by Brenda Novak
“Excuse me?” she said. “You don’t even know me.”
He ignored her response. “What happened to your head?” he asked, indicating her stitches. “Were you in an accident?”
“Not exactly.”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t a bar fight, since I can’t see you even going into a bar.”
She folded her arms. “It was more like a prison fight.”
“You got into it with an inmate?”
“I was blindsided. Nothing I could do about it.”
His eyes slid down to the scar on her neck. “By one of the nut jobs you work with?”
“He isn’t a nut job. He knew exactly what he was doing.”
He scratched his neck. “You’re saying you were attacked. Again.”
She shrugged as if it hadn’t been a big deal, even though it sort of was. “Goes with the territory.”
With a shake of his head—in disgust?—he rested his hands on his lean hips. “God, no wonder you hate men.”
“I don’t hate men,” she argued. “You’ve just decided that you don’t like me because you don’t like what I’m doing.”
“I never said it was personal.” He gestured toward the building. “And I’m not the one who tore out the copper here and broke the windows, no matter what you think.”
“I would hope not, since you’re all I’ve got to rely on as far as bringing those who did it to justice.” Although there wasn’t any snow on the ground, the temperature was dropping significantly with nightfall. She buttoned her suit jacket to ward off the chill. “Anyway, you didn’t have to meet me tonight. You could’ve put it off.”
He shrugged. “I figured I might as well get it over with.”
Feeling rumpled after traveling for so long, she wished they had agreed to meet in the morning. She was worried about the extent of the damage, was eager to see it in case the reality might offset some of the worry, but she couldn’t deny possessing a certain amount of female vanity. She wanted Amarok to think she was pretty, and she could’ve made a better showing—but that was something she hadn’t been willing to kowtow to, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.
It was harder to be so cavalier, however, now that they were face to face. “I’ll be quick so that you can get back to...to enjoying your evening, then.” She gestured toward the entrance. “Where’s the damage? I suppose it’s inside?”
“It’s everywhere. You just can’t see it from the front. No doubt whoever did it was afraid they’d be spotted if someone pulled in—from the construction crew or whatever.”
“Have you spoken to the construction crew? Did any of them see anyone they didn’t recognize, or anyone who was acting unusual?”
“’Fraid not. Every single one claims everything was fine when they finished up for the night on Wednesday. Thursday morning they arrived to discover the damage.”
“And called you.”
He dipped his head in response.
“Where’s the copper?”
“It was piled in back, but I had them take it inside. With all the windows broken in the office section, and no real divide between that and the prison section at the moment, ‘inside’ provides little protection, but...I figured it was better than doing nothing.”
Evelyn frowned as they entered what was finished of Hanover House so far. “Do you think they were planning to come back and pick it up?”
“If so, they haven’t. I hung out here for quite a while last night, hoping they would.”
“That was nice of you,” she said.
He caught and held her gaze even though she was reluctant to let him. “I’ll take that as your apology for accusing me in the first place.”
“I didn’t accuse you.” She lifted her chin in umbrage. “I just... I know how you feel about this place.”
“Because I’ve made it no secret,” he said pointedly. “But I’m not dumb enough to come out in open opposition and then sabotage the construction.”
Evelyn had been prepared for some damage but what she saw proved even more disheartening than she’d expected. He’d been right about the “c” word. The construction crew had focused on trying to get some of the plumbing back in and had left the more superficial damage for later, which meant the graffiti was right there for her to read. “Apparently, someone feels very strongly that I should die.” She forced a smile with that statement as if it didn’t bother her, but he hesitated as if he could tell it did.
“I’m hoping that’s a figurative statement,” he said at length.
“Even if it isn’t, they’ll have to get in line.” Her heels clicked on the concrete as they walked through the facility.
“This makes me sick,” she said when they’d toured it all. “It’s such a waste to deface property like this. I worked so hard to get the money necessary to build this institution in the first place.”
He said nothing, just leaned against some 2x4’s that would soon be walls, and watched as she made a note of everything.
“Do you think it’ll be reported in the news?” she asked.
“Depends on who the construction workers tell. They’re from Anchorage, which isn’t ideal if you’d rather keep it quiet. I haven’t told anyone.”
She sighed as she turned to face him. “I can’t have this type of thing continue.”
“You’re going to hire a security guard, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but there’s not a lot of money left in the budget, especially now that we need to absorb this.”
He kicked a small piece of scrap wood across the room like a pebble. “From my perspective, you can’t afford not to have a guard.”
“But I’m not even sure it’ll solve the problem,” she said, watching the piece of wood until it came to rest. “The duration of the job will be too short to attract someone who doesn’t already live here. And if I hire someone who’s local, it’s possible he won’t be any more excited to have Hanover House in Hilltop than the person or people who did this. For all I know, I could wind up hiring the culprit.”
Amarok shoved off the studs and came toward her. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘You can trap more flies with honey than vinegar?’”
“Of course.” She took a step back. “But how does that apply here?”
He held up, but to a certain extent, the size of him still intimidated her. “I suggest you try a different approach, one where you establish a rapport with the community, show them you’re not what you appear to be.”
She smoothed her wrinkled suit. “You’re implying that I appear to be...what?”
“Aloof. An uptight outsider.”
He smelled good, but she didn’t really want to notice that—or the way his dark hair fell across his forehead with a slight curl on the ends. He needed a haircut, and yet she liked his hair exactly as it is, sort of unruly. He was different than any cop she’d ever met, she decided—different than any man she’d ever met. “I have a Boston accent. I can’t overcome the outsider part.”
“You could relax, be friendlier.”
“I’ve been friendly!” she argued, stung that he would suggest otherwise.
He ducked his head to peer into her face. “To the mayor and the city council, maybe.”
“I haven’t had the chance to get to know anyone else,” she said, lifting her hands in exasperation.
“Because you haven’t created the opportunity.”
“And how do I do that? Go knock on everyone’s door and introduce myself?” She struck a prayer-like pose. “Ask if I could please join the community?”
“You wouldn’t have to go that far. All you’d have to do is come down to The Moosehead now and then, give folks a chance to speak to you.”
She shoved the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. “You really think that would help?”
“I do. Everyone’s curious about you, what you’re doing here, whether it’s going to work out and how it’ll impact their lives. They’ve seen you on TV and they’ve seen you around town, here and there, getting gas o
r groceries. But you’re largely a mystery. And people are often afraid of the unfamiliar.” He looked around. “Maybe the vandalism is a result of that fear and you could make it go away by offering a little reassurance.”
That actually made sense. She’d been so busy, so focused, she hadn’t even considered that she might be able to change the way she was perceived here, might be able to smooth the path for her move to Hilltop. “But The Moosehead’s a bar, isn’t it?”
At the uncertainty in her voice, he shook his head. “Forget it. There’s no helping you.”
“What?”
“If you don’t want the folks around here to feel as if you’re looking down on them, you can’t act too good for The Moosehead. It’s where they go every weekend, how they socialize.”
“I’m not looking down on The Moosehead. I don’t go to bars because it’s like...false advertising.”
“False advertising?” he echoed.
She could tell she’d caught his interest. “Nightclubs are where people go to find...other people.”
“Yeah, like friends. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“If you’ve seen me on TV, then you know my history. It’s not friends I’m worried about.” She started scooting the trash on the ground around her into a small pile with one foot. “I don’t do well with any...sexual interest. So why go out dancing? That’s like putting goods on display that aren’t for sale.”
When she risked a glance at his face, she saw that he was frowning. “Then you’re not over it,” he said softly.
She could tell he was talking about Jasper’s attack. “Of course I’m over it. I’m as over it as I’m going to get, anyway. I’ll just...never be able to participate in certain...things, that’s all.”
“Like…?”
“Dancing. Making out.” She cleared her throat as if there was more but she didn’t continue.
“And…?”
When she gave him a pointed look instead of answering, she could tell he understood that sex was also on the list, but he didn’t seem as put off as she expected.
“What if you had a police escort?” he asked. “What if I’d be there tonight to look after you? And what if I promised—gave you my word—that I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you? Would you be able to trust me? To unwind a bit? Maybe have a few drinks and make yourself accessible?”
Everyone loved Amarok. He commanded a great deal of respect in Hilltop. That he was offering to be her liaison with the community might make a big difference. Maybe, with his help, she could build a bridge...
“I think so,” she said, but she couldn’t help envisioning the dark, smoky atmosphere, the smell of alcohol and the close press of bodies on the dance floor, where it would be so easy to get groped. It made her nervous. She didn’t know anyone here, not really. She didn’t even know Amarok. And yet...she felt she could trust him. “Just...I didn’t have time to mess with getting my gun on the plane, so...you-you can’t leave me there alone. You have to keep your word.”
“I always keep my word,” he said. “I’ll be your designated driver, see that you get home safely.”
She bit her lip as she stared at all the hateful messages that’d been spray-painted on the walls.
“Go back to Boston.”
“Pretentious bitch.”
“You’re not gonna change our town.”
And those were the nice ones, the ones without so much profanity.
She drew a deep breath. “Then, sure. Why not? I can do it.”
A puzzled expression claimed his face. “You’re acting as if you’re about to step into a boxing ring where you’ll get your ass kicked. Is it going to be that difficult for you?”
She straightened her jacket. “No.”
“Great. Let’s go,” he said, but she stopped him.
“Wait. Do I look okay? I’ve been on a plane all day. Maybe I should find a mirror—”
“All you need to do is change. Do you have anything that makes you look more...approachable than that suit?”
She gazed down at her clothes. “You don’t like what I’m wearing?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, no one in Hilltop wears a suit—especially to the bar on a Friday night.”
Her mind raced through what she’d put in her suitcase: two more suits and a pair of sweats for when she was alone and hanging out at her bungalow. “I don’t have anything that might be appropriate,” she admitted.
“You don’t have a pair of jeans?”
“Not...not with me.”
He rolled his eyes as if he’d never met anyone quite so socially deficient. And he probably hadn’t. What’d happened to her at sixteen had ruined her ability to form meaningful connections with other people. Since she’d lost her best friends—in the worst possible way—she’d been afraid to get too close to anyone else for fear that person would somehow be taken from her too.
She didn’t care to suffer more loss. It was easier to devote herself to her work and find meaning and purpose there. So she didn’t have “friends”; she had “professional associates.” And she didn’t buy a lot of casual clothing—other than the sweats she wore when she was home alone—because she rarely went anywhere that required jeans and blouses.
“Then we’ll make do with what you’ve got,” he said. “But once we get inside, where it’s warm, at least lose the jacket.”
“Okay,” she said and followed him back to town.
Chapter 6
Amarok sat at the bar with Evelyn and bought her a drink. He wasn’t sure why he was trying to help her mitigate the hostility the folks in Hilltop felt toward her. He was pissed that she’d managed to get that monstrosity of a prison built so close to his town. But, from the news reports, he had a small inkling of what she’d been through in the past. He felt bad about that. And, if he was being honest, there was just...something about her—besides the fact that she was beautiful. When she quit acting so formal and let down her guard, just a little because it never went down much, it was almost as if he could see the sixteen year old girl who’d been so terribly hurt staring back at him...
That made him angry. Protective.
She’d essentially admitted that she couldn’t make love, which was a damn shame. Not only was she beautiful, she was smart, accomplished, dynamic. And now that she’d had a drink and was laughing and talking more freely, he was starting to like her—probably more than he cared to. It wasn’t fair that she would be denied such an important and fulfilling part of life.
“So this is the best you can do?” She was talking to Shorty, who owned The Moosehead and had just handed her a new drink. A small, wiry man in his late fifties, he was one of Amarok’s favorite people and had been since Amarok was a kid. He’d started flirting with Evelyn the moment she sat down, but he was going about it so outrageously that Amarok could tell she wasn’t feeling threatened.
“A drink doesn’t get any better,” Shorty insisted.
“I’ll decide that for myself once I taste it,” she teased and nudged Amarok. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
“I think he just made it up,” Amarok said. “Because I’ve never heard of a Wild Bill.”
“Then you have to try it.” She held out her glass to him, something he was fairly certain a completely sober Evelyn would not have done.
He took a sip. “Can’t say as it does much for me. I prefer a decent beer.”
She finally sampled it herself. “I like it,” she said. “I like it a lot.”
As the night progressed, various townspeople came over and Amarok introduced her. Most nodded politely, then watched her with a wary reserve. But the more she drank and opened up, the more they did the same.
Before too long she seemed to be having a great time. Amarok got the impression she hardly ever let go, that this was an unusual but much-needed release, and was glad he’d brought her—until Ken Keterwee, who owned a well-drilling and septic tank business, asked her to dance. Amarok had seen him standing off to one side, tryi
ng to screw up the courage, and had planned to head him off before he could reach her. But Ken, a big, barrel-chested man of about forty, with hands the size of bear paws, had made his move while Amarok was distracted by something Shorty had said. So Amarok was a little late when he jumped in.
“Not tonight, Ken,” he said.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Ken joked.
Before Amarok could reinforce his “no,” Evelyn got off her stool. The stubborn smile she wore let him know she was determined to rise to the challenge he’d given her by bringing her here.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I-I can dance.”
She’d told him she couldn’t, so Amarok knew she’d feel more secure staying with him, here at the bar. The floor was fairly crowded, which meant she’d get jostled, and once Ken and some of the other guys got a few drinks in them, they might not think about what she’d been through and how the most innocent physical contact could affect her. At the very least, Ken would probably step on her feet a few times with those big cowboy boots of his. “Maybe you can get on the floor next time you come here for a drink,” he said to her, but she waved him off and allowed Ken to lead her away.
Because he’d promised to be her designated driver, Amarok limited himself to a single beer as he watched. She seemed to do fine with Ken. She seemed to do fine when Johnny Milner, a butcher, asked her to dance after, and then Jim Studemeyer, who built cabins and bungalows and had built hers. It wasn’t until a slow song came on that she threw him a glance filled with any hint of distress. Then he knew she’d had enough of socializing with her new friends and strode out to rescue her so that she wouldn’t have to say no herself.
“Whoa, boys, I bet Evelyn’s head is spinning,” he said, pulling her away before Ken could get his beefy arms around her. “We’d better let her sit down for a bit.”
“What the hell, Amarok?” Ken complained. “I’ll buy you a drink if you’ll just leave us alone and go back to the bar.”
“I am going back to the bar, and I’m taking Evelyn with me,” he said. But they’d only gone a few steps when she tugged on his hand.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
