by Stacy Finz
“You sure?” Maddy asked.
“Positive.” They exchanged cell phone numbers and left with the promise that Harlee would keep them abreast of Colin’s condition and would call when she needed a ride. They’d also take care of Max in the interim.
Subsequently, a hospital volunteer came to escort her to Colin’s room. The short-stay unit was next to the intensive care unit, which was next to orthopedics. All on the second floor. It was a small country hospital to be sure. Harlee’s father worked at Alta Bates in Oakland, which was ten times the size.
At least Colin had a single room. Although barely large enough for a hospital bed, table, and a narrow chair, which held his neatly folded clothes, she knew he would be glad for the privacy. Sound asleep, he took in shallow breaths as he struggled to draw in air. As big and strong as he was, he looked vulnerable lying there. She reached for him and then thought better of it. He needed to rest.
Instead, Harlee grabbed the small plastic pitcher from the table and went in search of ice.
By the time she got back, Colin had come awake, staring at the wall, bleary eyed, seemingly trying to get a fix on where he was.
“Hey.” She returned the pitcher to the table and took his hand. “Welcome back. You’re in the hospital.”
“Yeah,” he said, struggling to sit up. “I think they told me I have a lung infection. But maybe I dreamt that.”
“Nope. You have a bad flu, complicated by pneumonia.” She gently pushed him back down. “You want something to drink?”
“How come you’re here?” He tried to elevate the top of the bed but couldn’t find the remote, so she did it for him.
“I came with you in the ambulance. You don’t remember?”
“I think so. It’s a little hazy.”
“Maddy and Rhys came too . . . in their car,” she said, brushing hair away from his face. “They’re worried about you. But Rhys was concerned about the baby. You’re probably pretty contagious.”
“Why didn’t you go home with them?”
“I thought you should have company.” She went into the closet-sized bathroom, where she filled the pitcher with water and poured him a glass, feeding it to him from a straw. “Thirsty?”
“Yeah,” he said, draining the cup. “My mouth feels like someone jammed it with cotton.”
“I’ll get you some juice in a few minutes.”
“You should’ve gone home, Harlee.”
“You’ll be happy I stayed. I used to be a candy striper.”
“Really? You still have the uniform?” He lifted his brows suggestively.
She figured he must be delirious to flirt with her so overtly, because he’d never done it before. Just that one, mind-blowing kiss and a lot of heated gazes. He made room so she could scoot onto the edge of the bed.
“By the way, this”—she waved her hand over him in the hospital bed—“has nothing to do with acupuncture. You said the acupuncturist tried to kill you.”
“I did?” He let out a scratchy chuckle.
“Right before you went down for the count,” she said. “And what’s this about you getting knocked over the head a while back? One of the paramedics told me about it.”
He pulled the blanket tighter around him. She took the one folded at the bottom of the bed and tugged it up under his chin.
“When we first started rehabbing the Lumber Baron, I found a meth lab in the basement,” Colin said. “The owner wanted his stash back. Unfortunately, he believed that I was standing in the way of that happening, so he bashed me over the head with a tree branch.”
“Oh my God. You could’ve been killed. Was he ever caught?”
Colin’s eyes fluttered closed. “Yeah. Rhys shot him.”
Dead? she wondered. But Colin was dozing off and she wanted him to rest. She started to move away, but he grabbed her hand. Then he lifted the blanket and pulled her under.
“Sleep,” he said, fitting against her like a spoon.
Chapter 12
It took Colin two weeks to recover and even still he wasn’t 100 percent. But he’d only had to spend one night in the hospital. The next day, Rhys had picked him and Harlee up and he’d convalesced in his own bed.
Harlee had spent the entire time fussing over him, the nurturing so alien he didn’t quite know how to respond. Even though Fiona had hovered when Colin had first gotten out of Donovan, the outside world was such a foreign place that he was constantly on guard, never letting anyone, even the people he loved, too close.
Ever since Della’s book came out, furniture sales had gone crazy. Harlee had taken over the business, checking his email and website daily for orders and methodically keeping his books. The woman couldn’t balance her own checkbook, but he noticed she was meticulous with his. Griffin came regularly to help her package up heavy pieces for FedEx and UPS, which trekked up and down Colin’s driveway so many times, he’d lost track. He wasn’t thrilled about having Griffin in his space, spending so much time with Harlee, not to mention making Colin feel like an invalid because he couldn’t get out of bed.
But he reminded himself to be grateful. Like Griffin, some of the other townsfolk pitched in. Emily brought soups and her famous lasagna. Maddy kept him in books and magazines. Mariah made regular visits, commandeering his blender to make him the green smoothies he liked so much, while updating him on the house and Sophie’s progress. She was almost ready to pop. Darla showed up a couple times a week, to sit by his side, talk his ear off, and generally drive him crazy.
And one day it hit him like a two-ton bag of bricks. He had friends. By nature, Nugget was the kind of town that pulled together in times of crisis or need. The people here looked out for one another. Being this remote necessitated self-reliance. But as much as Colin had gone out of his way to avoid becoming part of the community, they’d taken him in anyway.
How betrayed would they feel when they found out the truth? They’d run him out of town with shotguns. That’s what they’d do. As generous as this town could be, it could also be a judgmental bitch. Colin had seen it firsthand when Nugget residents had tried to take down Maddy and Nate’s inn, fearful that it would turn the town into a tourist trap.
And Harlee? How would she feel? The answer was too screwed up to contemplate. So he tried not to. Instead, he dragged his ass out of bed, showered, dressed, and fired up the Vitamix. He took his smoothie with him into the office, where he emailed a few different designs for Emily and Clay’s kitchen.
He had a lot of catching up to do. The phone rang, Colin checked caller ID, and answered.
“Hi, Fiona.”
“Is it still snowing there?” she asked, and Colin looked outside the window.
“Not at the moment. Why?”
“I just want to make sure you’re still coming. You’re feeling better, right?”
“I’m feeling good and you know I’m coming,” he said. Colin had made the trip every Christmas since moving to Nugget.
“I hope so. I don’t like you driving on the slick roads.”
“In a week it could be sunny and dry.” Not likely, but if it eased Fiona’s mind . . .
She cleared her throat and said, “I don’t want you to go to the cemetery this year. You’ve paid your debt, Colin. Enough.”
“It’ll never be enough, Fiona. Never.”
“You know how I feel about this,” she said, and he did, because they’d been over it a million times. “What happened that night . . . It’s time to move on, Colin.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Fi. Look, let’s not do this. I’m looking forward to seeing you, Steve, and the kids. What should I get them, by the way?”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “Just get here in one piece.”
“I’ll call you before I leave.”
“Col,” she said, stopping him before he hung up. “I have a friend I want you to meet.”
He rested his forehead against his computer monitor. “No friends, Fiona.”
“She’s great, beautiful
, and you’ll love her.”
“Not interested.”
“You’re never interested, Colin. It all goes back to the fact that you’re continuing to punish yourself. You deserve to have a good life, Col. To have companionship. Someone who’ll love you.”
“I’m seeing someone, all right? I’ve gotta go, Fiona.” And with that he hung up. He shouldn’t have told her that. First off, it wasn’t true. He didn’t know what Harlee and he were doing, but technically they weren’t seeing each other. He was pretty sure that involved dates—and sex. They weren’t having either. Secondly, Fiona would interrogate him until the cows came home.
“Come on, Max, let’s take a walk,” he called to the dog.
Max trotted out from underneath the desk, thumping his tail. Colin shrugged into his ski jacket, pulled a wool beanie over his head, and tugged on a pair of fingerless gloves. It was cold and he didn’t want to have a relapse. Tomorrow he was due back at work on Sophie and Mariah’s house.
Man and dog trudged up the driveway, then down the hill to Harlee’s house. But she wasn’t there. Probably went into town to hang out with Darla or to buy groceries, Colin decided, and headed home to his wood shop.
He was halfway up Grizzly Peak when he heard Harlee’s Pathfinder. He started back down, Max at his heels, but when he got to the top of her drive, he saw Harlee wasn’t alone. Griffin was helping her unload a Christmas tree from the top of the truck rack. While he pulled the tree down and stuck the base inside a stand, Harlee gathered up enough snow from the slushy remains, made a snowball, and threw it at Griffin. Griffin chased her, hurling his own snowball in retaliation. Too busy laughing, neither noticed Colin.
He stood there a few minutes, watching them carry the red fir pine through the front door. They looked good together. Too good. Colin turned around and went home.
Christmas passed in a blur of thunderstorms and white flurries. After suffering four days of cabin fever with her family, including a sniveling toddler, Harlee decided to make the pilgrimage to town and meet Darla at the barbershop. She took Max, her four-legged charge until Colin got home from LA, for a quick walk, hopped into her SUV, drove to town, and parked on the square.
Inside, Darla sat in Owen’s chair in front of the mirror, removing red and green ribbons from her hair. It looked to Harlee like they’d been woven in, which seemed like a lot of work just for Christmas. But she supposed Darla had plenty of time on her hands.
“Hey,” Darla said, standing up to buss Harlee on the cheek. “The fam finally gone?”
“Yes.” Harlee said. “I love ’em, but thank God. How was your mom and Sacramento?”
“Looking better every day.”
Harlee knew that business at the barbershop still hadn’t picked up. “It’s the holidays, Darla. People can’t afford haircuts. They’re tapped out from buying Christmas gifts.”
Darla tipped her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “Harlee, it’s the busiest time of year for a stylist, and you know it. I really thought the products would make the difference, get people in the door. Connie came in for layers a few days before Christmas. But since then, nada.”
Harlee started to give her a pep talk, but Darla stopped her. “I so don’t want to think about this right now.”
That was a sentiment Harlee could identify with, given her own issues. Although DataDate trucked along, generating roughly a new assignment every week, she was still broke, in debt, and her search for a newspaper job had netted exactly nothing.
“You want me to play with your hair?” Darla took out the last ribbon and pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail. Today it was plain old natural blond, the way Harlee liked Darla’s hair the best. “I could give you an updo or something.”
“Sure.” Harlee didn’t really want an updo, but maybe passersby would see her in the chair and think Darla had a booming clientele. Looking busy was everything when it came to marketing. Harlee had friends who wouldn’t step foot in a restaurant unless they couldn’t get a table.
Darla got out of the chair, cleaned it with a rag that smelled like alcohol, and motioned for Harlee to hop up. She scoured a pile of magazines in the waiting area and came back with a People. “What do you think of something like this?” She showed Harlee a picture of Zooey Deschanel in a modern-day chignon with bangs. “She looks like you.”
Harlee had been told before that she resembled the actress. “Okay.” The style really was quite nice, and conservative by Darla’s standards.
Darla got to work back-combing Harlee’s hair for volume. “When is Colin coming home?”
“I’m not sure,” she said.
He’d sent her a text to ask about Max, but that had been their only communication. Before he’d left, Colin had hastily dropped off the dog and a gift—a gorgeous jewelry box he’d made—barely saying a word. She’d sensed that he was anxious about going home.
The man could be such a mystery, but no doubt about it, Harlee had a thing for him. She’d never considered herself as having a type, but if you would’ve asked her two months ago, it would not have been Colin Burke. He was too quiet, too solitary, and too . . . well, mountain-mannish. The men she dated in the city had polish. They went to the best restaurants, drove Teslas, and subscribed to Wired magazine. And they would’ve had her naked by now.
But unlike those men, Colin was steady, real, and a million times more complicated. He was also a million times more detached.
“I had hoped he’d be here by tomorrow. In time for our New Year’s Eve bash,” Darla said. They were having drinks and bowling at the Ponderosa.
Darla reached for a bristle brush, when the bells chimed over the door. A woman Harlee had never seen before came in looking frazzled but well dressed. Everything from her supple leather handbag to her cashmere camel coat spoke money.
“Can you fix this?” she asked, taking off an angora beret. It looked like someone had gone to town on her hair with a machete.
Darla lifted her brows and asked mildly, “What happened?”
She let out a breath. “I’m a cutter.”
When Harlee quietly examined her for whatever knife or scissor marks she could find, the woman let out a wry laugh. “Just my hair.”
Darla stepped closer to get a better look at the damage. “I could cut it real short, or try to layer. But it’s pretty chopped.” She grimaced, because chopped didn’t begin to describe the woman’s hair.
“I’d prefer to keep some length,” she said, taking in her surroundings. “The lady over at the inn recommended you. I didn’t realize it was a barbershop.”
Apparently she’d missed the large red, white, and blue barber pole outside.
“We’re unisex,” Darla said.
The woman took off her coat and draped it over one of the waiting chairs. “Okay. Can you fit me in after her?” She nudged her chin at Harlee.
“Oh,” Harlee said, “we’re just playing. Let me check Darla’s appointment book.”
Darla glowered at her like she’d gone mad. But Harlee knew this kind of woman. Hell, in an earlier life, she’d been this kind of woman, and appearances meant everything. Camel Coat could be a regular if they played their cards right. So she ignored Darla’s dagger stares, walked over to the cash register, grabbed the iPad sitting there, and pretended to scroll through it. “Um, you don’t have anyone else coming in until two.”
The woman glanced at her watch, which Harlee was pretty sure was a Patek Philippe. “Is that enough time?”
Darla slanted Harlee another WTF look and waved the lady into the chair. “I think so. I’m Darla, by the way, and this is my trusted assistant, Harlee.” Again with the look.
“Samantha,” she said.
Darla wrapped a cape around Samantha and played with her trashed hair in the mirror, sifting her fingers through the woman’s auburn locks and weighing them in the palm of her hand. “This is what I’m thinking, Samantha.”
“Sam. Everyone calls me Sam.”
“Okay, Sam.” Darla
pulled Samantha’s hair to above her chin. “I’d take it to about here.” “I’m thinking choppy bob. You good with that?”
Sam pulled a face. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.” Darla shook her head. “Not really.”
“All right. Go for it.”
Darla walked her to the shampoo bowl while Harlee tried to get a closer look at the designer name on Sam’s purse. Prada. Harlee happened to know that her shoes were Christian Louboutin—the red soles gave them away—and retailed for nine hundred bucks at Barneys.
“How do you know Maddy at the Lumber Baron?” Harlee asked.
“I’m staying there,” she said. “I got off the interstate to find a ladies’ room and there it was. Such a charming place.”
“Where you headed?” Harlee tried to look receptionist-like, straightening magazines and flitting around the room as if there were a million details to see to in Nugget’s most prominent salon. Look at us, so professional.
“I don’t know yet,” she said as Darla twisted a towel around Sam’s wet hair. “Any ideas?”
Harlee and Darla stopped to see if the woman was joking.
“Christmas Day I got in my car to go to a wedding and just kept driving.”
“Where was the wedding?” Harlee asked.
“New York City.” She said it so nonchalantly, her eyes slightly glazed, that Harlee thought she might be a little cuckoo. “It’s actually a straight shot—2,786 miles. I clocked it. The roads got a little dicey in Illinois and Nebraska—black ice. But everything was so crisp. Fresh. And the people in Wyoming . . . salt of the earth.”
“You didn’t know where you were going?” Harlee asked.
“Nope.”
Darla caught Harlee’s eye as if to say “Is this woman messing with our heads?” because that’s like a forty-hour drive to make on the spur of the moment with no destination in mind.
“But you stopped along the way, right?” Darla began cutting her hair.
“Of course. I needed clothes.” The woman was wearing a Diane von Fürstenberg pantsuit.
Harlee and Darla looked at each other again. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Uh, bipolar.
