Evernight Publishing ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2015 Pumpkin Spice
ISBN: 978-1-77233-541-5
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Karyn White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
This was always written for a young woman I greatly admire and imagine as a modern-day heroine. She’s my Scarlett, with a devotion to family and a passion that is yet to be ignited. Like every young woman she’s just waiting for the right hero to come crashing into her life. I know he will, and I can’t wait to watch her love story unfold.
To CM, with all my love, Pumpkin
SCARLETT HOOD & THE HUNTER
The Amāre Tales, 1
Pumpkin Spice
Copyright © 2015
Chapter One
Why does she have to live so far from town? The Dark Forest was especially dim this evening. I pivoted on the heel of my boot. The Enchanted Forest tavern faintly glowed behind me.
The Enchanted Forest tavern wasn’t actually in the forest, but rather on the outskirts of the merry little town of Amāre. While the tavern was housed in a charming cottage with amber colored-roof shingles and slanted eaves where lanterns hung to light the way for travelers, just beyond its reach lay the Dark Forest. And there wasn’t anything enchanted about the Dark Forest. It was a place where even the most skilled huntsman wouldn’t travel.
Seriously. Why does she live out here? I stepped around the fallen foliage that scattered the dirt path like strewn matchsticks. I knew the way to my grandmother’s house, but there was something in the air that sent a chill throughout my body and settled on my scalp. It felt like someone was watching me. But when I turned in either direction, all I saw were giant sequoias and fir trees that stretched high into the evening sky and surrounded me in green. I shuddered, pulled up my hoodie, and tucked my long, red, wavy hair inside my cap. It did nothing to warm me or change the fact that it was way too late to be traveling to Granny’s house alone, but the pink bakery box that was tucked in my backpack and kept pressing into my shoulder reminded me why I was headed there. The bottle of merlot that seemed to swish with every step was the only incentive to keep tracking forward.
“Cake and wine,” I said to the black crow that seemed to hop along with me from one tall tree branch to the next keeping me company. “It’s the makings for a perfect pick-me-up.” The crow took flight and landed on the succeeding limb. Pine needles fell like confetti from the sky and scattered beneath my feet. “Are you following me?” I paused, and for a moment I considered grabbing my camera. But I knew once I pulled it out, I’d lose track of time. It’s what always happened when I was off duty from the radio station and shooting for fun.
When I no longer had to photograph for the purpose of the station’s online photo gallery that updated listeners to stories we were covering on the air, I could let my mind wander. Something about a deadline seemed to put a chokehold on my creativity, but when it wasn’t looming over my head, I was free to let my lens capture whatever it saw. That was the beauty of photography. Through the lens an entirely new world opened up to me. My camera allowed me to see things I normally wouldn’t. And I could only imagine what it would spot in the distance as soon as I focused on the raven.
“Can’t stop now,” I said to the black bird. “Granny’s been sick and needs a little cheer me up. And nothing says, ‘Get better soon!’ than dessert and vino.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
His voice came out of nowhere. I jumped and screamed in tandem. “What the hell!” The crow flew from its perch, and suddenly I felt very alone with the dark-haired man that stepped out of the shadows of the forest.
“Hello,” he said.
“What a deep voice you have!” The startled thought blurted from my mouth.
“The better to greet you with, my dear.” He stepped into the light, and I took a step back.
Shit, shit, shit. What do I do? My cell phone was in the front pocket of my backpack, which was slung over my shoulder and out of reach.
His eyes were large and as dark as the raven’s. They seemed to bore into me, and I couldn’t stop staring.
“Goodness, what big eyes you have!” My thoughts were running random, sporadic, and seemed to fly out of my mouth as soon as I thought them.
“The better to see you with, my dear.” The man slowly walked toward me, and I backed away in equal measure. He was sharply dressed in a gray pinstriped suit, crisp white dress shirt, and a silver tie. Definitely overdressed for the forest. He’s not a lumberjack that’s for sure. Maybe he’s one of the corporate lawyers trying to get the lumberjacks to unionize.
“I mean you no harm,” he said and held up his hands. He palmed an iPhone in his right hand. “If you’d like to call someone.” He extended it toward me.
I shook my head. It’s a trap. I don’t know what kind of trap, but it’s got to be, right? I grab the phone and he grabs me. “No,” I said curtly. “Thank you, but no.”
“All right. I understand. I’d be leery, too,” he said. “But perhaps you could help me?” His voice softened. “I got turned around in this maze of trees, and I can’t seem to find my way back home.” He pointed behind him. “I met with a client and then after I left her house.” He shook his head, but his perfectly coifed black hair didn’t move. “I seemed to have turned right when I probably should’ve turned left?”
He seemed genuinely confused. Still, I crossed my arms over my chest. There were only a handful of home owners that lived in the Dark Forest. And I knew all of them. They worked with my Granny at the Bunyan lumber yard. “Well maybe I can help,” I said. “Whose house were you leaving?”
When he smiled, large, white teeth flashed. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my clients.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s a bummer because if I knew where you were coming from I could help you get back to where you started.” Two can play this game, buddy. I started to walk away—slow enough that I didn’t look like I was scared, but fast enough that he knew I meant business.
“Fair enough,” he said to my back.
I kept trudging forward.
“Babe. I was at Babe’s house.”
I stopped in my tracks. Babe Ox was the love of Paul Bunyan’s life. She was the head cook he’d hired to oversee the man camp. And as the legend goes, Babe and Bunyan fell in love during the winter of the blue snow. Theirs was a love affair for the ages. Her wheat cakes and country baked hams were as legendary as his logging skills. When Paul died, Babe inherited the men’s bunkhouses, shanty camp, and lumber yard that represented the largest timber supply in North America. Babe’s fortune was in the countless millions.
“You were at Babe’s house?” The change in my tone couldn’t go unnoticed. Babe had become somewhat of a recluse after Bunyan died. The lumber yard practically ran itself, so there wasn’t much need for her to participate in the daily operation. According to Granny, Babe only socialized at the monthly Bunco night, and that’s only because Granny and her cronies wouldn’t let Babe sit home alone night after night. It was highly unlikely that this Mr. Gray Suit was at Babe’s house.
“Yes, Miss Ox and I had many items to go over and discuss,” he said.
Well I’ll
give the man street cred for knowing they never married. But still…
“Time got away from me, and when we ended our meeting, the sun was no longer shining to point the way home,” he said.
“Uh-huh. Well, if you were coming from Babe’s house there was no right or left turn to be taken. Her house is a direct path from the lumber yard. So if you get back on the dirt path and head south,” I said and hiked my thumb over my shoulder, “you’ll hit the yard and the parking lot within twenty minutes.” I rolled my shoulder to distribute the weight in my backpack. It did nothing but cause the bakery box to dig further into my skin. “Have a good night.”
I started toward Granny’s house. I assumed the mystery man was walking away from me and toward the lumber yard and his car. I assumed wrong.
“Excuse me,” he said.
I turned around, and I’m sure my face conveyed my frustration. If it didn’t, the agitation in my voice did. “What?”
“I was wondering if you had any extra dessert that you wouldn’t mind sharing?” He patted his stomach. “I have not eaten since morning.”
“Are you kidding me?” I placed my hands on my hips and took a broad stance against this man. I was, after all, in my favorite calico print skirt that hit just above my knee, and happened to show off my amazing new honey-colored boots that weren’t designed for kicking someone’s ass, but I’m sure the heel could do the job if I didn’t fall first because they were still kind of slick. Didn’t matter. I’d gladly scuff my new boots and fall on my ass in the process because this guy was seriously pissing me off. “I don’t even know who you are or what you’re really doing here.”
He took three giant steps in my direction. A long, thin arm extended toward me like a vine unwrapping itself. This man seemed to unfold before me. The top of his hand was covered in thick, dark hair so that I almost mistook it for a glove.
“What big hands you have!” I no longer seemed to care about proper etiquette. Everything I thought flew out of my mouth randomly and at will.
“Ah, the better to help you with, my dear.”
His hands were big and hairy. Ew. I didn’t want to touch him, let alone grasp and shake his hand, but hell if he didn’t keep extending his mitt like some peace offering. Great.
I quickly shook his hand.
“I’m Bernie Wolfe,” he said in his deep, dark voice.
“I’m Scarlett Hood.” I quickly withdrew my hand and then tucked it into the front pocket of my hoodie where I tried to wipe away the feeling of all that hair. Uh. Gross.
He tilted his head, and dark eyes gleaned under the dawn of moonlight. “As in Wood Hood?” His voice deeper and darker. “The Neighborhood Logging Collective?”
“It’s my grandmother’s. She founded it.”
He slowly nodded. “What a funny, strange coincidence. I was just talking to Miss Ox about your grandmother’s cooperative. I thought she sold her shares?”
I loudly exhaled. “Yeah, I don’t discuss my grandmother’s business with strangers.”
His toothy grin filled his face. “Oh, but you see Miss Hood, I’m not just a stranger. I’m friends with Miss Ox.”
Yeah, whatever. I hefted my backpack over my shoulder and resumed walking.
“So that dessert?” His voice called out after me.
Fat chance, buddy.
“I thought we could share some of it?”
You thought wrong. I continued to walk away from him.
“Well, that is a shame. I’ll have to tell Miss Ox that I was only able to save her from financial ruin and not her dear friend Mrs. Hood.”
Rumors had circulated that Blue’s holdings were in jeopardy. Tree huggers and environmentalist trying to shut down her mill and lumber yard had wrought havoc on her holdings. But that’s all I thought they were—rumors.
“Yes, it will be a shame when your grandmother’s hard earned collective is lost,” he said. “It will affect many townsmen.” His voice drifted toward me like a snake hissing along the ground.
Granny’s cooperative had begun when the local lumberjacks complained about their wages. Granny had been cooking beside Blue in the men’s camp when the two women drafted the idea of a neighborhood logging collective. The idea was that, like collective farming, the lumberjacks would be compensated not by wages, but by a share of the lumberyard’s net productivity. Granny presented the idea to Bunyan, who Blue had already convinced was a better business model for the men in his camp. Bunyan got on board, and the Neighborhood Logging Collective was born. In honor of my Granny Wood, the lumberjacks nicknamed the Neighborhood Logging Collective, “Wood Hood.”
The union had long wanted to disband the logging collective and have set wages. Wood Hood treated the lumberjacks as equals with owners Blue and Bunyan, giving the men a stake in the company. Productivity was tied to their earnings, so it created a win-win for everyone. But the union was persistent. It pushed the men for set wages because if the lumberjacks unionized the union would get a hefty piece of the profit. When Bunyan was alive, he fought off the union wolves. But now that he was dead and Blue was mourning, my Granny was all alone in the war against the union pack. The success and viability of Wood Hood was tied to Blue’s lumberyard. Granny didn’t discuss much in terms of finances, but I knew from looking at her cupboards that things weren’t going as well as they could. The union wolves were circling, and Granny couldn’t stave off the pack alone.
I turned on the heel of my boot. “So how exactly could you save my Granny—if she were even to need saving.”
“Why don’t we stop and indulge in that delicious bakery treat you’re carrying and I’ll tell you all about it? I can smell the wonderfulness of chocolate and vanilla from here.”
This guy could track down the Gingerbread Man by his nose alone.
“Won’t you share your dessert with me?” His voice dripped with innocence, but I could swear I heard the undertone of deceit. “Please?”
In any other town than Amāre, if a total stranger asked for the food off someone’s back the likelihood of that food being given was nominal. But in Amāre, sharing was a way of life. It was why Granny’s Wood Hood had been embraced. The fact that this Mr. Wolfe had actually used “share,” Granny and the town’s buzzword, irked the hell out of me. Not to mention that he seemed to have the inside track on Blue’s financial land holdings and in turn my Granny’s wasn’t helping.
“Oh … all right.” I wiggled off my backpack and unzipped it. The pink box somehow wasn’t dented. I carefully held it and let my backpack fall to the ground. I tucked my lemon-printed skirt beneath my knees and knelt in a bed of soft moss that cushioned around me. I placed the pink box on my lap and gently peeled off the baker’s golden seal of goodness that was taped over the lid. The triple-layer Neapolitan cake drenched in a thick layer of hardened chocolate wasn’t munched either. Oh, it’s perfect.
The subtle scent of strawberry, a hint of vanilla, and the rich decadence of chocolate wafted in the air. Suddenly my stomach grumbled—loudly. I looked up, and even though I didn’t know this man, I was still a bit embarrassed. My belly sounded like a marching band had exploded into song.
“Yeah, I haven’t eaten for a while either,” I said and tried to think back to my last meal. A gourmet white cheese frittata at The Magic Oven. Damn if Hansel isn’t the best chef in town. But that savory nosh was almost thirteen hours ago. In that time, I had photographed a bar fight at The Enchanted Forest tavern and the marriage proposal that ensued afterward. While I hated to admit it, stopping for a snack before hitting Granny’s sounded like a good idea.
He knelt down beside me in the moss. “Thank you for sharing your dessert with me.”
Like I had a choice? I nodded and reached into my backpack for anything that I could cut the cake. “Uh, I don’t have silverware…” I dug deeper and checked into the crevices in my bag. “Not even napkins.”
I looked up, and the man handed me a cloth handkerchief. “One problem averted.” He reached into his pant pocket and
handed me a closed Swiss army knife.
If he suddenly brandishes a sword, I’m not going to wait around to see if he’s Bluebeard in disguise and has mistaken me for one of his wives. No thank you. I carefully took the knife and flicked open one of the blades. It was sharp to the touch. Wonderful. I’m having dessert with a knife-wielding, deep voiced, big eyed, big handed, hairy stranger. Brilliant. At this rate, I’ll never make it to Granny’s house.
Chapter Two
Why won’t she get away from him? I tucked back behind the sequoia tree and watched them from a safe distance. Run, little girl, run! Though I knew from her long, tapered legs that stretched beneath her yellow skirt to the way her breasts strained against her gray hoodie, she wasn’t a little girl. But when it came to Bernie Wolfe, no one was safe. Everyone was potential prey to be seized and devoured.
And right now Wolfe was weaving his magic on the beauty with the backpack full of bakery treats. Wisps of her hair fell like spirals from the hood of her jacket. Even without seeing her full mane of hair, I knew it was a bewitching shade of crimson. She had no business stopping in the middle of the forest with the hungriest animal in Amāre.
Think, Jack, think. I gripped the handle of my briefcase and shook my head. Well this is useless. Most men came into the Dark Forest armed with a hunting bow and arrow—anything to protect themselves from the wolves and other creatures that roamed at night. And even then, most men were ill-prepared for the predators. Except that David kid who took down the giant with a slingshot. That was pretty badass. But, let’s face it, that kid was a king among men. My only weapon was my briefcase that was filled with ledgers and depository trust receipts for Giant Investment Services. It wouldn’t bring down a pack of wolves, but it might bring down one wolf.
Scarlett Hood & the Hunter Page 1
