Beth Carpenter - Alaskan Hideaway

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 him—as 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.

You’d think one more feather on top of the load of guilt he was already carrying wouldn’t 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. “If I take you, will you be good?”

Her body wiggled in agreement. He returned to rub some balm on her paws. He’d picked it up in Whitehorse when he’d 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 didn’t 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.

He’d 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.

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry.” Her voice was apologetic, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

“No problem.” Mac dusted his coat with his free hand. “I was just returning your plate.”

“That’s thoughtful, but you didn’t have to do that.” She smiled, and it was like a sudden flash of sunshine, warming him. Her silver-shot hair fluttered in the breeze. “Come on in.”

“No, I need to go.” He handed her the plate. “But I did want to thank you for the cinnamon rolls. They were delicious.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed them.” She accepted the plate. “Seriously, come in for a cup of coffee. I just took a batch of blueberry muffins from the oven.”

“I don’t think—”

A squirrel scurried onto the porch and ran right up Ursula’s 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. “What if I promise not to mention gates or property?”

Mac stared. “That’s a squirrel.”

“What? Oh, yes. This is Frankie.”

“You have a pet squirrel?”

She chuckled. “He’s 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.”

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. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

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. “That’s Van Gogh.”

“Van Gogh?”

“He’s missing an ear.”

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 he’d only intended to drop off the plate, he wasn’t sure how he’d wound up here, but maybe it wasn’t 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. “So, as I said, I’m Ursula Anderson.”

“Mac. Macleod.”

“Nice to meet you, Mac. And where do you hail from?”

“Oklahoma.” 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. “I’m surprised. I knew cowboys from Oklahoma when I was growing up in Wyoming. You don’t have much of an accent.”

“I’ve lost it over time, living in Tulsa. People from all over the country live there.”

“So what brings you to Alaska?”

Mac paused before his next bite. Here was an opportunity to make his point. He met her eyes. “Solitude.”

She nodded. “I got that. I apologize for bursting in yesterday, and realize I was overstepping. I’ll try not to bother you again.” She nodded at the plate she’d set on the table. “Thanks again for returning that.”

He shrugged. “My mother would turn over in her grave if I didn’t.”

“I think I’d have liked your mother.” Ursula’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “What would she say if she knew you’d threatened to have me arrested for trespassing?”

“I didn’t exactly...” 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. “Okay, I admit it. She’d have given me an earful.”

Ursula laughed. “Now you sound like an Okie cowboy.”

“I suppose that’s because I am one. Or I was, until I was seventeen and we moved to town.”

“Did you raise cattle?”

“Yes, Herefords.” 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 didn’t want to think about that. “Were your family ranchers in Wyoming?” he asked quickly.