He traveled 3,800 miles to be alone

...but is it what he really wants?

Relocating to Alaska after a family tragedy seemed an ideal way for author R.D. âMacâ Macleod to grieve in peace. But solitude feels overrated when Macâs around B&B owner Ursula Anderson and her orphaned goddaughter, Rory, whoâs already bonding with his dog. Worse, heâs imagining a future with Ursula and Rory. Is it time to finally forgive himself?

BETH CARPENTER is thankful for good books, a good dog, a good man and a dream job creating happily-ever-afters. She and her husband now split their time between Alaska and Arizona, where she occasionally encounters a moose in the yard or a scorpion in the basement. She prefers the moose.

Also by Beth Carpenter

A Gift for Santa

The Alaskan Catch

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Alaskan Hideaway

Beth Carpenter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07792-7

ALASKAN HIDEAWAY

Â© 2018 Lisa Deckert

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Rosemunde Pilcher, Sue Grafton,

Agatha Christie and all the other writers, living and dead, who have brought me endless hours of pleasure with their stories.

And to all the readers who share my passion

for the written word. Happy reading!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

SNOW CRUNCHED UNDER Ursulaâs ski poles as she pushed up the rise and stopped at the top of the hill to catch her breath. Sheâd earned an Anchorski second-place medal in the over-fifty age group a few winters ago, but that didnât mean she could keep up with her eight-year-old goddaughter. From somewhere nearby, a raven cackled as though amused at these earthbound creatures with boards strapped to their feet.

Up ahead, Rory picked up speed as the slope grew steeper. She crouched into a tuck, her corn-silk hair lifting from her shoulders and streaming behind her. At this rate, sheâd be airborne before she reached the bottom of the hill.

âRemember, pizza,â Ursula called. The little girl instantly spread the tails of her skis and slid to a stop.

She looked back at Ursula and frowned. âI know what a wedge is.â Of course, she did. Rory had been on the ski trails before she could walk, riding in a pulk behind her parents. She didnât need anyone to remind her to shift her skis in âpizzaâ position to slow herself or âhotdogâ to speed up.

âSorry. I forget youâre an expert. But Iâm not as fast as you. Slow down a little so I can keep up. Okay?â

âOkay.â Rory flashed a smile before she resumed skiing, and Ursulaâs heart melted. Roryâs smiles had been all too rare lately. After a week including a discouraging meeting with Roryâs teacher and a glowing article about the new resort in Seward that was bound to cut into Ursulaâs business, this was exactly what they both needed. Time outside, space to move and breathe. Somehow, nothing seemed quite as overwhelming in the outdoors.

The trail ran between a cluster of spruce trees and a huge boulder making a sharp bend toward the right-of-way across Bettyâs place. Movement caught her eye, and Ursula looked over to watch a rabbit disappear into the woods. She rounded the bend and turned her attention back to the trail.

What in theâ? A gate Ursula had forgotten existed blocked the trail at the bottom of the hill. Rory had spotted the gate first and was standing in the middle of the trail. Ursula slowed but couldnât stop in time to avoid a slow-motion crash, and they both skidded downhill in a tangle of arms, legs, skis and poles, coming to rest a couple of feet from the heavy gate.

Ursula sat up. âIâm sorry. Are you okay?â

Eyes wide, the girl nodded and stared at the gate. âWhy is that there?â

âI donât know.â The top rail sported a new sign: Private Property. No Trespassing. A thick chain looped around the fencepost adjacent to the gate. On the far side, someone had gone to considerable trouble shoveling the snow away so the gate could swing shut. It had always been open during the six years Ursula had been operating the inn. Betty had enjoyed watching the skiers and hikers pass through on the way to the main trails. She used to sit outside on nice days and wave at them.

Ursula got to her feet and jabbed her poles into the snow before offering Rory a hand up. The wooden sign pointing toward Fireweed Trail was missing, too. This was no misunderstanding. The shortcut she and her guests took across her neighborâs property to the cross-country trails was closed.

This wouldnât do. Not only did she and Rory enjoy Nordic skiing, but access to trails was one of the main draws for her bed-and-breakfast inn, especially in the winter. Across the snow-covered meadow, a steel-gray SUV with a propeller-shaped medallion on the grill backed up to Bettyâs porch, its liftgate open. A real estate agent, no doubt, finally getting the place ready to sell.

It had been almost two years since Betty Francis, Ursulaâs friend and neighbor, passed away at the age of eighty-nine and left her cabin to her granddaughter, Danielle. Except for a monthly cleaning service, the cabin had been deserted ever since. Ursula was surprised it had taken Danielle this long to list the property. Sheâd seldom found time to visit even when her grandmother was alive, with her busy career writing cookbooks.

Roryâs lip quivered. âDoes this mean we canât ski anymore?â

âOf course we can ski. We can get to the trails by Margeâs place if we need to, but maybe if we ask nicely, theyâll let us through today.â If they could get the agentâs attention, anyway.

Either way, the gate wouldnât stay closed for long. The credit union had already preapproved Ursula for a loan. Assuming the asking price was anywhere near reasonable, Ursula was ready to buy Bettyâs cabin and the land around it. With that new resort going in, she needed something special to entice guests, and with this property she could give her guests something the hotel couldnât.

A man stepped to the edge of the porch and looked their way. Ursula waved, but he didnât respond. She held her hand against her face like a phone to let him know she wanted to talk, but he just crossed his arms over his chest and stared at them. Great sales technique.

Ferocious barking interrupted her thoughts. A black-and-white dog tore through the snow. All at once, Ursula was glad for the heavy gate. She liked dogs, but the pit bull charging toward them didnât evoke her usual warm and fuzzy response. She clutched her ski poles, just in case she needed them to fend it off. Rory squeaked and hid behind her.

The dog roared and leaped at the gate, shaking the heavy iron, fell to the snow and leaped again. Ursula knew fleeing would only engage the dogâs chase response, so she slowly eased away from the fence, staying between Rory and the dog. What kind of realtor brought a vicious dog along on his visits?

Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted, âCall off your dog.â She wasnât sure if he could make out her words from that distance or not, but if he did, he chose to ignore her.

Fine. She turned and urged Rory back up the hill. âWeâre okay. The dog canât get through the gate.â The barking continued long after they had rounded the boulder and disappeared into the forest. Eventually, Ursula heard a distant whistle and the dog quieted. By that time, they were halfway home.

Once they made it to the B&B parking area, she and Rory released their bindings and stepped out of their skis. When she laid a hand on Roryâs shoulder, she could feel the girl shaking, whether from fear or anger Ursula wasnât sure. Ursula was leaning their skis against the wall on the porch when she heard a chattering noise. A squirrel dashed across the porch and tried to run up Roryâs leg, but the ski bibs she wore were too slick.

Rory giggled. âHi, Frankie.â Giving up on climbing her leg, the squirrel ran up the porch post to stand on top of the railing. Rory stroked a finger along his back. âI couldnât find you yesterday. Where were you?â

Ursula smiled at their reunion. Animals were Roryâs soft spot, and sheâd been fascinated with Frankie from their first meeting. âHe comes and goes. He was probably just off playing with his friends.â She patted her coat and found a few sunflower seeds in the breast pocket, which she handed to Rory. The squirrel took them from her hand, stuffed them into his cheek pouches and scurried away. Good old Frankie. Unlike a certain realtor, he didnât bite the hand that fed him. Rory watched him disappear into the forest.

Ursula put an arm around the girlâs shoulders. âWhat do you say we get a cookie before we drive over to Margeâs house to ski?â

Rory shrugged, her features once again settling into that bland expression she wore too often. âI donât want to ski anymore. Can I watch a movie?â

Ursula sighed inwardly. Thatâs all Rory had wanted to do at first, to watch the same dozen movies over and over. Recently, sheâd seemed a little more engaged, but here they were again. Eventually, Ursula was going to need to put some limits on screen time, but after the gate and the dog, she understood why Rory needed this. Saturday night used to be movie night for Rory and her parents, when they would pop popcorn and cuddle together on the couch. Wrapping herself in her motherâs blanket and watching movies made Rory feel closer to them. But it had been four months since the accident, and Ursula was starting to see traces of the bundle of energy Rory used to be. The ski outing had been going so well, until the stupid realtor ruined it.

Ursula forced a smile before opening the door, for the sake of her guests as well as Rory. People came to the B&B to relax, and she made it a point never to add to their stress. âYou can watch a movie if thatâs what you want.â The faint odor of maple syrup from this morningâs breakfast still hung in the air. The couple staying in the Rose room sipped coffee and gazed out the windows, watching the birds flutter between Ursulaâs collection of bird feeders. Good thing they werenât skiers. The family in the Shooting Star suite had gone into Seward for the day.

Ursula greeted her guests and followed Rory to their private quarters in 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 last thing Rory needs is to be stuck with people like that. She needs to belong. And she belongs with me.â

Marge nodded and sipped her coffee. After a moment, she looked up. âOh, I almost forgot what I came to tell you. Did you hear the news about Bettyâs place?â

âI havenât heard anything, but I saw the Mercedes parked out front, so I guess Bettyâs granddaughter is finally putting it up for sale. The real estate agent was standing on the porch, but I couldnât get his attention.â

Margeâs lips curved into her I know something you donât know smile. âThatâs not an agent. Thatâs the new owner.â

âWhat?â Ursula set down the creamer without adding any to her coffee. âBut it wasnât even on the market. Are you sure?â

âThatâs what I heard. From Penny.â

Shoot. If Penny said so, it was a done deal. Married to the only attorney in town and heading up the tourist information center, Penny knew everything happening in and around Seward. And since she and Marge had been best friends since kindergarten, Marge knew most of it. Ursula tapped her nail against her coffee cup. âAfter Bettyâs funeral, I told her granddaughter I was interested in the property once she was ready to sell.â

âMaybe he offered her more.â

âI never got the chance to make an offer.â

Marge shrugged. âI donât know what to tell you.â

Ursula added cream to her cup and stirred. âSo whoâs the new neighbor?â Based on his behavior, not someone interested in making friends. A loner? Perhaps heâd decide a cabin situated between two bed-and-breakfast inns wasnât remote enough. âMaybe heâd be interested in a quick resale.â

Marge leaned closer. âPennyâs being mysterious. She knows, but she wonât tell me the ownerâs name. She says Iâd recognize it if I heard it.â She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. âWhat if itâs a movie star?â

Ursula snorted. âWhat would a movie star want with Bettyâs old cabin? She didnât even have cable.â

âWell, he could get it installed. Besides, he probably wants it as a remote getaway, to recharge after filming a movie. They must get tired of always being on.â

âIf a movie star wanted an Alaskan getaway, heâd buy a luxury fishing lodge on the Kenai, not a rundown cabin along the Seward highway.â

âWho knows what theyâd do? He didnât look familiar to you?â

âNo. Of course, I only saw him from a distance and he was wearing a coat.â

âNot that youâd recognize him anyway. You hardly ever watch movies that arenât animated. Youâve probably had famous actors staying with you and never even known.â

âIf I did, they didnât let on. But seriously, I doubt Bettyâs granddaughter rubs elbows with actors. Doesnât she live in Kansas?â

âWichita. Youâre probably right.â Marge sighed, but then her face brightened. âAlthough, if a celebrity from California wanted to stay under the radar, buying a cabin in Alaska from someone in Kansas would be a great way to throw the paparazzi off the track.â

Ursula laughed. âI canât argue with your logic. So how long do you think it will take your movie star to get tired of the cold and dark, and sell me the property?â

âIf heâs used to California winters, heâll have cabin fever in no time.â

âI can only hope. In the meantime, I need to talk him into opening the gate to the ski trails.â

âHe blocked off the trails?â Margeâs face grew serious. âBut Betty and her husband let that trail cut through their property probably forty years ago. Donât you have some sort of legal access?â

âI donât know. It never came up when Betty was alive. Iâm not sure it was ever set down as an official right-of-way.â

Marge sipped her coffee and considered. âYouâll still chip in to maintain the trails, wonât you?â

âOf course. I promised I would, and itâs not your fault if he cuts off my access.â

âThatâs good, because I didnât budget for your share of the grooming.â Marge paused. âYour guests can park at the Caribou and ski from there if they want.â

âThank you.â It wasnât ideal. Marge might be a friend but she was also a competitor. Ursula didnât want her guests wondering why they should patronize the Forget-me-not and drive or hike half a mile down the road to access the ski trails at the Caribou B&B when they could just stay there instead. But it was nice of Marge to offer. âLetâs hope itâs not necessary. Tomorrow, Iâll drop by and explain about the ski trail access. Iâm sure heâll be reasonable.â

âWhat if he isnât?â

âHe will be. Iâll take cinnamon rolls and welcome him to the neighborhood. Movie star or not, Iâm sure heâll want to get along with his neighbors.â

Marge didnât look convinced. âWell if you figure out who he is, get his autograph for me.â

âWeâll see.â Ursula had no intention of bothering their new neighbor with autograph requests. âIf he seems busy, Iâll just leave the food, mention the ski trails and hint that if he ever decides to sell, Iâd be interested.â

âYou really think this RV park thing is a good idea?â

âYes, I do. In order to compete with the new resort theyâre building in Seward, I need to offer something they canât. It will be good for the Caribou, too, since youâre next door. This way groups can vacation together even if they donât all have RVs.â

âWe can always lower our room rates. The resort will probably charge a pretty penny.â

Easy for Marge to say. She and her husband inherited their B&B from his grandparents years ago. They didnât have a mortgage to consider. âI need to make at least enough to cover Samâs loan payments and ongoing expenses.â

âThere is that. You wouldnât want to drag down Samâs finances. Especially since they have a new baby.â

âExactly. And if Sam sold the inn, Iâd have to move back to Anchorage. I donât want Rory to have to change schools again, when sheâs just starting to make friends. Letâs just hope our mysterious neighbor is open to possibilities when I stop by tomorrow with the rolls.â

Marge adjusted the position of her coffee cup. âI hope heâs not gluten free. Most of those actors are, you know. Heâs probably on some weird acorn and kiwi fruit diet or something.â

Ursula shrugged. âI guess Iâll find out tomorrow.â

CHAPTER TWO

URSULA PULLED TWO pans of cinnamon rolls from the oven and set them on a wire rack to cool. The divine aromas of yeast, butter and spice filled the kitchen. She eyed the pans doubtfully. Everybody liked bread, right? Occasionally she had a guest with special dietary needs, but the odds of her new neighbor not appreciating a plate of homemade cinnamon rolls had to be low. And even if Marge was right and he was an actor from Hollywood who didnât eat gluten, heâd surely appreciate the gesture.

Movie star. She shook her head and smiled. Why would someone famous want to buy Bettyâs cabin? It only had two bedrooms. The kitchen hadnât been remodeled since the forties. Neither had the bathroom. The guy probably asked Pennyâs husband, Fred, not to spread his name around to avoid a pesky relative or debt collector.

Could someone really do that? Keep your name a secret? Property tax records were public, werenât they? Ursula opened her laptop and did a search for Kenai Peninsula Boroughâs tax records. She located the property on the map and clicked on it, but the record 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 to woo him with homemade treats. Heâd sworn the local lawyer to secrecy, but somehow word must have gotten out he was here. Well, she wasnât the first woman to make a play for him since heâd become successful, and like all the others, she was doomed to disappointment. He whistled for the dog and returned to the cabin, dropping the note into the trashcan under the sink. He started to pitch the rolls in after it, but his stomach growled, reminding him heâd not yet had a chance to buy milk for his raisin bran.

No sense letting good food go to waste. He picked up a roll and bit into it. Cream cheese frosting melted in his mouth. He chewed, savoring the blending of fresh bread and sweet cinnamon. Quite possibly the best cinnamon rolls heâd tasted since he was a boy, visiting his grandmotherâs house. He took another bite. These might in fact edge Gramâs off the middle podium. Shame he wouldnât be getting any more once she figured out he was a lost cause.

He poured a cup of coffee and sank into a chair at the scrubbed pine table, pushing aside a pile of mail heâd found in a box when he unpacked. A return address caught his eye. A bill from the private investigator. Chandler had sounded almost apologetic about billing him for the hours spent following leads that went nowhere, but Mac didnât care how much it cost, how many possibilities turned out to be dead ends. They couldnât quit. Not until they found Andiâs killer. Eventually, they would. People didnât just vanish.

He set the bill aside to pay later and slid the newspaper from its sleeve. A subscription offer fluttered to the ground. He opened the paper and took another bite of cinnamon roll. And another. There was something restful about perusing local politics and events that didnât concern him. By noon, heâd written a check to the investigator, unpacked all the boxes marked kitchen, called to subscribe to the Anchorage newspaper and wiped out the entire plate of cinnamon rolls. He washed the plate and set it in the drainer to dry. His family used to eat off blue-and-white plates not too different from this one when he was a boy.

His job was to wash dishes, and his mother would dry. Sheâd wipe each plate, stack them in the cupboard and sigh because there were only seven. Heâd heard the story a dozen times. How her cousin had taken home a plate of leftovers one evening and moved off to California without ever returning the plate, leaving her with an incomplete set. He was never clear exactly why Mom couldnât have asked for the plate back or bought another one, but she didnât. Instead, she mourned the loss nightly.

He eyed the plate in his drainer. According to the note, the woman lived in the big house on the next property over. He needed to drive into Seward that afternoon to buy groceries. He could easily drop off the plate on the way. But his polite gesture could be misconstrued as a friendly overture, which posed a danger to his privacy. If he ignored her, sheâd leave him alone.

And that was really Macâs only goal in moving to Alaska. To be left alone.

* * *

URSULA HAD WAITED three long days, but the call never came. How was she going to convince the guy it was in his best interest to sell if he wouldnât talk to her? Her cinnamon rolls seldom failed, but maybe he really didnât eat gluten. Time to pull out the big guns.

She took a jar of smoked sockeye sheâd canned last summer from her pantry. Chopped green onions, lemon juice, cream cheese and a few secret seasonings turned it into her special salmon dip. She filled a crock and tucked it into her backpack, along with a bag of moose jerky, and strapped on her snowshoes.

A fresh snow had obliterated the tracks on the ski trail since their aborted outing a few days ago. No doubt the groomer had laid fresh tracks on the main trails but he could no longer reach her property with the gates closed. Getting them opened should be her first order of business.

She reached the gate, relieved to see the SUV parked between the house and the garage. Good. He was home. Hopefully, the dog was in the house with him, but if not, she had a plan B. Ursula rattled the gate and waited.

Sure enough, a black-and-white blur bounded toward her, almost disappearing into the deep snow between leaps. The dog must be in great physical condition to be able to bark and run at the same time.

The pit bull reached the gate and bounced into the air, almost head high, barking. Ursula wasnât sure this was going to work, but she had to try. She laid down her ski poles to take off her backpack. The barking stopped. She looked up. The pit bull still watched her. Ursula reached toward the poles, and a low rumble emanated from the dogâs throat.

Aha. âBad experience with a stick? Poor puppy.â Ursula left the poles lying on the ground and spoke in a gentle voice. âDonât worry, sweetie. Iâd never hurt you.â She unzipped her backpack, pulled out a stick of jerky and tore off a bite-size piece. âWould you like a treat?â She tossed the bite to the dog.

The dog jumped into the air to catch the tidbit. Tail wagging, it waited expectantly. Ursula smiled. âThatâs a good boy.â She checked. âGirl, I mean. Want some more?â

The pit bull cocked her head. Ursula tossed another bite. The dog came closer and stuck her nose between the gate and the fence, wagging her tail harder. Ursula handed her another bit of jerky. The dog licked her hand and gently took the meat from her. âAll that bluster is just for show, isnât it? Youâre really a marshmallow.â

The dog wagged in agreement. Leaving the ski poles behind, Ursula pulled the chain up over the post to unlatch the gate and slipped inside. She fastened the gate behind her and gave her new best friend another bite of jerky. Together, they crossed the meadow between the gate and the house, Ursula on snowshoes and the dog crashing through the snow beside her.

Before she reached the house, Ursula noticed a light in the window of the oversize detached garage. When Bettyâs husband built it forty years ago, heâd included a woodworking space as well as room for cars. The light was coming from the workshop area.

The dog headed straight for the workshop and squeezed through a new dog hatch cut into the outer door. The door must not have been completely latched, because it opened when the dog pushed against it. Ursula removed her snowshoes, pulled the crock of salmon dip from her backpack and followed the dog inside.

The workshop featured an arctic entry, a small alcove inside the door leading to another door off to one side to keep the wind from blowing in every time someone opened the door. The inside door stood open, and the dog padded on into the main room. A bench against the wall held a box full of carved wood. Curious, Ursula picked up one of the pieces.

The polished wood retained the natural curves of a tree limb, but a face peered out from the wood grainâan inquisitive gnome with shaggy eyebrows and a long beard. The piece gave the impression that the face had been in the wood all along and just needed a skilled craftsman to let it out. A quick glance showed maybe a dozen similar carvings, each face unique. Enchanting.

The sound of the dogâs toenails clicking across the concrete floor of the shop reminded Ursula why she was there.

She returned the carving to the box and stepped inside, inhaling the piney scent of fresh sawdust. At the far end, a man perched on a stool. His profile revealed a strong brow and a determined jawline. A few gray threads wove through thick brown hair that could have used a trim. His full concentration was on the blade he was using to remove chips of wood from the chunk in his hand. The dog, lying on a cushion at his feet, wagged her tail when Ursula appeared. The man looked up and seemed anything but pleased to see her there.

Before he could speak, Ursula jumped in, determined to be friendly. âForgive me for just walking in. The door was open.â

He didnât smile back. âThe sign says No Trespassing.â

âOh, but Iâm your next-door neighbor.â She took a step closer. âUrsula.â

He remained where he was. âHow did you get past the dog?â

âWeâre friends. Arenât we, sweetie?â The dog trotted over to her and nudged her hand. Ursula smiled. âShe likes my jerky.â

The man let out a huff of exasperation. âWhat do you want?â

Ursula licked her lip. âI came to see you. That is, I brought you some salmon dip. Itâs homemade, from Copper River sockeye I smoked myself.â She held out the crock. âI hope you found the cinnamon rolls I left a few days ago.â

He made no move to accept her offering. âNo, 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.

CHAPTER THREE

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 errand required stealth. âIf I take you, will you be good?â

Her body wiggled in agreement. He returned to rub some balm on her paws. Heâd picked it up in Whitehorse when heâd noticed her feet seemed sore after playing in the snow, and it seemed to work well. He clipped a leash to her collar and set off once again. Surprisingly, he didnât need his flashlight. Once his eyes adjusted, the moon reflecting off the snow provided plenty of light for him to make his way to the road and along to the Forget-me-not Inn sign.

He followed the drive, flicking on his light when he reached the trees. After a few minutes, he came to a clearing. Moonlight illuminated a cedar building crowned with steep gables. A bench, small tables and several rocking chairs were scattered across the wide front porch. A snow shovel leaned against the wall.

Heâd just leave the plate on the bench beside the door. He commanded the dog to sit-stay and started for the porch. As he reached the second stair, the front door opened and Ursula stepped outside, shaking dust and gravel off a rug and all over him.

âOh my goodness, Iâm sorry.â Her voice was apologetic, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

âNo problem.â Mac dusted his coat with his free hand. âI was just returning your plate.â

âThatâs thoughtful, but you didnât have to do that.â She smiled, and it was like a sudden flash of sunshine, warming him. Her silver-shot hair fluttered in the breeze. âCome on in.â

âNo, I need to go.â He handed her the plate. âBut I did want to thank you for the cinnamon rolls. They were delicious.â

âIâm glad you enjoyed them.â She accepted the plate. âSeriously, come in for a cup of coffee. I just took a batch of blueberry muffins from the oven.â

âI donât thinkââ

A squirrel scurried onto the porch and ran right up Ursulaâs leg and body to sit on her shoulder. Ursula absentmindedly pulled an almond from the pocket of her jeans and handed it to the squirrel, who accepted it and stuffed it into his cheek. âWhat if I promise not to mention gates or property?â

Mac stared. âThatâs a squirrel.â

âWhat? Oh, yes. This is Frankie.â

âYou have a pet squirrel?â

She chuckled. âHeâs not a pet, exactly. Frankie was orphaned, and I bottle-fed him until he was old enough to forage on his own. He stops by often to say hello.â

The dog had been trying her best to stay as instructed, but seeing the squirrel was too much. She bounded onto the porch. The squirrel took a flying leap to the railing, dashed up a pillar and jumped onto a tree limb. Within seconds, it was twenty feet into the tree. The dog gave a final bark, came back to Ursula and nudged her hand in greeting and then ran through the open door into the inn.

Before Mac could apologize, Ursula laughed. âWell, what are you waiting for?â

He followed her inside. She hung his coat on a hook and led them through an expansive dining and living room into a kitchen, which somehow managed to look functional and cozy at the same time. A collection of African violets bloomed in shades of purple and pink on a shelf under a grow light. Ursula opened a gate, which separated the kitchen from a small dining area. A cat, curled up on a chair cushion, took one look at the dog and took refuge on top of a corner cabinet.

The dog stiffened, but Ursula made an uh-uh noise and shook her head. She pulled a dog biscuit from a cookie jar on a shelf by the back door and soon had the pit bull lying peacefully on a rug. She nodded at the cat. âThatâs Van Gogh.â

âVan Gogh?â

âHeâs missing an ear.â

Mac chuckled, and soon found himself sitting at a wooden table sipping an excellent cup of coffee. Fruit-scented steam rose from the muffin on the plate in front of him. Considering heâd only intended to drop off the plate, he wasnât sure how heâd wound up here, but maybe it wasnât too surprising that a woman who could pacify pit bulls and tame squirrels could maneuver him wherever she wanted him. She slipped into the chair across the table. âSo, as I said, Iâm Ursula Anderson.â

âMac. Macleod.â

âNice to meet you, Mac. And where do you hail from?â

âOklahoma.â He bit into the muffin. Jammed with sweet blueberries, with a hint of something else, maybe orange? The woman had a way with baked goods.

She raised a delicately arched eyebrow. âIâm surprised. I knew cowboys from Oklahoma when I was growing up in Wyoming. You donât have much of an accent.â

âIâve lost it over time, living in Tulsa. People from all over the country live there.â

âSo what brings you to Alaska?â

Mac paused before his next bite. Here was an opportunity to make his point. He met her eyes. âSolitude.â

She nodded. âI got that. I apologize for bursting in yesterday, and realize I was overstepping. Iâll try not to bother you again.â She nodded at the plate sheâd set on the table. âThanks again for returning that.â

He shrugged. âMy mother would turn over in her grave if I didnât.â

âI think Iâd have liked your mother.â Ursulaâs eyes crinkled in the corners. âWhat would she say if she knew youâd threatened to have me arrested for trespassing?â

âI didnât exactly...â She gave him the same look his mother used to when he was trying to talk his way out of trouble. He had to laugh. âOkay, I admit it. Sheâd have given me an earful.â

Ursula laughed. âNow you sound like an Okie cowboy.â

âI suppose thatâs because I am one. Or I was, until I was seventeen and we moved to town.â

âDid you raise cattle?â

âYes, Herefords.â At least until that last year of drought, when Dad had to sell off the herd, bit by bit. And then they lost the bull. But Mac didnât want to think about that. âWere your family ranchers in Wyoming?â he asked quickly.

She met his eyes and paused, just long enough for him to wonder if sheâd read his mind, before she gave a gentle smile. âMy father was a mailman and my mother taught school. After I graduated from high school, I worked in the office for an oil company, where I happened to fall in love with a certain roughneck. Tommy believed Alaska was the land of opportunity. So we got married, packed up a truck and headed to Alaska.â

âAnd was it? The land of opportunity?â

âIt was for us. We had a wonderful life here.â She rubbed the bare ring finger of her left hand. âI scattered Tommyâs ashes on Flattop. Thatâs what he wanted.â Suddenly she smiled. âLook at that.â She inclined her head toward the dog.

Mac turned. The cat had come down from the cabinet and was gingerly touching noses with the pit bull, who thumped her tail against the floor. After a moment, the cat rubbed against the big dogâs face and then curled up against her. The dog seemed fine with that.

Ursula chuckled. âThatâs quite a ferocious beast you have there. Whatâs her name?â She took a sip from her cup.

Mac glanced down at his plate. âBlossom.â

Ursula snorted and almost choked on her coffee. Once she quit coughing, she grinned at him. âBlossom? Really?â

Mac shook his head. âI know. My daughter adopted her as a puppy. Andi happened to be volunteering at the shelter when they brought in this half-grown pit bull. Sheâd been starved and beaten, but Andi was convinced with love and care sheâd blossom into a great dog. She was right.â

âShe certainly was. Blossom is the perfect name for her. Whereâs your daughter now?â

Mac kept his gaze on the dog. âSheâs dead.â It was the first time heâd ever said it aloud to someone who didnât know the story. His daughter was gone. Forever.

Ursula laid her hand over his and squeezed. âIâm so sorry.â

Mac nodded, unable to speak. That familiar wave of grief washed over him, but in a way it was a relief, to acknowledge what heâd lost. For some reason it was easier with Ursula, maybe because she didnât know him, didnât know the story, had no preconceived ideas. She didnât rush in with some platitude or awkwardly edge away as though grief was contagious. She simply accepted what he told her.

Ursula looked over at Blossom, snoozing on the rug with a cat under her chin. âYour daughter must have been a gentle person, to raise such a gentle pit bull.â

âShe was.â Mac swallowed the lump in his throat, remembering. âShe was too gentle for her own good sometimes. Always saw the best in people, even when they didnât deserve it.â

âIf everyone could be like your daughter, the world would be a better place.â

âYes it would.â If only there were no predators, no evil. But they were there, preying on the innocent, and it was her very goodness that had cost Andi her life. Her murderer had disappeared, but eventually they would find him and heâd go to prison for the rest of his sorry life. Mac would make sure of it.

But todayâtoday he could talk about the daughter he loved. He told Ursula stories, about Andi as a girl, giving away her school supplies to other kids. About how she would make him chicken soup when he had a cold. About how sheâd volunteered at the animal shelter, and done every walkathon and fund-raiser that came along. âWhen she was seventeen, she spent two weeks with a team in Peru, building a new dormitory for an orphanage.â

âWow. How did she learn about building?â

âWeâd both done some weekend work building houses locally. Andi was pretty handy with a nail gun. I was all set to go, too, but she wanted to do it without me.â

âBrave girl. At seventeen, Iâd never been more than a state away from Wyoming. Didnât her mother worry?â

Mac shook his head. âHer mother died when she was a baby. I worried. But Andi was fine.â

âShe sounds like a special person.â

Mac sighed. âShe was.â

Ursula refilled his cup. Mac realized heâd monopolized the conversation but she didnât seem to mind. On the wall behind her, a calendar featured a picture of the inn. An emerald green mountain rose behind it. The setting was spectacular, summer or winter. He could see why people wanted to stay here. âHow many rooms do you have in your inn?â

âSix. Besides my private quarters.â She nodded toward the back door leading from the kitchen.

âYou run it by yourself?â

âI have a housekeeper three times a week. I do the rest.â

âSounds like a big job.â

âIt is, but I love it. Iâve been running the inn for about six years now.â

The back door opened and a blond girl about seven or eight peeked through the crack. Ursula smiled at her and held out her arms. The girl ran over and climbed into her lap.

Ursula stroked her hair from her forehead. âYouâre up early. Did we wake you?â

The girl gave a sleepy nod. An ache formed in Macâs chest. She didnât look much like his daughter. Andi had brown hair and eyes, while this girl was fair, but the way she cuddled against Ursula while watching him through her lashes brought back memories.

âSorry, sweetie. Mac, Iâd like you to meet my goddaughter, Aurora Houston. Rory, this is our new neighbor, Mr. Macleod.â

âYou can call me Mac.â

The little girl watched him for a moment before her eyes opened wide. âYouâre the old grouch who blocked the ski trails.â

âRory, you shouldnât sayââ

âBut thatâs what you said. That the old grouch wouldnât open the gate and we have to go all the way over to Margeâs to ski.â

âNo. I, uh...â Ursulaâs cheeks flushed a charming shade of pink. Who knew women still blushed? It was all Mac could do to keep a straight face. âThat is, yes, I did say that but it was wrong. I was frustrated, but Mac has every right to decide how to manage his property, and I apologize to you both for what I said. Besides, he needs to keep the gates closed to keep the dog in.â She pointed toward Blossom.

âA dog!â Rory scrambled off her lap and dropped onto the rug beside the dog and cat.

Mac had to smile. Andi would have had exactly the same reaction. âHer name is Blossom.â

She stroked the dogâs head, and Blossom thumped her tail. Rory looked up. âLook Ursula, sheâs really nice. She must have just been having a bad day when she saw us before.â

âI think it was the ski poles. Sheâs afraid of them.â

âOh, thatâs right.â Mac had forgotten. âMy housekeeper mentioned she always has to put the dog out before she sweeps because Blossom doesnât like the broom.â

âWhy doesnât she like poles?â Rory asked.

âIâm not sure,â Mac responded, âbut I suspect someone was mean to her when she was a puppy and might have hurt her with a stick. Itâs funny, because she doesnât seem to mind if I carry sticks and poles.â

âThatâs because she knows she can trust you.â Ursula smiled at him. âAnd I do apologize for calling you an old grouch.â

Sheâd only spoken the truth, but she was obviously trying to set an example for her goddaughter. âApology accepted.â

Ursula glanced at the clock. âOops, time flies. Rory, you need to get dressed for school while I get your breakfast ready.â

âBut I want to pet Blossom.â

Mac stood. âIt was nice to meet you, Rory. Blossom and I need to go, but maybe you can see her another time.â

âGo on, sweetie.â Ursula allowed her to give the dog one last hug before she shooed her through the door. Ursula turned back to Mac. âThank you for returning the plate.â

âNo problem. Thanks for the muffins. And...everything.â

âYouâre welcome. Stop by anytime, if the solitude gets to be too much for you.â

âThanks, but Iâll be fine.â

âYes, you will be.â Odd phrasing, but then he realized she wasnât just being polite. She acknowledged his loss and believed he would get through it. He wasnât nearly so sure, himself. He looked back just before he stepped out the door. She gave him one last smile. âGoodbye, Mac. Take care of yourself.â

* * *

THE CELL PHONE RANG, again. Mac considered ignoring it, but Ronald would just keep calling. Persistence was a good trait in an agent, most of the time. âItâs Mac.â

âSo youâre still on the planet. I assume you made it to Alaska okay?â

âI did.â

âEverything all right with the cabin?â

âItâs fine.â

âGood. Danielle gave me the address, and I arranged for them to install Wi-Fi.â

âYou what?â

âItâs DSL. Theyâre supposed to be there between ten and three today.â

âYou donât have to babysit me,â Mac growled. He wasnât keen on working around an installerâs schedule. He was running low on essentials like coffee and pickles and needed to run into Seward. âI could have picked up the modem myself next time Iâm in Anchorage.â

âBut when would that be? I feel responsible, since Iâm the one who mentioned if you wanted to get away, one of my clients had a cabin in Alaska she planned to sell. I didnât think youâd take me seriously.â

âHow can I take you seriously, when you put me at the mercy of some internet installer?â

âI need to be able to reach you out there in the wilderness.â

âThe cabin is only fifteen minutes from town, and only two hours from Anchorage. I have cell phone coverage, which you obviously know since youâre talking to me.â

âI just want to make sure you donât go dark. You might need to email me about royalty questions or something.â

Mac didnât bother to point out he could email from his phone. They both knew it wasnât email Ronald was worried about; it was the manuscript due in a few months. Mac had already told him it wasnât going to happen. Ronald had mentioned the possibility of a deadline extension, hoping Mac would pull out of his funk, but Mac knew he couldnât write that book. Not after what happened to Andi. He wasnât sure heâd ever write again. But there was no use retreading that discussion now. Ronald would have to face facts eventually. âFine. Iâll get internet. Bye.â

âWith all that solitude, have you had a chance toââ

âGoodbye, Ronald.â Mac ended the call. Pain in the butt. Still, Ronald was the closest thing Mac had to a friend these days. If it made him feel better, Mac would hang around and wait for the installer. Meanwhile, heâd make a list.

He found a pen in a kitchen drawer and pulled an envelope from the wastepaper basket. Milk, bread, coffee, pickles, mustaâthe pen gave up the ghost midword. Somewhere in this house were a handful of pens and pencils heâd thrown into a box. But which box? There were still at least a dozen stacked in the second bedroom.

He shrugged. Since he wasnât going anywhere until the internet guy showed up, he might as well finish unpacking. In the first box, he found T-shirts, underwear and socks. Good, because he was almost out of clean clothes and until he bought laundry detergent, he couldnât wash. Now if he could find a pen to add it to the list.

The next box held an assortment of items nested in newspaper. He unwrapped his favorite coffee cup and one of Blossomâs chew toys and then a silver frame. He ran his finger over the smooth edge.

The photo was of Andi, the summer after her senior year of high school, bathing an elephant. He smiled. Andi had been fascinated by them since he read her a book about an elephant when she was about four. She used to insist on reading it almost every day. When she was in high school, he heard about a sanctuary where she could spend a weekend interacting with pachyderms, and knew heâd found the perfect graduation gift. When she opened the envelope, sheâd squealed and given him a big hug. That was a good day.

They hadnât all been good. Somewhere in middle school, Andi seemed to go from sweet little girl to moody teenager overnight, and as a single dad, Mac was clueless on how to handle the drama. Maybe heâd had more rules than sheâd have liked, but how could he not? He didnât want to see his little girl hurt. Even so, she managed to get that big heart of hers broken more than once before she left for college. Although tempted to put out a hit on the culprits, Mac only killed them off in his books. That showed a certain restraint, didnât it? Heâd often wondered if the lack of a mother to talk to made all Andiâs problems loom larger than life, or if it was just typical teenage angst.

Maybe it was his overprotective tendencies when Andi was a teenager that made her so insistent on her independence as an adult. Maybe if heâd been a little more relaxed, she would have confided in him, let him help her when she got into trouble. He set the photo on his nightstand.

The next item in the box was a plain brown envelope with Andiâs name on it. Her personal items. Mac swallowed. These were the things sheâd had on her when the police found her. Silver earrings, a watch and a charm bracelet.

The bracelet had been her motherâs. Mac bought the silver chain with a jingle bell heart charm while he was on shore leave in Thailand and sent it to Carla, hoping it would make her smile. He never knew if it did. A year later, after she died, he found it in her jewelry box, beside her wedding ring.

When Andi was five, Mac had come across the bracelet again and decided to give it to his daughter. Heâd added an elephant charm after she saw her first live elephants at the zoo, and many more charms over the years. Andi had loved that bracelet. Sheâd worn it every day. Mac set the envelope aside.

The next item he unwrapped turned out to be a clutch of pens and pencils in the lopsided mug Andi had made in pottery class and given him for Fatherâs Day one year. He carried it into the kitchen and used one of the pens to finish his shopping list. He was flattening out the newspapers to add to the recycling bin when an opinion piece caught his eye.

The article questioned the ethics of releasing violent books and movies, and whether society as a whole became more violent when exposed to fictional violence. As an example, the columnist used a popular movie involving a serial killer, saying that although the main character was on the side of good, the serial killer was a complex and powerful character in his own right. Some moviegoers might identify with the villain more than the hero, which could encourage them to act upon their violent tendencies.

Mac read the entire article twice. Then he picked up the paper and ripped it in half. And ripped those pieces in half, again and again, until the newspaper page had been reduced to confetti at his feet. He hoped to God the person who wrote that article was wrong. Because the movie heâd mentioned was based on one of Macâs books.

* * *

URSULA DROPPED A birthday card for a friend in her mailbox and put up the flag before heading out to Anchorage to stock up on essentials and visit her adorable grandson. She pulled onto the highway and headed toward the turnoff to Macâs cabin. Should she stop and offer to pick up anything he needed in Anchorage? Sheâd always collected Bettyâs prescriptions for her. It would be the neighborly thing to do.

But who was she kidding? Mac was perfectly capable of running his own errands, and judging by the lean muscles of his forearms, healthy and fit. He said heâd once been a cowboy, and she could picture it. As theyâd talked yesterday and heâd started to relax, a hint of Oklahoma drawl crept into his speech. Now, she was hoping for another chance to talk with him, and not about selling her the property or allowing the trail to cut through. Sheâd seen the pain in his eyes when he talked about his daughter.

The man was suffering. And she suspected it wasnât just the pain of loss. Sheâd been there, when Tommy died. She knew how hard it was to go on while missing someone you loved. But there was something else going on inside his head, and she was afraid she recognized it. His eyes held the same haunted look as her fatherâs had after her little brother died. That look had never gone away.

She slowed, debating whether to check on him. But Mac was clear. He was after solitude. She had no right to badger him while he grieved. If he wanted to be alone with his daughterâs dog, she wouldnât bother him.

The sound of frantic barking changed her mind. Blossom was at the fence line near the road, dashing forward and jumping back. She seemed to have some sort of animal cornered. Ursula pulled her car over and jumped out, running along the driveway and slipping through the gate for a closer look. A bald eagle had somehow gotten a wing caught in the fence. Blossom jumped back, a trickle of blood running from her nose. Those talons could be lethal.

The eagle screeched. Ursula plunged into the snow and struggled toward the fence. âBlossom. Come.â

The dog looked toward her but didnât seem inclined to leave the fight. Ursula stopped and used her most commanding voice. âCome. Now.â

From the corner of her eye, Ursula saw Mac running toward them, but she kept her gaze on Blossom. With one last defiant bark in the direction of the eagle, the pit bull bounded through the snow to Ursula. âGood girl.â Ursula grabbed her collar and bent to inspect her nose.

âWhatâs going on?â Mac pushed his way through the snow toward them.

âBlossom was in an altercation with an eagle.â

âEagle?â Mac caught up with Ursula. âIs everybody all right?â He peered toward the fence.

âBlossom has a nasty scratch on her muzzle, but sheâll be okay. Judging by the way the eagle is holding his wing, itâs broken.â

âOh, no.â Macâs eyebrows knit together. âCan it live like that? Or would it be kinder just to...â

âIâm on my way to Anchorage. If we can get it out of the fence, I can take it to the bird rescue center there.â

âThereâs a bird rescue in Anchorage? Thatâs great.â He reached for Blossomâs collar. âLet me lock up the dog, and Iâll be right back.â

âBring wire cutters. There should be some in the tool chest under the bench seat in the kitchen. And a heavy blanket or rug. When animals are hurt, they sometimes lash out at people who are trying to help them.â

Mac gave her an odd look but obeyed. A few minutes later, he returned with the things sheâd asked for, plus a large dog kennel. âI thought you could transport it in this.â

âGood idea.â She studied the bird, who stared back, unblinking. When she took a step closer, the eagle gave a jerk but couldnât seem to get loose from the fence. âDo you think you can throw the blanket over it and hold it still while I cut the wire?â

Mac nodded. âI think so. Here, I brought us both leather gloves. Why donât you try to distract it from the right, and Iâll approach from the left?â

The distraction plan was only marginally effective, but after three tries, Mac was able to throw the blanket over it and hug the bird so that it couldnât get its beak or talons loose to fight them. Ursula went to work, cutting the thick wires that formed the fence.

âIâve dealt with a few animals tangled in fences on the ranch, but a bald eagle is a first for me.â The bird struggled, but Mac managed to maintain his hold. âHow do you think it happened?â

âSome of these wires are rusted. I suspect a rabbit or something ran through this break in the fence to get away from the eagle. He must have hit it pretty hard.â Ursula cut the last wire.

The eagle flapped the now freed wing awkwardly at Macâs face, but he hung on. âCan you open the kennel?â

Ursula unlatched the kennel door, and together they shoved the bird inside, blanket and all. Ursula latched the door shut. The eagle shook the blanket off and glared at them. Mac lifted the kennel, carefully avoiding putting his hands too close to any airholes, and carried it to Ursulaâs Subaru. She opened the back, and he slid the kennel inside.

He turned to face her. âThank you. Blossom could have been hurt a lot worse if you hadnât stopped.â

âNo problem. I think sheâll be fine, but if you want to have her checked out, thereâs a vet in Seward.â

âI will if I think she needs it. I hope the eagle will be okay.â

âMe, too. Iâll let you know.â

* * *

THE SCRATCH ON Blossomâs muzzle wasnât too bad. Mac had just finished cleaning it, despite Blossomâs protests, when the internet installer arrived. While Mac had waited for him to finish, heâd gotten caught up in a book on the history of the Alaska gold rush he found on the living room shelf. He didnât remember about the groceries until later that afternoon, so he locked Blossom in the cabin and drove into Seward.

He returned to find the empty dog kennel in his driveway. A roll of lamb wire rested beside it. That was nice of Ursula. He hadnât even thought about how he was going to repair the fence. Funny, back when he was a kid on the ranch, one of the constant chores was working on fences. Life seemed to have come full circle.

Once he had the groceries put away, heâd give Ursula a call to find out what the rescue people said about the eagle. He opened the liftgate and reached to load the kennel. A note was taped to the top. I have your dog. âUrsula.

What? Heâd left Blossom in the house. He drove the rest of the way down the driveway and unlocked the front door. No nails clicked across the floor to greet him. The back door was also locked. The windows were closedâit was winter after all. So how did Blossom get out?

The key. That was the only answer. Ursula had known exactly where he would find a toolbox containing wire cutters. He hadnât even realized the built-in bench lifted up, much less that there was a toolbox underneath. She was obviously friends with the woman who had owned the place before him. Ergo, she would have a key.

But why would Ursula take Blossom? It wasnât as though heâd neglected her. He was only gone an hour or so. Ursula had to know heâd never let anything happen to Andiâs dog.

Maybe thatâs what she was counting on. Sheâd fed him muffins and listened to him talk the other morning to get him to trust her. Sheâd helped with the eagle and even brought him wire to repair the fence. Now she was going to ârescueâ the dog, because she knew Blossom was important to him. And he would be so grateful, heâd give her access to the trails, or maybe even sell her the property. Classic manipulation.

But sheâd missed one little detail. She should have left the back door open. Mac couldnât be expected to believe Blossom had closed and locked the door behind her. Yeah, if Ursula thought her little plan was going to work on him, she had another think coming.

He jumped into the SUV and turned around. Could she have arranged the injured eagle, too? He couldnât imagine her trapping an eagle and somehow getting it stuck in the fence without injuring herself. But then, the woman had a tame squirrel. For all he knew, she might have a pet eagle trained to pretend it had a broken wing.

He pulled up in front of her porch, jumped out and ran up the steps. He reached up to pound on the door, but paused to take a breath. Better to let her carry through on this charade, see exactly what she was up to. He rang the bell.

A minute later, Ursulaâs smiling face greeted him. âOh, good. You got my note. Come in.â

He stepped in far enough to allow her to shut the door. Across the room, Blossom lay on a rug in front of the fire, getting belly rubs from Rory. She rolled to her feet and ran to greet him, pushing her head against his hand. He rubbed her ears.

Rory chased after her. âMe and Blossom were playing. And I gave her a dog biscuit. But I didnât share my cookie âcause chocolate is bad for dogs.â

Ursula put an arm around the girlâs shoulders. âI found Blossom running along the highway. She must have taken advantage of that hole in the fence. You found the fencing I left?â

âYes.â Mac kept his gaze on the dog, so Ursula wouldnât read his face. âThank you.â

âYouâre welcome. Iâm pretty sure thereâs a roll of bailing wire in your toolbox. If not, I have some you can use.â

âUh-huh. How much do I owe you?â

âDonât worry about it. I was picking up a few other things.â

He met her eyes. âI pay my debts. How much for the fencing?â

Oh, she was good. Her expression was the perfect mix of surprise and hurt at his brusque tone. This wasnât playing into her plan to have him indebted to her. âAbout twenty dollars, I think. Iâll find the receipt.â

âAnd the key.â

âKey?â Wide-eyed innocence. She could be a professional actress with those skills. Maybe the whole time sheâd let him babble on about Andi, sheâd known exactly who he was and what happened. Getting him to sell his property might not even be her end game. She might be planning to sell his story to the tabloids.

âThe key to my house. You have one, donât you?â

âOh. Yes, I do. Iâll get it.â She left him standing beside the door and disappeared into her kitchen, returning a few minutes later carrying a key and a slip of paper. âNineteen ninety-five. Hereâs your key.â A paper tag attached to the key identified it as âBettyâs House.â

Mac nodded. âIs this the only copy?â

Ursula narrowed her eyes. âAs far as I know. I only have it because I used to water Bettyâs plants when she visited her granddaughter in the lower forty-eight. I donât know if she gave keys to anyone else.â

Mac nodded. âIâm having the locks changed anyway, so if you find other copies, you can throw them away.â He put a subtle emphasis on find. She noticed, judging by the way she stiffened. He opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty. âThank you for picking up the lamb wire.â

âIâll get your change.â She turned.

âThatâs okay.â

She ignored him and crossed the room to fish a coin from a pottery bowl on the mantle. She returned and handed him a nickel. âI pay my debts, too.â

âIâm sure you do.â He slipped the nickel into his pocket. He should go, but he had to ask, âWhat happened with the eagle?â

âThey think heâll make a full recovery and theyâll be able to release him eventually.â

âThatâs good news.â

âYes.â She stood perfectly still, watching him. The girl looked back and forth between them, her eyebrows drawn together as though she couldnât quite decipher what was happening.

âI appreciate you both taking care of the dog.â Which he did. Even if Blossom had never been in any real danger, at least they had cared for her. And the little girl had no way of knowing what her godmother was up to. With a smile for Rory and a curt nod for Ursula, he stepped through the door. Blossom cocked her head and stayed where she was, obviously reluctant to leave. He had to call her twice before she came and jumped into the SUV.

He glanced over at the inn before he put the car in gear. Ursula stood on the porch with Rory in front of her, her arms wrapped around the girlâs shoulders. He couldnât quite read the expression on her face, but what should it matter? If he had his way, heâd never see either of them again. Mac shifted into gear and drove away.

CHAPTER FOUR

MAC SAT IN his living room, holding his knife in one hand and a piece of birch in the other, but he wasnât carving. Instead, he stared at the flames dancing behind the glass window of the woodstove. Was he missing something? Ursulaâs reaction when she handed him the key didnât quite fit. Sheâd looked...hurt.

He shrugged. Of course she did. She was an expert manipulator. She knew exactly what buttons to push, what expressions to adopt. Heâd learned a few things in the little over half a century heâd been on earth, much of it from sad experience. Fame and money attracted con artists and moochers like ants to a picnic. He seldom even wasted the energy resenting them, just wrote it off as an occupational hazard.

So why was he so disappointed in Ursula? Maybe it was because sheâd seemed real. She was attractive, but not in an obvious way. Just classic bone structure, healthy skin and an infectious smile. He liked her hair, the way sheâd left in the natural silver, short but still feminine. She was a good listener. And she seemed to care. Of course, that was stock in trade for people like her. Listen, learn and take advantage.

Blossom rose from her bed and stretched, head low over her front paws, tail poking into the air. She padded into the kitchen and took a long and sloppy drink from her bowl. Her nails clicked across the vinyl floor into the laundry room beyond, where she made a scratching noise.

Mac stood and followed her without bothering to slip on his shoes, wondering why she didnât scratch on the front door. When he got to the kitchen, enough light filtered into the laundry room to see her on her back legs, pawing at the back door latch. What was she up to?

Heâd noticed the levers on the doors looked much more modern than the rest of the house. Probably easier for arthritic hands to operate than the original doorknobs. Within a minute, Blossom had managed to catch the lever with her paw and pull it down. The door swung open, and she ran outside. When the heck did she learn to do that?

He flipped on a light and went to examine the door. Before he reached it, a gust of wind banged it shut. Just as he thought, the latch was turned to the lock position. What he hadnât realized was the inside lever still operated. He reached outside without letting the door shut and tried it. Sure enough, from the outside, it was locked.

Blossom pranced to the door, head held high. Mac let her inside and locked the door behind her, this time using the deadbolt. He hadnât bothered with the deadbolts before, since he didnât have a key, but that was before he realized he had a canine Houdini on his hands. Tomorrow, heâd call a locksmith. And fix that hole in the fence.

He followed Blossom into the living room. âYou have some âsplaining to do, young lady.â

She wagged her tail, reminding him of Andi when she was five and had just learned to tie her own shoelaces. Blossom seemed so pleased with herself, it was almost a shame he had to shut down her new game.

And it was an even bigger shame heâd jumped to conclusions. There wasnât much he hated more than the taste of crow, but he was going to have to eat a big helping.

* * *

âTHEREâS ANOTHER EXTENSION cord in the hall closet if you need it.â Ursula held a folding table steady while her friend Catherine folded out the legs.

âThanks. Iâm sure someone will need it. Youâd think after doing this so many times, weâd have it down, but someone always forgets something.â Catherine grabbed the far end of the table and together they set it in place. âThere. Thatâs the last one.â

Ursula checked her watch. Four oâclock. Some of the quilters would no doubt take off work early on a Friday afternoon. âTheyâll be arriving soon. Iâve got a big batch of brownies in the kitchen.â

âThe girls will love that.â The doorbell rang. âIâll get it. Itâs probably our guest speaker. Sheâs going to talk about wool appliquÃ©.â

âOkay. Iâll put those brownies on a platter.â Ursula started for the kitchen.

Catherine opened the door. âWell, hello there, beautiful,â she crooned in her dog-and-baby voice. Ursula was betting dog. Possibly a black-and-white pit bull.

She paused at the kitchen door listening to the murmur of voices. She wasnât sure if she wanted it to be Mac or not. She thought theyâd made friends, but sheâd sensed a definite hostility when he picked up Blossom yesterday. That hint of cowboy drawl was gone, and he was back to his formal voice. She couldnât imagine what sheâd done to upset him, after helping him with his eagle, picking up wire to fix his fence and rescuing his dog from traffic. Maybe he was embarrassed about the dog getting out. Or maybe he was just moody.

Whatever his reasons, she had better things to do with her time than spend it with a bad-tempered hermit. Sheâd be better off staying far away from him. And yet, she couldnât stop thinking about him. Ursula sighed. Who was she kidding? Sheâd seen his pain. She could no more walk away from him than she could have left the eagle in the fence to die. And just like with the eagle, if she wasnât careful, she was going to get hurt.

âUrsula. Your friend Mac is here to see you.â The lilt in her voice made it clear Catherine would be demanding details later. Ursula crossed to the door.

Mac stood on the porch, holding what looked like the local grocerâs entire stock of mixed flowers. âHi. Do you have a minute to talk?â

âIâll just go see about those brownies,â Catherine murmured. âCome on, Blossom. Iâll bet we could find you a dog biscuit.â

âCome in.â Ursula stepped back from the door to allow Mac inside.

He handed her the cellophane-wrapped bundles. âFor you.â

Ursula gathered the three, no, four bouquets in her arms. âThank you, but why are you bringing me flowers?â

âI want to apologize.â Actually, from the pained expression on his face, the last thing he wanted was to apologize, but he was doing it anyway. This should be good.

âCome with me.â Ursula led him through the maze of tables and power cords littering the living room.

âWhatâs going on?â

âA quilt retreat. Twice a year, Catherine and a dozen or so of her friends reserve the whole inn and spend the weekend sewing. Itâs a lot of fun.â

âDo you quilt?â

âI dabble, but Iâm not a serious quilter like these ladies. My job is to keep everyone fed and happy.â Ursula gestured for him to sit on the couch near the fireplace and laid the flowers in a basket on the coffee table. She sat in a chair directly across from him and leaned forward. âOkay, shoot.â

âShoot what?â

âThe apology. You said you wanted to apologize. Iâm ready.â

He chuckled. âYouâre not making this easy.â

âWell, Iâm curious exactly what youâre apologizing for. Blocking access to the ski trails without giving me notice? Siccing your dog on me? Threatening to have me arrested for trespassing? If it involves this many flowers, it must be serious.â

âActually, none of those things. Well, all those things, but theyâre not the main reason Iâm here.â He took a long breath. âI was rude to you yesterday because I blamed you for something of which Iâve since learned you were innocent.â

She raised an eyebrow. âSay again?â

âYesterday. When I found your note that you had the dog.â He explained, and as he talked, Ursula started to smile. By the time heâd finished, she was laughing out loud.

âYou really thought Iâd sneaked into your house and kidnapped your dog just so I could bug you about the right-of-way.â She shook her head. âYou have some imagination.â

âOccupational hazard, I suppose.â

âWhat occupation is that?â

âIâm a writer.â

âAre you? Thatâs exciting. What do you write?â

âThrillers.â

âAh. I donât read a lot of those. Too scary. I would have thought growing up on a ranch, youâd write Westerns.â

Mac shook his head. âNo. Growing up on a ranch means I know too much to write pretty little stories about cowboys.â

âThat bad?â

âNo.â He paused and just for a moment his gaze went past her toward some remembered place. âRather wonderful actually. It was losing the ranch that was hard. My dad never really got over it. He died young. They both did.â He gave a sudden smile. âBut I didnât come to talk about myself. I came to say Iâm sorry.â

âI accept your apology.â

âGood. Well then, if I can find my dog, Iâll let you get back to what you were doing.â

âIâll get her.â She gathered up the bouquets before starting for the kitchen. âThank you for the flowers. Theyâre lovely.â

âIâm glad you like them. Thank you for delivering the eagle and picking up the fencing wire. And for your patience.â

âYouâre welcome. See you around.â Before she could get to the kitchen, the door opened and Blossom ran past her to Mac.

Catherine followed, carrying a tray. âMac, take one of these brownies before you go. Ursula made them. Sheâs a fantastic cook.â

âYes, I know.â Mac nodded before accepting a brownie and taking his leave.

Ursula carried the flowers into the kitchen. She was on a step stool, retrieving vases from the highest shelves when Catherine bustled in. âSo what was that all about?â

Ursula grabbed a ceramic jar and set it on the counter before answering. âYou mean you werenât standing in the kitchen with your ear pressed against the door?â

âI was but he didnât talk loud enough. Spill. Why are good-looking men bringing you bucket loads of flowers?â

Ursula shrugged. âIt was one man and who knows why he does what he does?â

âSo you admit heâs good-looking.â

âHe is. Heâs also my new neighbor.â

âMaybe he wants to be more than your neighbor.â

âJust the opposite, I think.â Ursula stepped down. âHeâs bribing me to leave him alone.â

âIf that were true, wouldnât he have brought a cactus?â

Ursula laughed and filled the vases with water. âHeâs as prickly as a cactus, but it seems his overachieving conscience wonât let him get away with being rude. Thus, the flowers. Now that heâs apologized, he can go back to brooding in his cave.â

âWeâll see.â

âYes, we will.â Ursula trimmed the stems of one bouquet, stuffed it into a vase, fluffed the flowers and handed the arrangement to Catherine. âHere, you can put these out for your quilters to enjoy.â

* * *

IT DIDNâT TAKE long for the locksmith to do his thing. Once heâd gone, Mac made sure the deadbolts were latched and slipped the new keys onto his key ring. The leather fob had worn to the point that it was hard to read the M stamped onto it. Another of Andiâs craft projects, back before she realized leather came from cows.

Mac picked up his phone and dialed the familiar number. He was in luck. Detective Russ Ralston was in.

âItâs Mac. Just checking in to see if youâve found any new evidence.â

âSorry, nothing.â He sounded almost as frustrated as Mac felt.

âHave you checked out that tip fromâ?â

âYou know I canât share details. Rest assured, weâre following up every lead. That reward you offered has generated plenty of interest. So far none of the calls have panned out, but weâre still working on it. We wonât give up until we find him.â

Mac believed him. Russ was a longtime acquaintance and had a daughter two years younger than Andi. He was taking Andiâs murder as a personal affront. Not that Mac was relying entirely on police resources. The private investigator heâd hired was canvassing everyone even remotely connected to Joel Thaine, Andiâs boyfriend.

Mac never liked him. The first time they met, there was something...off about the young man. Nothing he could put a finger on, just the feeling Thaine was playing a part, saying what he was supposed to say to his girlfriendâs father. Come to think of it, Blossom didnât care for him, either.

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