Alone in a Cabin

by Leanne W. Smith

  Oh, what was wrong with her? No, she would wait until Shirley—or Canon—called to tell her the court reports were in the office before stopping back in. Or maybe Canon would bring them out to the cabin…unless he was avoiding her because she had opened old wounds. All the more reason not to tell him she had read about his father’s death.

  Maggie got back in the Subaru and pointed it down the highway toward the cabin. But her heart went out to Canon as the sheriff’s office sign grew smaller in her rearview mirror. A great grandfather who fought in the Civil War…a grandfather who died in a tragic house fire…and a father killed in an interstate stand-off.

  Canon Dale was becoming as interesting to her as Ezekiel Thompson.

  * * *

  No one from the sheriff’s office called the rest of that day. So on Saturday morning Maggie packed her bags and drove back to Nashville.

  “When you coming again?” asked Ollie when she took him the key.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, honestly. Maggie wanted to ask Mr. Thompson if it was okay to tell his son’s story, but lost her nerve. She needed some time to go sit with the new information she’d gathered. “Soon, though.”

  “Don’t let it be too long,” he wheezed. “I’m an old man.”

  22

  In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron recommends morning pages. Three, free-flowing, unedited pages. Get the toxins out of you and onto the paper—fear, worry—all that stands in the way of the story.

  The first week of March the weather turned unseasonably warm. Maggie awakened on Friday morning filled with a desire for fresh herbs in the condo kitchen. Back at her and Tom’s house—try as she might, it was hard to wash that beginning phrase from her head—she had had quite a nice herb garden off the back patio.

  Clearing a spot in the sunniest part of her new condo’s kitchen, she filled terra cotta pots with soil and stacked them on a plant stand she found at the local nursery. The stand had five arms that swung out at varying heights that now held basil, cilantro, rosemary, thyme and chives. She wanted to add sage and mint, but would have to get more pots for those. This led to another trip to the local nursery. The condo was in a high rise building and to Maggie’s regret, had no terrace or balcony. But…it was only temporary, she kept telling herself…until she figured out exactly what she wanted her next life’s chapter to be.

  Maggie was on the elevator bringing up the last load from her car and missed the phone call from the Marston County Sheriff’s Office. She saw the notice on her cell phone when she set down the bags. Shirley had left a message letting her know the court reports were in their office if she happened to be back in Marston any time soon and wanted to come by and get them.

  After listening to the message twice, Maggie stared at the phone on the counter as she washed dirt from her hands, disappointed Canon’s deep voice hadn’t left the message instead.

  She missed him. Maggie wasn’t missing Zeke—she’d continued to spend hours with him while working on his story—but she missed the stocky sheriff with his graying temples. Before she could talk herself out of it, she called Mr. Thompson to ask if the cabin was available.

  * * *

  Maggie’s iPhone promised another cold spell before the end of the week, so she packed her winter jacket and boots, and the dish crate, then drove to the cabin.

  She arrived at noon for the same drill with Mr. Thompson. Big fire going in the fireplace. “I know it’s not as cold as it has been, but thought that fire would be cheerful. ‘Course I’m cold-natured. And the doctor’s got me on blood thinner. It’s good to see you again, Maggie. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s more color in your cheeks.”

  Maggie smiled. Not only had the writing of the past month done her soul good, she had made a bold decision and plunged ahead before she lost her nerve. “I’d like to cook supper for you and Sheriff Dale one night while I’m here this time. Would that be okay, Ollie?”

  He seemed taken aback. “Why, of course it’d be okay.”

  “What did Irene used to cook for you that you miss the most?”

  He thought for a minute. “Oh, my…she was a good cook, that’s for sure. Just simple stuff, from the garden mostly. But there was this lemon cake. That was Irene’s specialty. With real lemons. And layers. She used to cut ’em with a thread, after puttin’ ’em in the freezer. You ever heard of anything like that?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. How does Wednesday evening sound?”

  “Sounds mighty fine to me. And Canon’s coming?”

  “I haven’t asked him yet.”

  Maggie was nervous about seeing Canon. Once again, she had spent far too much time thinking about him between her visits to the cabin. Valentine’s Day had come and gone in February. Cal and Robbie came by with flowers and chocolate, thinking she would be sad, thinking she would miss the boxed roses Tom sent to the house each year.

  But Maggie didn’t miss Tom’s roses. She found herself thinking more about Canon Dale than Tom Raines on Valentine’s Day, and the way the stocky sheriff stared at her lips in the kitchen that last time she ate with him…and again just before he went out the door.

  Maggie couldn’t believe she was letting herself get feelings for a man in another town—a sheriff, no less—in a dangerous line of work, when all she had intended to do was get away and clear her head, then try to write another man’s story. Somehow Zeke and Canon had gotten linked inside her heart.

  “Well…” wheezed Mr. Thompson, bringing Maggie back to the moment. “I can’t see Canon turnin’ down an offer like that. What time?”

  “Six?”

  “Sounds good.” Ollie grinned like an eighty-five-year-old schoolboy.

  After his green pickup rattled back down the lane, Maggie unpacked the groceries she brought, then revised her list to include more farm vegetables and the ingredients needed for a lemon chiffon cake.

  When Maggie drove to town, she swung by the sheriff’s office on the chance this was Canon’s weekend. It wasn’t. Amos sat behind the front desk instead. He stood up too quickly when she came inside, knocking his iPad off the desk. Maggie could see he was playing solitaire.

  “Hello, Mrs. Raines.”

  Maggie hadn’t realized that Amos was a red-head. He had worn a hat when she first met him. She had noted the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose that cold day, but they were more pronounced with his hair showing.

  “You remember me?” she asked.

  “Of course!” Amos looked back at Canon’s office and grinned. “How could I forget you?”

  Maggie put out her hand. Amos brushed his off on his shirt before shaking it. “Shirley made you a copy of the court proceedings.” He looked for the large envelope on her desk. “Here it is. She said you could take it and keep it since it’s a copy.”

  “Thank you.” Maggie looked inside the envelope. There was a copy of Zeke’s work evaluations, too. Shirley was efficient. Maggie followed Amos’s gaze through the glass to the empty sheriff’s office. “Sheriff Dale must not be working this weekend.”

  “No, he’s out at the farm.” Amos looked uncertain. “You need him? I can call.”

  “No, don’t do that.” Maggie waved a hand. “But can I leave a note on his desk?”

  “Sure. Oh, sure! Or you can text him. It’d be faster.”

  Maggie smiled. “I’ll just leave the note. He’ll be in tomorrow morning?”

  “Unless somethin’ happens before then. Been a quiet weekend so far.”

  Maggie stepped back into the sheriff’s office and found a blank notepad and pen.

  I’d like to cook you and Ollie supper at the cabin if you’re free Wednesday at 6:00. Maggie.

  No, she didn’t like that. One of her college English teachers said never start a letter with the word “I.”

  She tore the page off, wadded it and threw it in the waste can.

  Supper? Wednesday? Cabin? Ollie coming, too. 6:00. Maggie.

  No, that was too cavalier. She tore it off and tried again.


  Are you free for supper Wednesday at the cabin at 6:00? I’ve invited Ollie Thompson, too. Maggie Raines.

  Maggie didn’t want Canon to think she was inviting him on a date. It wasn’t like that. It was just… Canon was really the only person she’d gotten to know in town. If she was to get Ollie’s permission to work on Zeke’s story, Canon could provide moral support. That was all.

  On her way out she asked Amos, “Where can I buy a spool of thread?”

  Amos opened his mouth, then closed it, frowning. “Let’s see…Mrs. Herbert’s dress shop has fabric. I reckon they’d have thread. But she’s not open on Sunday.”

  Maggie looked out the front window. Marston was as much a ghost town as it had been on New Year’s Eve. “Looks like I’ll be making another trip to town then. Thank you, Amos.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Herbert’s dress shop is off Main past the flower shop, on the corner of Elm and Maple.” He followed her to the door and pointed.

  “Perfect!” Maggie might pick up some flowers for the table, too. “And where’s the library, Amos?”

  “It’s off Main, too. You go down Elm and turn on Maple. It’s the last house on Maple Street. Well…used to be a house.” He pointed again. “Real nice library. Blue with white trim, and a big wraparound porch. There’s a sign in the front says Marston County Library. In fact, Canon made the sign. He does that sort of thing. Likes to work with wood. Made the sign for the flower shop, too. Well, and our sign.”

  Amos and Maggie stepped out to look at the sign on the front of the building: “Sheriff’s Office” in red block letters shaped like Old West script on a tan background, with a silver badge in the middle. Maggie had first noticed it on New Year’s Day, then again when she visited in late January. The sign was quaint…fitting.

  “He painted the badge and everything?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Amos was evidently used to the sheriff’s side talents and bored quickly from looking at the sign. He turned back and pointed toward the library again. “Ladies around here are always having socials and meetin’s at the library. Canon said you were a writer, so I guess you like libraries.”

  Canon talked to Amos about me?

  Maggie pulled her gaze from the sign. She was here in Marston to find out more about Zeke’s life, not Canon’s. She’d already pried into Canon’s life more than she should have.

  “I do like libraries.” Maggie put out her hand. “Thank you, Amos.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  As Maggie lay with the matelassé coverlet pulled up to her chin watching the sun rise next morning, her phone buzzed. She reached to see.

  Supper sounds great Wednesday. What can I bring?

  So…Canon did keep her number. In case he had follow-up questions about the investigation. Which he hadn’t, obviously.

  Just you.

  She added his contact information to her directory.

  Canon with one “n.” Dale. Marston County Sheriff. And in the notes: lives on a farm and makes wooden signs.

  Maggie set the phone back on the nightstand thinking Canon was finished when it buzzed again. This time it was a picture of her wadded notes from the trash smoothed out on his desk.

  What was wrong with these?

  Maggie cringed, then decided he was flirting with her.

  Perfectionistic tendencies with words. Should have thought to remove my evidence. Forgot you were the sheriff.

  His quick reply:

  Wish I could forget sometimes.

  Oh, no…that cloud again. Maggie had a deeper appreciation for it now. As she panicked, wondering how to respond, he sent a final text:

  Looking forward to it.

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  See you then.

  And then Maggie turned off her phone and reached for her journal so she could begin the task of what she had truly returned to the cabin for—not to text-flirt with the handsome sheriff, or to cause him consternation, but to write her New York Times bestselling novel about the ghost she cozied up to on the red sofa in front of the crackling fire…only months after being rejected by her husband of thirty years.

  Julia Cameron’s morning pages had become a habit, providing some solace to Maggie in her new life as a writer.

  Yes, Maggie had sunk to low and desperate levels, fantasizing about each new man who entered her life. Was that UPS man looking at her lips? Did the bank teller brush her hand on purpose when he handed over those twenty dollar bills? Or was Maggie’s imagination simply getting the best of her?

  Was this what it meant to be a writer—the curse of it? To weep with those who didn’t ask you to? And to fall in love with each protagonist, real or imagined? Did Maggie really want to expose her heart to this kind of life?

  Of course she did. Imagined heroes were safe enough. It was the real heroes, especially those in uniform, best kept at bay.

  Hold the real heroes at a safe distance, Maggie—a long, long, long, double-arm’s length away.

  * * *

  Canon was the first to arrive. When Maggie opened the door, her heart thumping in her chest, he held out a 5-gallon bucket filled with daffodils.

  “These are from my farm.”

  There was his standard sheepish grin. So much for keeping real heroes at a safe distance.

  Maggie thought of the red roses that had come in stiff boxes every year. It was hard not to compare them to this bucket filled with yellow blossoms…cut by these man’s own hands…from his yard. How fortunate that Maggie had forgotten to get fresh flowers at the shop in town the day before.

  “Did you bring them all?” she asked.

  “No. This?” Canon scowled. “Hardly made a dent.”

  Maggie took the bucket as he came inside, thinking how a sea of daffodils really put her little herb garden back at the condo to shame. Canon was in plain clothes again, jeans paired with a polo shirt this time. Green. Short-sleeved, with his strong arms showing. And he had a penchant for boots. These were ostrich.

  “You’ll want something to put them in that looks better than that bucket,” Canon said.

  She went to look for some Mason jars. It was going to take several. Maggie had never seen such buttercups! The blooms were big golden saucers. She put the largest grouping on the dining table—already set with three places and the lemon cake—after taking smaller arrangements back to the bedroom and bath, and she still had a fourth vase-full for the kitchen counter—an arrangement for every room in the cabin, and they’d likely stay beautiful all week.

  Canon watched her set out the flowers. “Amos said you got the envelope with the court reports.”

  “I did! Thank you.”

  “I hope they’re helpful.”

  “They will be. I’ve only glanced at them.” Maggie looked away from Canon’s probing eyes, feeling self-conscious. Was he wearing cologne or was that only great-smelling aftershave? Canon’s good smell and the flowers had her feeling nervous. Maggie was relieved at the sound of Mr. Thompson’s truck coming up the road. Canon turned to open the door.

  “My goodness,” the old man wheezed as he came in, “Where’d all these flowers come from?”

  “Canon brought them.”

  Mr. Thompson’s eyes got big again when he went to the table and pointed a crooked shaking finger. “Is that a lemon cake?”

  “It might not be as good as Irene’s,” Maggie cautioned.

  “It’s ever bit as pretty.”

  To Maggie’s pleasure, the men raved over the food, a burgundy roast with potatoes and carrots, with green beans and sweet potato rolls. She hadn’t cooked for anyone new in a while. It was important to her to have their approval. When she cut and served the cake, Ollie commented on the flowers again.

  Canon pointed at the old man with his fork. “You never have been out to my place.”

  “No. I don’t get out much these days.”

  Maggie let Mr. Thompson get several bites into the cake—a warm smile on his lips as he closed his eyes a
nd savored each mouthful—before taking a deep breath and plunging into her question.

  “Ollie.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “You know I’m a writer.”

  “How’s your book coming?”

  “It’s starting to take shape.” Maggie looked to Canon for support. He smiled back at her. “I never have told you what it’s about.”

  “Well, whatever it is, I was going to ask you if it would be available in large print. I don’t see as good as I used to.”

  Maggie looked at Canon again. He winked encouragement. “If I’m able to sell it to a publisher, I’ll ask for that.”

  “Is it based on a real story?” asked Mr. Thompson.

  “Yes.”

  “Any chance it has to do with events around these parts? Here in Marston County?”

  Maggie nodded. Ollie looked at the lemon cake and back to Maggie. “Any chance it has to do with Zeke?”

  Yes…it was as if something spiritual hung over the rafters of this cabin. Maggie had felt a growing connection with Mr. Thompson in the few short months she’d known him. He must have felt it, too. She leaned toward him. “Is that okay? If I try to tell your son’s story?”

  The old man put a hand to his chest and opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a minute. Ollie’s vocal cords had apparently seized up. The old blue eyes watering, he finally wheezed out, “Why, that’d be more than okay, Maggie. I confess I was hopin’ you might. I have a feelin’ you could tell his story real fine.”