More Than Magic (Books of the Kindling)

by Donna June Cooper

  That had set off a debate at the next table about why Miss Grace had shut down production. Nick had managed to glean from the multiple conversations around him that this was evidently sacrilege to some of the old-timers.

  They’d said that her great-great-grandfather had built his fortune on those herbs and on the Woodruff reputation for purity and efficacy. Some folks even attributed magical qualities to the stuff. The Woodruff label on a bottle meant something.

  That comment had brought raucous laughter from some parts of the room, and comments about whether the fortune had been built on sang or shine.

  At that point, Nick had wondered if he should’ve taken Matt up on that dictionary. He knew what shine was, but sang had been a verb the last time he checked. Then someone had muttered that maybe Nick was a “Revenuer” and the conversation had turned to other things: how the tourist trade would be during the upcoming season, what or who the Trail would dump on their sidewalk this week, how the ski runs really needed snow this year—and not just that stuff they blew out of those machines neither, and so on. Though some of it piqued his curiosity, none of it had really touched on Nick’s particular interest in these mountains of theirs.

  It was apparent to Nick that, just like in any small town, there were some secrets hiding beneath the surface here and clearly not a lot of love for “Revenuers”, but he was pretty sure the folks in that room were just that—folks. The feeling that Matt had always called Nick’s “scum radar” had only pinged once, when a grizzled looking old guy in an ancient Army fatigue jacket paid his bill and left.

  Then again, his usually reliable gut instinct had been a bit unpredictable lately.

  It was somewhat intriguing that the lingo of the herb trade—diluting and cutting and purity—sounded like something else entirely to his ears. And the locals’ comments on the quality of the Woodruff Herbs were too much like the buzz in Atlanta over Smoky Mountain Magic. Too many coincidences. And he had long ago learned to be suspicious of coincidences.

  Even more interesting had been the brief speculation about why his hostess at Woodruff Herb Farm, the mysterious Miss Grace, decided to stop production. And why she had given up “making a doctor”, according to the young thing with a nose ring who took his money at the register. Obviously the cashier didn’t plan for anything to derail her ambitions. She had made it very clear to Nick she was getting out of the mountains as soon as she could, and could not comprehend why anyone who got her M.D. down at Chapel Hill would suddenly shut herself off up in a holler “like some old witchy gammer or hippie freak”.

  But so far, the farm didn’t look like a witch’s lair or a hippie hangout. The road was some sort of gravel, but it was nonetheless well kept and smooth, unmarred by potholes. And he could tell the drive was carefully landscaped to look natural but not wildly overgrown. Now that the entry was behind him the only illumination was moonlight slanting through the trees, transforming everything outside of the reach of his headlights to dappled pools of shimmering gray limned with auras of silver.

  Nick shook his head and took another deep bracing breath, wishing he had filled his thermos with some of that coffee from the Tavern. It seemed he was going to be driving up this silvered tunnel of trees forever.

  Then the road suddenly spilled onto a moonlit meadow, a vast stretch of grass that he was halfway across before he realized how high up he had come from the city onto this mountain. He slammed on the brakes.

  Stretching out before him was a sweeping vista: smoke-wreathed ridges of earth and tree marching into the distance, lit here and there with what seemed to be reflections of the vast sweep of stars above his head, like some huge inland sea.

  He didn’t remember putting the SUV in park and stepping out, nor walking onto the grassy verge, but some time later he found himself there, a bit damp and chilled, gazing up at the stars burning just out of his reach. There was a crick in his neck and he wondered how long he had been standing like that.

  For a moment, looking up, he had the sensation that he was standing on something living and breathing—like some immense creature slumbered beneath the stars, its huge heart beating slowly beneath his feet. He looked down quickly to reassure himself that he was, in fact, standing on the earth.

  Letting out a shaky breath, Nick unclenched his hands.

  Uttering an expletive in reaction to all this seemed sacrilegious somehow.

  When he managed to make his way back to his SUV and clamber in, he realized how much colder it was up here than down in Asheville. Hopefully the cabin he had rented had lots of extra firewood, because he planned on building a nice roaring blaze.

  Steadfastly avoiding the view that lay just beyond the silvered meadow around him, he followed the instructions on the stone and wood signposts that directed him to the cabins and toward the lights he could see through the trees on the other side of the meadow.

  The locals were wrong. The danger wasn’t in getting lost. The danger was in losing yourself. And strangely, he had the strongest sense that he had been here before, under these stars, on this mountain.

  Pooka’s deep warning bark outside the lab door first alerted Grace, then the gate alarm bleated twice, bringing a muttered protest from the chicken house. She glanced at the clock. Good grief. Who on earth would be coming in this late? And using the gate code?

  She yanked off her lab coat and hair cover, and grabbed her jacket from the rack. Had she forgotten something? Or someone? It was possible, given her state of mind of late. But just in case, she decided to head for the house to get her shotgun.

  Perhaps it was a late delivery, or pickup. She hoped it wasn’t Eddie giving up early on his long-delayed fishing trip. Or Ouida deciding she really couldn’t get along with her younger sister for two weeks. Or a guest for the cabins. Please let it not be that.

  She remembered checking to make sure that all the guests on the schedule had been refunded their money and placed elsewhere in the area. But she vaguely remembered an email from the rental agency that handled the cabins earlier this week. She hadn’t read much past the first sentence, which had been the usual plea for her to consider reopening for the holiday season.

  Pooka danced around her as she ran toward the house and pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket. Blowing out an exasperated breath at her deteriorating mental state, she called the rental agency owner’s cell phone.

  “You forgot,” was the amused, if a bit sleepy, response.

  Grace’s heart fell. “Okay. My apologies for the late hour, Trish. What did I forget?”

  “I knew I should’ve called to confirm again when he came by today to sign everything. You’ve been a bit distracted lately. But then the phone rang—”

  “Not your problem, Trish. It’s my fault.” Grace sighed. “Confirm what?”

  “You have one guest we couldn’t find a suitable alternative for. And he wouldn’t accept a refund. He even offered to pay you a bonus to make up for the inconvenience. I emailed you on Monday to ask if you’d mind one straggler for a week.”

  “And I didn’t answer.”

  “So, I assume he’s just come in your front gate.”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  There was a sigh and a rustle on the other end. “Hold on a sec.”

  Grace slowed down and Pooka ran circles around her.

  Wonderful, just what she needed. An unexpected guest, and without Ouida around to run interference. All because she couldn’t even manage her email.

  “Okay.” Trish came back on the line. “His name’s Nick Crowe. Passed the background check with flying colors.”

  “Not one of our regulars?”

  “No. But he had lots of great references. Recovering from an illness of some kind. Bringing his own supplies. Willing to cook all his meals for himself up there,” Trish recited patiently. “I’m reading from the email I sent you.”

  “But Ouida’s off.” It was a half-hearted excuse. They offered a breakfast buffet every morning in the sunroom and a cookout or special
buffet on weekend nights, in addition to selling individual picnic lunches and providing cooking classes featuring the farm’s herbs.

  “Willing to cook all his meals for himself.”

  “But the reputation of the farm. I mean, the organic—”

  “I went through all that with him. He said he wasn’t looking for a health spa.”

  “Health spa? Health spa? What, with massage and—and—” Grace sputtered.

  “Yeah. Definitely a city guy.”

  “Great.”

  “He’s writing a book or something and I think he wants to keep a low profile—get off the beaten path,” Trish added.

  “Well, mission accomplished.”

  There was a snort on the other end. “And I suspect he’s late because he got lost and wandered around trying to find you.”

  “If they get lost that easy, the—”

  “—mountain don’t want ’em,” Trish finished. “But your Pops never turned anyone away who eventually found their way to the gate, as I recall.”

  “True,” Grace conceded.

  “So, are you really all by yourself up there in the back of beyond?”

  Grace managed a grim smile. Trish was, despite her mountain-savvy, a city gal herself. Asheville was nestled in the mountains, but it was still quite the cosmopolitan place. “I’ll be fine. Assuming your guy really is an upstanding citizen. Besides, I have Pooka and my trusty 12-gauge security system.”

  “Well, I’d prefer that you had a nice hunk of human security system up there. But don’t worry, he checked out. He may be an unwelcome guest, but he’s certainly not a dangerous one.” She paused. “And he’s quite a hunk himself.”

  “Uh huh.” Grace was skeptical. Trish thought pretty much any guest with a Y-chromosome was a hunk. “I thought you said he’d been sick.”

  “Well, he’s a bit pale and thin for my taste, but definitely a charmer. Too bad Ouida’s not up there. She’d have him bulked back up in no time.”

  “So, he doesn’t look like he’s still ill?” Grace probed.

  “No. I mean— Well, he was only here for a bit. He looked a little jetlagged, is all.”

  Grace relaxed, but only slightly. “Well, thanks Trish. Sorry about the confusion and interrupting your sleep.”

  “It’s okay. I have some of your ‘night-night’ herbs around here somewhere.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Grace replied. “I’ll be sure to send you some more.”

  “Thanks. Take care, Grace.”

  “You too.”

  She ended the call and signaled Pooka to stay on the porch as she continued on up the stairs and through the front door. It was a shame the mountain hadn’t discouraged their unexpected guest. But, seeing that he was apparently the bookish sort, perhaps she could persuade him that this was not really the best place for his writing pursuits.

  “Welcome to Woodruff Herb Farm, Mr.—” What did Trish say his name was? She sighed and shook her head. “‘Mr. City Man’ as Jamie would say. Welcome to Woodruff Herb Farm, Mr. City Man. We have black bears, coyotes, foxes, wild boar, and the occasional mountain lion up here.”

  Grace went into the farm office, retrieving her shotgun from the gun safe and slinging it over her shoulder. Then she went down the back stairs into the cabin storage to retrieve a cloth-lined basket full of linens, towels, and sundries as well as the cabin keys, which dangled on the peg under the Jewelweed label. The Mayapple was the furthest from the main house, which was where she would’ve preferred to put him, but its refrigerator had given up the ghost at some point this week and, although she wanted Mr. City Man to leave, she didn’t want to ruin the farm’s reputation to accomplish it.

  They would reopen the cabins soon. And they would start up production again. And then, as Daniel had said, she would get back to her life—her future plans. Everything would get back to normal around here and one unexpected guest was not going to derail her efforts to get there.

  No. She would simply be a very gracious and solicitous hostess, secretly hoping to scare off her guest. When she emerged from the mud room door, Pooka ran over and trotted beside her to the graveled parking area.

  “Yes boy, we have a guest. And your job is to make sure he stays up in his cabin or leaves in his car. I don’t want him wandering all over the place and getting underfoot. Or hiking off into the Pisgah and getting himself lost. Okay?”

  The dog cocked his head, then turned his attention back to the east. Grace waited for the confirming bleat of the proximity sensor at the entrance to cabin parking. Had the guy gotten lost on the farm road? If so, it didn’t bode well for the rest of his stay.

  She sat the basket down at the end of the cabin walkway and Pooka followed her up the hill into the trees. The road went through a huge meadow her grandfather had long ago christened Star Crossing. Pops had told her the new name was much more descriptive than the old Woodruff Meadow, since he often had to stop on the road to the house to let a few stars cross.

  Grace’s smile faded as a wisp of fog curled through the trees and around her feet. The smoky tendrils glided over the damp leaves with a sigh of sound.

  “There’s something wrong with our mountain, Gracie-girl. You’re the only one who’ll hear it too.”

  Grace’s breath caught in her throat as she emerged onto the edge of the silvery meadow and saw the lanky figure standing there in the grass, unmoving, gazing raptly up at the stars. He seemed barely tethered to the earth—poised to launch himself into the sky. She had the strangest feeling that if he opened those tightly clenched fists, he would fall upward.

  Apparently this was their unwanted guest—standing in the damp grass next to his SUV. It was surprising that he would stop to watch the stars cross. Most of their city visitors were so utterly earthbound that they had to be told to lie down in the grass before they noticed the majestic dance above them. Yet he stood there, as unmoving as a statue.

  Trish was right. It was clear even from here that he had just recovered from an illness of some kind. And it had left its mark—sculpting hollows on his face and leaving his clothes hanging a bit loose on his tall frame. His hair looked dull even under all that luminescence.

  She reviewed all the viruses, cuts and scrapes, and near-broken bones that she had dealt with up here over the last few months. She could manage something bigger. Especially since he had recovered from it. Whatever it was. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Control. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.

  Putting on her gloves, she slipped back into the trees and made her way gingerly down the hill. She certainly didn’t want their guest to spot her spying on him.

  By the time the dark SUV crested the hill and drove into the graveled lot, she was standing next to the basket at the end of the path up to the cabins.

  When he got out, the solar lights in the parking area and up the walkway didn’t reveal much more than she had already seen—tall, pale skin, short dark hair, slim build. He was almost gaunt, if what she could see of his face in the shadows was any indication.

  He lifted his hands in the air, eyeing the shotgun slung over her shoulder, but smiling in spite of it. “My receipt for a week’s cabin rental is in my back pocket,” he said. “Your agent can verify—”

  “She did. Don’t worry,” she cut in. “The gun’s for other dangerous critters that might wander in, not you. Can’t be too careful up here.”

  He looked around and lowered his hands. “I see. Well, sorry for the late hour. The trip up here took a bit longer than I expected.”

  His smile broadened as he spied Pooka. The hound looked up at Grace for permission, and she nodded. She watched Pooka advance, tail wagging slowly. Instead of sticking his hand into Pooka’s face as most people would, their guest stood still, inviting Pooka to approach. Well, he got some points for knowing how to greet a strange dog, anyway.

  “What breed’s this fellow?” he asked as he stooped to greet the dog.

  “Plott hound.”

  “Plott hound?”
>
  “The state dog of North Carolina. Bred to hunt bear and wild boar,” she replied. “Which still wander by now and again.”

  “Bear and wild boar, huh boy?”

  Pooka grinned as only Pooka could and nearly wagged off his tail as Mr. City Man ruffled first the fur on his shoulder and then his back.

  Mr. City Man’s smile was bright and genuine. And there was at least one dimple too, hidden in a slight shadow of stubble. Coal black hair, now that she saw him a bit closer.

  “And what do they call you, boy?”

  It was a nice voice, Midwestern, or perhaps further north than that. Cultured and metropolitan, for all that he was trying not to sound citified. But a nice voice nonetheless. Pooka liked him too, butting his head against the man’s hand for more stroking.

  “Oh, he gets called all kinds of names, some of them not repeatable in decent company, but he goes by Pooka most of the time,” she said. “Although some of our youngest guests insist on calling him Poo.”

  There was a stifled snort of a laugh and she realized she was failing miserably at scaring him off.

  “Can’t say I know him well enough to lay that on him. And since he hasn’t sniffed me properly yet, he doesn’t know me well enough either. We have to do all the rituals, don’t we boy?”

  Grace watched with admiration as he earned Pooka’s total adoration with a quick rake of fingers down his back and a thorough butt scratch, allowing the dog to sniff his trouser leg and the arm of his jacket. Pooka knew better than to sniff anywhere else.

  “You’re better trained and more polite than most city dogs. But then, I understand completely, seeing who likely trained you.” The last was a husky whisper right in Pooka’s ear, but Grace felt it tingle in her own.

  His eyes slid up to hers. Soft gray, like unpolished pewter. She stepped back as he stood, extending his hand.

  “Nick. Nick Crowe.”

  “Y-yes. Nice to meet you Mr. Crowe.” She held out her hand.

  He grasped the leather-covered hand firmly in his own. “Please, call me Nick.” His smile quirked sideways and that dimple appeared once more. “Unless there’s some ritual involved before we can use our given names?”