Alaskan Hideaway. Beth Carpenter
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the back of the inn to change. When the zipper on her ski boot stuck, she jerked it free and dropped the boot on the floor with a thud. That realtor was just plain rude. He could have at least given her warning before he closed the shortcut, not to mention controlling his dog.
But getting mad wouldnât accomplish anything. Bettyâs granddaughter had chosen to hire him, so if Ursula wanted that property, she was going to have to work with him. Once heâd had a chance to put up a for-sale sign, sheâd call and make an appointment to tour the property.
Not that she needed a tour. Sheâd visited Betty often, especially as she got older and her health was failing. Ursula knew the cabin far better than some realtor. She knew the roof was only four years old but the water heater was getting toward the end of its life, that the thermostat in the oven ran fifty degrees low, and that the sun filled the living room with light in March once it was high enough in the sky to clear the mountain. And she knew exactly where on the five-acre property she would situate the RV parkâon the other side of a stand of spruce, out of sight from the house but an easy walk away.
It would be the perfect complement to her bed-and-breakfast inn, great for family reunions or gatherings, where guests could choose to either stay in her comfortable rooms or bring their own RVs and still have facilities to get together for meals and fun.
She returned to the living room to help Rory find the movie she wanted. She could do this. Rory was slowly getting better, and eventually she would revert to her bright cheerful self despite this temporary setback.
And soon, Ursula would have the land she needed. The realtor was an aggravation, but on the bright side, his presence meant she was one step closer to putting her expansion plan into action. And Ursula always tried to look on the bright side.
* * *
âGOOD GIRL. You ran off the evil intruders, didnât you?â Mac rubbed behind the dogâs rosebud ears. She wiggled in delight. âWe donât want a bunch of nosy people poking around here, do we? No we donât.â Heâd been a little surprised at the dogâs performance. She wasnât usually so aggressive. She must have found something sinister about the two skiers, which was odd since one of them was a child. Not that people were above using children in their schemes. Heâd had photographers try the âmy kid lost a baseball in your yardâ trick more than once.
The whole point of this impromptu move to Alaska was to get away from people. Especially some members of the tabloid press. Bunch of vampires, feeding on sensationalism without giving a thought to the pain they inflicted with their questions. Even if heâd wanted to feed their appetite for new information, there was no more to give. The police and the private investigator heâd hired had hit a dead end, leaving nothing but questions and conjecture.
The dog pushed her head harder against his leg, letting him know he hadnât done nearly enough to reward her for her stalwart defense of their new home. He bent over and tickled that itchy spot under her chin. If it werenât for her, he didnât know if he would have survived the last couple of months. Sheâd been his constant companion, even on the long drive up the Alaska Highway, curled into a ball in the back seat amid the moving boxes.
He glanced toward the car, and the dog took the opportunity to make a quick swipe across his nose with her tongue. When he jerked his head back, she opened her mouth in a doggie grin. He swore she laughed at him sometimes. Hers was the only laughter in his life right now. He patted her rump and lifted the last box from the car.
Mac closed the liftgate with his free hand, crossed the porch and stomped the snow off his boots before stepping into the house. He added the box to the stack half filling the living room and let his gaze drift around the room. A plaid recliner, an orange vinyl couch and a coffee table made from a crosscut log and moose antlers huddled up to a woodstove. Across a shaggy gold rug, an ancient console television the size of a washing machine jutted into the room. Bookshelves lined the wall behind it, a row of National Geographic magazines taking up one entire shelf. Everything in this room was almost as old as he was. But it was functional, and that was all he cared about right now.
Might as well unpack. He lifted a heavy box, set it on the coffee table and pulled his grandpaâs knife from his pocket. After slitting the packing tape, he opened the box to reveal a stack of books, all identical. The cover featured the silhouette of an armed man crouching. Bloodred letters formed the title.
A knot tightened in his stomach. He closed the box and set it on the floor of the coat closet near the front door. A swift kick shoved it into the back corner. He trudged across the room and sank into the recliner, letting his head sink into his hands. Senseless evil. It was all too real.
The dog whined and pushed until her front half was on his lap. She nuzzled his face just as she had so many times before. How could he, of all people, have missed the signs? He should have seen it coming, should have done something to stop it. But he didnât, and she was gone. He screwed his eyes shut, willing himself into control. A single tear escaped, but the dogâs tongue erased the evidence. After a momentâs struggle, he was able to breathe again.
Why would he think moving would make a difference? He was old enough to know better. You couldnât run away from yourself.
* * *
URSULA SPRINKLED A little more flour on the countertop and returned to pummeling a lump of bread dough. She had a bread machine, but after yesterdayâs aggravation, she had an urge to knead it the old-fashioned way. At least the dough cooperated, yielding a smooth-textured pillow under her hands.
A knock sounded at the door she kept closed between the kitchen and dining room to discourage guests from bumbling in and upsetting her cooking routine. She reached for a towel, but before she could wipe her hands, the door opened and Marge, her neighbor and proprietor of the Caribou B&B on the other side of Bettyâs place, popped her head in. âBusy?â
âHi. Just finishing up. Come sit, and Iâll make coffee.â
âIâll do it.â Marge reached into the cabinet for the canister. Ursula oiled a bowl and dropped the dough inside, setting it on the stove to rise. She washed her hands and pulled a pitcher of cream from the refrigerator while Marge poured them each a cup of coffee. Marge let herself through the divider gate Ursula had set up to keep the cat out of the kitchen and plopped down on the window seat beside him. He opened one eye and regarded her briefly before returning to his nap.
Marge grinned. âI thought the cat was temporary.â
âHe was supposed to be, but I put up a notice on the library bulletin board and nobodyâs breaking down the door to adopt him.â Ursula settled into a chair across the table from her.
âI could have told you nobody would want an old tomcat with a missing ear and half a tail. At least he looks like a good mouser.â
Ursula sniffed. âI wouldnât know. The Forget-me-not doesnât have mice. But Rory likes him.â
âRory likes every animal, the uglier the better.â Marge chuckled, but then her face sobered. âIs she doing any better?â
âI thought so. But her teacher called me in for a meeting this week. Roryâs distracted, doodling instead of listening.â Ursula sighed. âItâs almost like Iâm pushing a boulder up the hill and every time I get anywhere, it rolls down again.â
âWell, I think youâre a saint for taking her in.â
âIâm not a saint. Iâve loved that little girl from the minute she was born. Coby and Kendall were so happy.â
âI know. Youâve told me the story. But her own grandparentsââ
âWhen Rory was tiny and I was helping out, Kendall told me a little about her parents and the way she was raised. From what she said, itâs a good thing theyâre not around Rory. After losing her mom and dad, the