Beth Carpenter - Alaskan Hideaway

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 grain—an 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 dog’s 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. “Forgive me for just walking in. The door was open.”

He didn’t smile back. “The sign says No Trespassing.”

“Oh, but I’m your next-door neighbor.” She took a step closer. “Ursula.”

He remained where he was. “How did you get past the dog?”

“We’re friends. Aren’t we, sweetie?” The dog trotted over to her and nudged her hand. Ursula smiled. “She likes my jerky.”

The man let out a huff of exasperation. “What do you want?”

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

He made no move to accept her offering. “No, thanks. I’m busy right now, so—”

Okay, the friendly approach wasn’t working. Time to get down to business. She straightened to her full height. “This won’t take but a minute. What are your plans for the house? Are you fixing it up to sell? Because if you are, I’m interested in buying.”

“No. I have no plans to sell.”

“What if I’m willing to pay, say, ten percent more than you did? That’s a decent rate of return for a quick investment.”

“Not interested.” 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 she’d seen in the box, these seemed tortured, in pain. The half-finished carving in his hand appeared to be screaming. She looked away. “If you do decide to sell, will you let me know before you list the property?”

“Yes. Fine. If I ever do, you’ll be at the top of my list. What was your name again?”

“Ursula. Ursula Anderson.”

“All right, Ms. Anderson. But don’t hold your breath.” He pushed his knife blade against the wood.

“Your carvings are amazing. I saw the ones on the bench in the entryway. Is there a name for that sort of sculpture?”

He concentrated on a cut he was making before he replied. “People call them wood spirits.”

“Wood spirits. That’s perfect.” She stepped closer and touched one lying on the workbench that appeared to be weeping. The wood was cool and smooth under her finger. “How do you decide what sort of face to carve?”

He gathered up the carvings and set them out of her reach. “I don’t have time for a discussion right now. If you’ll excuse me...”

She held up a hand. “Just one more little thing and then I’ll let you be. I don’t 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 there’s always been a right-of-way through your back corner connecting the ski trails to the trail across my property.”

“No. I don’t know anything about that.”

“Well, there is. Your gates are cutting my guests off from the trails. I’d much appreciate it if you’d open them.”

He stared at her as if she’d suggested he cut off his foot. “You want me to let a bunch of strangers traipse across my property?”

“Only that little corner in the back.”

“That rather defeats the purpose behind private property, don’t you think?”

“Not at all. I’ll make sure my guests understand they are to stay on the trails and not disturb you in any way.”

He stood, towering over her by a good six inches. “But I am disturbed. You’re disturbing me right now. One of the main selling points of this property was that it’s completely fenced and private.”

“Betty lived here for fifty years. She always kept the trail open, and never had a problem.”

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not Betty.”

“I’ve noticed.” Ursula couldn’t keep the frustration from her voice.

“Good. I’m glad we understand one another. Now, Ms. Anderson—”

“Ursula, please.” One more last-ditch attempt at friendly conversation.

“Ursula. 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?”

She bit back a retort. “I’ll go. But if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

“If you do, I’m the Forget-me-not Inn. You can get my number or email from the website.”

“Goodbye.”

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 didn’t look like she was getting those gates opened anytime soon.

She wasn’t giving up. There had to be some way to convince the old grouch that a few skiers in the back corner of his lot weren’t going to kill him. She’d even have offered to pay an access fee if he’d 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.

* * *

“SOME GUARD DOG you are,” Mac growled. The pit bull hung her head and crept closer to him, liquid brown eyes begging for forgiveness. Mac laughed. “You don’t even know what you did, do you?”

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 she’d 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 couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt for the way he’d treated her. She wasn’t a reporter, using him as a way to sell papers. She just wanted access to the ski trails. She wasn’t going to get it—Mac had no intention of allowing strangers on his land and he needed the fence for the dog—but it wasn’t an unreasonable request. And she had dropped off those amazing cinnamon rolls.