Alaskan Hideaway. Beth Carpenter
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hadnât been updated from Bettyâs name. Ah, but she had a source. The assistant at the tax assessorâs office had stayed in the inn for several weeks while she house-hunted.
Ursula picked up the phone and called. After exchanging pleasantries, she got down to business. âSo, Michelle, I seem to have a new neighbor. I was trying to look up his name on the tax records, but they havenât been updated yet.â
âWhy donât you just ask him?â
âWell, I was hoping to do some background research first, toââ
âSorry. Can you hang on a minute? Someoneâs in my office.â Michelle didnât bother to put the phone on hold, and Ursula tapped her fingers while listening to a long conversation about the probable whereabouts of someoneâs stapler before she came back on the line. âIâm sorry. What was your question?â
âI just wondered if youâd received the paperwork on the new owner of the property next door.â Ursula read the parcel number from the form.
âLet me look.â Papers crackled. âHere it is. Itâs an LLC.â
âWhatâs that?â
âA limited liability company. This oneâs called R&A Holdings.â
âDoes that mean heâs running a business there?â
âNot necessarily. Some people hold their assets in LLCs for other reasons.â
âDoesnât he have to give a name or something?â
âNot on my records. Sorry. Guess youâll just have to do it the old-fashioned way and introduce yourself.â
âI guess so. Thanks anyway.â
âYouâre welcome. Stop by next time youâre in town and weâll grab coffee.â
âI will. Talk with you soon.â Ursula hung up the phone and stared at the wall. This could be good news. Her new neighbor was a limited liability company, not a movie star. Probably a flipper, with plans for a quick remodel and resell. If so, this could work out just fine. He would probably be thrilled to make a small profit with no work, and she could get started on the RV park. Win-win. First thing tomorrow, she would pay him a visit.
* * *
MACâS EYES FLEW OPEN, his dream shattering into fragments. Thanks to the heavy curtains covering the small bedroom window, only the charging light from his cell phone broke up the darkness. After a long day of unpacking and moving boxes, heâd fallen asleep almost immediately, but it wasnât long before the dreams came. He could never remember them, just bits and pieces. A scream of pain. Crimson drops of blood on a white sweater. His own heart pounding and an overwhelming sense of powerlessness.
It was in the darkness he felt the full weight of his mistakes. Heâd failed her. Failed to understand the magnitude of danger she was in. Ignored his own instincts. Told himself she was old enough to make her own decisions. Maybe she was, but he should have tried harder to guide her, should have been more supportive. Should have made it clear she could count on him if things went wrong, and there would be no I told you so. Should have said I love you more often. Because now it was too late.
Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep and moved into the living room. The dog lifted her head from her bed beside the woodstove and thumped her tail against the floor. Mac added a couple of logs to the stove and stoked the fire. He selected a branch from the woodbin, picked up his grandfatherâs pocketknife from the table and settled into a chair beside the stove. A warm muzzle rested on his foot.
The wood stripped away in long curls, landing in the kindling box at his feet. Once the branch was smooth, he began to whittle, a notch here, an arch there. As he worked, the terrors of his dream worked their way out of his head and into the wood. As the last log in the stove fell into a pile of embers, Mac laid the carving aside and yawned. Maybe now he could sleep.
* * *
ONCE SHEâD FED her guests and cleaned up the breakfast dishes the next morning, Ursula arranged the extra cinnamon rolls on a pretty blue-and-white plate sheâd picked up at the church rummage sale. She wrapped them carefully and glanced at the clock on the stove. Was nine too early to drop in on a neighbor? It shouldnât be. And she didnât want to wait too late, for fear heâd be out shopping for building supplies.
Today, instead of taking the ski trail, she walked the quarter mile along the highway to his driveway, carrying the plate. A strip of duct tape covered Bettyâs name on the dented mailbox. An Anchorage newspaper waited in the tube below. Ursula tucked the newspaper under her arm and followed the drive to another gate that Betty had never used. Ursula gave a soft testing whistle, but no guard dog appeared to challenge her, so she unlatched the gate and slipped inside, closing it behind her.
The sun never made it over the mountain this time of year, but the sky was growing brighter and she didnât need her flashlight to make her way along the driveway toward the porch. No lights shown in the cabin windows; hopefully she wasnât wasting her time. An unfamiliar pedestal table rested beside Bettyâs old Adirondack chair on the porch.
The steps crackled in the cold as she climbed them. Frantic barking erupted inside the house, punctuated by thumps of a canine body slamming repeatedly against the inside of the door Ursula hoped was securely latched. No need to knock, anyway. She held the plate in front of her and practiced her most welcoming smile as she waited for her new neighbor to call off the dog and answer the door.
And she waited. Eventually, the dog gave up on breaking the door down. Instead the heavy curtains in the window pushed upward, and a black-and-white head appeared. The dog tilted its head, watching her. Obviously, the dogâs owner wasnât home.
Ursula set the rolls on the table, pulled a notepad and pencil from her pocket and jotted a short message of welcome and her phone number. As she bent to tuck it under the plate, she noticed a whimsical carving around the table pedestal of a chubby puppy chasing its tail. She smiled. Maybe her new neighbor wasnât the curmudgeon he seemed.
She headed home at a brisk walk, breathing in the crisp air. Behind the fence, spruce trees sagged under their load of snow. It was a lovely winter day, with not a breath of wind. The porch table reassured her. After all, how bad could a man be who loved puppies? Heâd find the rolls and call her, and they could get this all straightened out. Everything was going to be fine.
* * *
MAC WATCHED HER go from behind the curtain. Figured. Heâd driven thirty-nine hundred miles to get away from people, only to have some strange woman pounding on his door three hours after heâd finally managed to fall asleep. Well, she didnât literally pound, but she might as well have considering the barking fit her visit inspired.
To add insult to injury, the bounce in her step as she strolled along his driveway seemed to indicate she was enjoying her morning, in contrast with his pounding head and gritty eyelids. A cold nose pressed into his hand. He turned to greet the dog. âI see youâve been hard at work already.â
The pit bull wagged her tail and jerked her head toward the empty bowl in the kitchen. He took the hint and filled it with kibble before starting a pot of coffee for himself. While it brewed, he dropped to the rug for his usual round of push-ups. He used to go out for a run every morning before breakfast, too, but the paparazzi put a stop to that.
Once heâd completed fifty push-ups, he got up and pulled the curtain aside to make sure the woman was gone and had latched the gate behind her. The dog scratched on the door, so Mac opened it to let her out and stepped onto the porch, shivering in the cold. A newspaper and plate of rolls sat on the tableâcinnamon pecan, according to the cutesy label shaped like a daisy. Underneath, he found a note asking him to call her.
Just what he neededâsome nosy neighbor trying