Teri Wilson - Alaskan Hero

“Brock Parker.” Just your average hero. Anya swallowed. “He’s new in town.”

“Oh, I see.” Zoey nodded, her gaze lingering on the doorway.

“You’re heading up a committee at church?” Anya asked, eager to change the subject to something other than Brock.

“Yes. We have that big service project coming up—the one to help out widows in the area. I’m head of the committee. I was kind of hoping you might want to be involved?” Zoey slipped an apron over her head and wrapped its ties around her waist.

“The service project. Of course.” Anya remembered hearing something about it at knitting group. “Sure, I can help out. I’ve actually been meaning to talk to someone about that. Is it too late to add a name to the list?”

“Absolutely not. We can use all the help we can get.”

“Oh no, this wouldn’t be a helper. I was wondering about adding a name to the list of women who need help.” Anya’s stomach churned at the prospect, but she ignored it.

“It’s not too late for that either. We still have a few weeks to plan everything.” Zoey pulled a small notepad from the back pocket of her jeans. “Okay, I just need the name to add to the list.”

Anya swallowed. Could she really do this? “Her name is Kirima Kunayak. She’s my mother.”

* * *

“What about purple? You should knit something purple. It would look so pretty with your eyes.” Sue held a skein of amethyst yarn up to Anya’s cheek and nodded her approval. “Gorgeous. Clementine, come here and take a look.”

Clementine crossed the center aisle of the yarn store, balancing three balls of wool in each hand. It would take Anya a year to do something with that much yarn. Either Clementine had been practicing her knitting more frequently than Anya had, or she was about to take up juggling.

“Yes. Definitely.” Clementine inspected the purple skein. “And look—it’s chunky. You could probably make a scarf out of this in no time.”

“No, thank you.” Chunky or not, there would be no purple scarf in Anya’s future. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to her eyes.

With obvious reluctance, Sue put the yarn back in its cubby on the wall of the cozy yarn store. “It’s awfully pretty. Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that decaf is a crime against humanity.” Decaf. She shuddered. Really, why bother?

Clementine lifted a brow at Sue. “She’s sure.”

“I gathered.” Sue laughed.

“What are you going to make now that your hat for knitting group is finished? You can’t stop knitting altogether or you might forget how.” Clementine examined her six balls of yarn. All were various shades of pink, yet she was staring at them as if the choice mystified her.

“I’m not sure yet. What about you?” Anya bit back a smile. “I thought you were going to make something for Ben.”

“I am.” Clementine nodded.

“Then maybe you should steer clear of pink.” Anya plucked the six balls of yarn from Clementine’s hands and tossed them back where they belonged. She’d extract a thank you out of Clementine’s husband at a later date.

“Point taken.” Clementine tore her gaze from the wall of pink cubbies and sighed.

“This is nice. And look—it’s on sale.” Sue fished a bright ball of lime green out of the bargain bin, which was actually a white wicker basket that perfectly showcased the cheery hodgepodge of colors buried inside.

“Now that I like.” Anya held out her hand and caught the ball of yarn as Sue tossed it to her.

“Better than decaf?” Clementine asked, her lips quirking into a wry smile.

“Much.”

“There’s only one ball of it, though. And it’s awfully small. You might not be able to finish whatever you decide to start,” Sue said.

“I’m sure I can come up with something.” Anya clutched the lime-green yarn in her hand and picked a few more balls from the bargain bin—strawberry red, turquoise and tangerine.

Clementine looked on with what appeared to be mounting horror. “I hope you’re not planning on using all of those together. That would make one ugly hat.”

“Maybe.” Anya shrugged. “You never know.”

“Wow. Just...wow.”

“Anya, is everything okay?” Sue wrapped an arm around Anya’s shoulders. “You seem quiet. And Clementine’s right—all those yarns would make an awfully odd-looking hat. Should we be worried about you?”

Anya couldn’t help but laugh at the crazy assortment of colors in her arms. “I suppose I might be a little distracted. I added my mom’s name to the list for the church service project today.”

“That was thoughtful,” Clementine said.

“I’m glad you think so.” Anya blew out a breath. “But I doubt my mother will see it that way.”

Sue cocked her head. “No?”

“No. Most definitely not.” Anya almost wished she could turn back time to this morning. Then she wouldn’t be obsessing over adding her mother’s name to this list.

And maybe you wouldn’t get caught Googling Brock.

There he was again. Brock. Invading her thoughts. He was proving to be quite the irritation, even when he wasn’t around.

“I should probably get going. There are two puppies at Brock Parker’s house that are probably waiting for me to read them the paper. Or War & Peace maybe.” Anya rolled her eyes.

Clementine led the way as their trio headed toward the register. “I don’t understand. Isn’t the whole point to help people? What could your mother have against someone helping her?”

“She’ll find something. Trust me.” Anya lined up her balls of yarn on the counter, catching the lime-green ball just as it was about to roll off the edge.

“If you’re really worried about it, I could talk to the committee. We could get her name taken off the list and it would be no problem,” Sue said.

She had a point. Zoey was heading up the committee. Anya could just ask her to remove her mother’s name from the list, and she wouldn’t have a thing to worry about. Other than the pesky matter of the six inches of ice that had accumulated on her mother’s roof.

“No. Believe me, she could use the help.” Anya shook her head. “Convincing my mother just how much she needs it is the tricky part.”

Both the Dolce problem and what to do with the random assortment of yarn she’d just purchased paled in comparison.

Chapter Four

“Aspen and Sherlock are all caught up on the local happenings. Now what?” Anya handed the newspaper to Brock. Thankfully, he’d asked her to keep an eye on the clock this go-round. Just as she suspected, thirty minutes was enough time to cover most everything that went on in Aurora.

It was also apparently enough time for Brock to turn yesterday’s smooth sphere of wood into something vaguely resembling a dog.

“Oh, wow.” She plucked the tiny figure off the workbench, where it sat amid a small pile of wood shavings. “This is really great. Where did you learn how to do this?”

“My grandfather taught me years ago. It kind of stuck with me.” He frowned slightly as he watched her handle the little wooden dog, as if he himself was surprised at what he’d accomplished while she read to the pups.

Anya was surprised herself—surprised he’d actually answered her question. He was a man of few words, after all. She’d finally broken down and asked him about the puppies’ names this time, too, because he’d never mentioned them during her first “lesson.”

What didn’t surprise her, however, was the pair of antlers protruding from the sides of Brock’s baseball cap. They were soft and squishy, crafted of brown felt and ridiculously oversized. The get-up wasn’t quite as elaborate as his bear suit, but it made a statement nonetheless.