Alaskan Hideaway. Beth Carpenter
Читать онлайн книгу.
thanks. Iâm busy right now, soââ
Okay, the friendly approach wasnât working. Time to get down to business. She straightened to her full height. âThis wonât take but a minute. What are your plans for the house? Are you fixing it up to sell? Because if you are, Iâm interested in buying.â
âNo. I have no plans to sell.â
âWhat if Iâm willing to pay, say, ten percent more than you did? Thatâs a decent rate of return for a quick investment.â
âNot interested.â He returned his attention to the carving in his hand and flicked away a stray curl of wood.
For the first time, Ursula noticed more of the carved faces lying on the workbench beside him. Unlike the ones sheâd seen in the box, these seemed tortured, in pain. The half-finished carving in his hand appeared to be screaming. She looked away. âIf you do decide to sell, will you let me know before you list the property?â
âYes. Fine. If I ever do, youâll be at the top of my list. What was your name again?â
âUrsula. Ursula Anderson.â
âAll right, Ms. Anderson. But donât hold your breath.â He pushed his knife blade against the wood.
âYour carvings are amazing. I saw the ones on the bench in the entryway. Is there a name for that sort of sculpture?â
He concentrated on a cut he was making before he replied. âPeople call them wood spirits.â
âWood spirits. Thatâs perfect.â She stepped closer and touched one lying on the workbench that appeared to be weeping. The wood was cool and smooth under her finger. âHow do you decide what sort of face to carve?â
He gathered up the carvings and set them out of her reach. âI donât have time for a discussion right now. If youâll excuse me...â
She held up a hand. âJust one more little thing and then Iâll let you be. I donât know if you know, but I run a bed-and-breakfast inn. The main skiing and hiking trails are just behind and to the east of your property, and thereâs always been a right-of-way through your back corner connecting the ski trails to the trail across my property.â
âNo. I donât know anything about that.â
âWell, there is. Your gates are cutting my guests off from the trails. Iâd much appreciate it if youâd open them.â
He stared at her as if sheâd suggested he cut off his foot. âYou want me to let a bunch of strangers traipse across my property?â
âOnly that little corner in the back.â
âThat rather defeats the purpose behind private property, donât you think?â
âNot at all. Iâll make sure my guests understand they are to stay on the trails and not disturb you in any way.â
He stood, towering over her by a good six inches. âBut I am disturbed. Youâre disturbing me right now. One of the main selling points of this property was that itâs completely fenced and private.â
âBetty lived here for fifty years. She always kept the trail open, and never had a problem.â
âIf you havenât noticed, Iâm not Betty.â
âIâve noticed.â Ursula couldnât keep the frustration from her voice.
âGood. Iâm glad we understand one another. Now, Ms. Andersonââ
âUrsula, please.â One more last-ditch attempt at friendly conversation.
âUrsula. Could you please take your salmon and your jerky and any other bribes you might have in that backpack of yours, and let yourself outside the fence before I have you arrested for trespassing?â
She bit back a retort. âIâll go. But if you change your mindââ
âI wonât.â
âIf you do, Iâm the Forget-me-not Inn. You can get my number or email from the website.â
âGoodbye.â
Ursula gave the dog one final pat and left, shutting the door with more force than was necessary. She strapped on her snowshoes and returned the salmon dip to her pack. Looked like her guests arriving that evening would be getting a little extra treat to help make up for not being able to ski from the inn to the trails. At least she hoped it did, because it didnât look like she was getting those gates opened anytime soon.
She wasnât giving up. There had to be some way to convince the old grouch that a few skiers in the back corner of his lot werenât going to kill him. Sheâd even have offered to pay an access fee if heâd let her talk. What was his problem anyway? He may have been a natural-born people hater, but there was more to his story than that. The agony in those wooden faces told her so.
* * *
âSOME GUARD DOG you are,â Mac growled. The pit bull hung her head and crept closer to him, liquid brown eyes begging for forgiveness. Mac laughed. âYou donât even know what you did, do you?â
She wagged her tail and licked his hand. The dog might put on a good show of ferocity for people ringing the doorbell or walking by, but sheâd never actually met a person she disliked. And she seemed especially fond of this Ursula person. Of course, she was easily bribed.
Pushy woman. And yet Mac couldnât help feeling a twinge of guilt for the way heâd treated her. She wasnât a reporter, using him as a way to sell papers. She just wanted access to the ski trails. She wasnât going to get itâMac had no intention of allowing strangers on his land and he needed the fence for the dogâbut it wasnât an unreasonable request. And she had dropped off those amazing cinnamon rolls.
His mouth watered, thinking of them. She probably made an excellent salmon dip, too. It was bound to be better than the bologna sandwich he was probably going to have instead. He loved Copper River salmon. One of his favorite restaurants in Tulsa always had a special promotion in May when the first Copper River salmon arrived. Maybe the neighborly thing to do would have been to accept the food and politely refuse her request.
Listen to himâas susceptible as the dog about food bribes. Ursula seemed like a nice woman. She had the sort of face he liked, intelligent eyes with crinkles at the corners as if she smiled often, a faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
But even if Mac had wanted company, he was in no shape to be around other people. He was better off alone. And everyone else was better off away from him.
MAC ALMOST MADE it through the night, but early in the morning, the dreams came. He sat upright in bed, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. No more sleep tonight. He fed the dog, did his push-ups and started a pot of coffee. The blue-and-white plate still resting in the drainer scratched at his conscience. He was well within his rights to refuse to sell his property or allow strangers to cut through it, but that plate bugged him. He could almost hear his mother sighing.
Youâd think one more feather on top of the load of guilt he was already carrying wouldnât be noticeable, but it was. Fine. The rooster-shaped clock on the kitchen wall read five twenty-five. He could drop off the plate now and eat his breakfast with a clear conscience. Relatively.
After dressing and bundling up in a down parka and wool hat, he grabbed the plate and set off. The dog scratched on the window and barked. He hesitated. This