no shape to be around other people. He was better off alone. And everyone else was better off away from him.
CHAPTER THREE
MAC ALMOST MADE it through the night, but early in the morning, the dreams came. He sat upright in bed, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. No more sleep tonight. He fed the dog, did his push-ups and started a pot of coffee. The blue-and-white plate still resting in the drainer scratched at his conscience. He was well within his rights to refuse to sell his property or allow strangers to cut through it, but that plate bugged him. He could almost hear his mother sighing.
You’d think one more feather on top of the load of guilt he was already carrying wouldn’t be noticeable, but it was. Fine. The rooster-shaped clock on the kitchen wall read five twenty-five. He could drop off the plate now and eat his breakfast with a clear conscience. Relatively.
After dressing and bundling up in a down parka and wool hat, he grabbed the plate and set off. The dog scratched on the window and barked. He hesitated. This errand required stealth. “If I take you, will you be good?”
Her body wiggled in agreement. He returned to rub some balm on her paws. He’d picked it up in Whitehorse when he’d noticed her feet seemed sore after playing in the snow, and it seemed to work well. He clipped a leash to her collar and set off once again. Surprisingly, he didn’t need his flashlight. Once his eyes adjusted, the moon reflecting off the snow provided plenty of light for him to make his way to the road
and along to the Forget-me-not Inn sign.
He followed the drive, flicking on his light when he reached the trees. After a few minutes, he came to a clearing. Moonlight illuminated a cedar building crowned with steep gables. A bench, small tables and several rocking chairs were scattered across the wide front porch. A snow shovel leaned against the wall.
He’d just leave the plate on the bench beside the door. He commanded the dog to sit-stay and started for the porch. As he reached the second stair, the front door opened and Ursula stepped outside, shaking dust and gravel off a rug and all over him.
“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry.” Her voice was apologetic, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
“No problem.” Mac dusted his coat with his free hand. “I was just returning your plate.”
“That’s thoughtful, but you didn’t have to do that.” She smiled, and it was like a sudden flash of sunshine, warming him. Her silver-shot hair fluttered in the breeze. “Come on in.”
“No, I need to go.” He handed her the plate. “But I did want to thank you for the cinnamon rolls. They were delicious.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed them.” She accepted the plate. “Seriously, come in for a cup of coffee. I just took a batch of blueberry muffins from the oven.”
“I don’t think—”
A squirrel scurried onto the porch and ran right up Ursula’s leg and body to sit on her shoulder. Ursula absentmindedly pulled an almond from the pocket of her jeans and handed it to the squirrel, who accepted it and stuffed it into his cheek. “What if I promise not to mention gates or property?”
Mac stared. “That’s a squirrel.”
“What? Oh, yes. This is Frankie.”
“You have a pet squirrel?”
She chuckled. “He’s not a pet, exactly. Frankie was orphaned, and I bottle-fed him until he was old enough to forage on his own. He stops by often to say hello.”
Alaskan Hideaway Page 3
