Alaskan Hideaway Read online

  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 didn’t, and she was gone. He screwed his eyes shut, willing himself into control. A single tear escaped, but the dog’s tongue erased the evidence. After a moment’s struggle, he was able to breathe again.

  Why would he think moving would make a difference? He was old enough to know better. You couldn’t 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 yesterday’s 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 Betty’s place, popped her head in. “Busy?”

  “Hi. Just finishing up. Come sit, and I’ll make coffee.”

  “I’ll do it.” 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. “I thought the cat was temporary.”

  “He was supposed to be, but I put up a notice on the library bulletin board and nobody’s breaking down the door to adopt him.” Ursula settled into a chair across the table from her.

  “I 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.”

  Ursula sniffed. “I wouldn’t know. The Forget-me-not doesn’t have mice. But Rory likes him.”

  “Rory likes every animal, the uglier the better.” Marge chuckled, but then her face sobered. “Is she doing any better?”

  “I thought so. But her teacher called me in for a meeting this week. Rory’s distracted, doodling instead of listening.” Ursula sighed. “It’s almost like I’m pushing a boulder up the hill and every time I get anywhere, it rolls down again.”

  “Well, I think you’re a saint for taking her in.”

  “I’m not a saint. I’ve loved that little girl from the minute she was born. Coby and Kendall were so happy.”

  “I know. You’ve told me the story. But her own grandparents—”

  “When 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, it’s a good thing they’re 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.”

  Marge nodded and sipped her coffee. After a moment, she looked up. “Oh, I almost forgot what I came to tell you. Did you hear the news about Betty’s place?”

  “I haven’t heard anything, but I saw the Mercedes parked out front, so I guess Betty’s granddaughter is finally putting it up for sale. The real estate agent was standing on the porch, but I couldn’t get his attention.”

  Marge’s lips curved into her I know something you don’t know smile. “That’s not an agent. That’s the new owner.”

  “What?” Ursula set down the creamer without adding any to her coffee. “But it wasn’t even on the market. Are you sure?”

  “That’s what I heard. From Penny.”

  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. “After Betty’s funeral, I told her granddaughter I was interested in the property once she was ready to sell.”

  “Maybe he offered her more.”

  “I never got the chance to make an offer.”

  Marge shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Ursula added cream to her cup and stirred. “So who’s the new neighbor?” Based on his behavior, not someone interested in making friends. A loner? Perhaps he’d decide a cabin situated between two bed-and-breakfast inns wasn’t remote enough. “Maybe he’d be interested in a quick resale.”

  Marge leaned closer. “Penny’s being mysterious. She knows, but she won’t tell me the owner’s name. She says I’d recognize it if I heard it.” She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “What if it’s a movie star?”

  Ursula snorted. “What would a movie star want with Betty’s old cabin? She didn’t even have cable.”

  “Well, 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.”

  “If a movie star wanted an Alaskan getaway, he’d buy a luxury fishing lodge on the Kenai, not a rundown cabin along the Seward highway.”

  “Who knows what they’d do? He didn’t look familiar to you?”

  “No. Of course, I only saw him from a distance and he was wearing a coat.”

  “Not that you’d recognize him anyway. You hardly ever watch movies that aren’t animated. You’ve probably had famous actors staying with you and never even known.”

  “If I did, they didn’t let on. But seriously, I doubt Betty’s granddaughter rubs elbows with actors. Doesn’t she live in Kansas?”

  “Wichita. You’re probably right.” Marge sighed, but then her face brightened. “Although, 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.”

  Ursula laughed. “I can’t 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?”

  “If he’s used to California winters, he’ll have cabin fever in no time.”

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

  “He blocked off the trails?” Marge’s face grew serious. “But Betty and her husband let that trail cut through their property probably forty years ago. Don’t you have some sort of legal access?”

  “I don’t know. It never came up when Betty was alive. I’m not sure it was ever set down as an official right-of-way.”

  Marge sipped her coffee and considered. “You’ll still chip in to maintain the trails, won’t you?”

  “Of course. I promised I would, and it’s not your fault if he cuts off my access.”

  “That’s good, because I didn’t budget for your share of the grooming.” Marge paused. “Your guests can park at the Caribou and ski from there if they want.”

  “Thank you.” It wasn’t ideal. Marge might be a friend but she was also a competitor. Ursula didn’t 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. “Let’s hope it’s not necessary. Tomorrow, I’ll drop by and explain about the ski trail access. I’m sure he’ll be reasonable.”

  “What if he isn’t?”

  “He will be. I’ll take cinnamon rolls and welcome him to the neighborhood. Movie star or not, I’m sure he’ll want to get along with his neighbors.”

  Marge didn’t look convinced. “Well if you figure out who he is, g
et his autograph for me.”

  “We’ll see.” Ursula had no intention of bothering their new neighbor with autograph requests. “If he seems busy, I’ll just leave the food, mention the ski trails and hint that if he ever decides to sell, I’d be interested.”

  “You really think this RV park thing is a good idea?”

  “Yes, I do. In order to compete with the new resort they’re building in Seward, I need to offer something they can’t. It will be good for the Caribou, too, since you’re next door. This way groups can vacation together even if they don’t all have RVs.”

  “We can always lower our room rates. The resort will probably charge a pretty penny.”

  Easy for Marge to say. She and her husband inherited their B&B from his grandparents years ago. They didn’t have a mortgage to consider. “I need to make at least enough to cover Sam’s loan payments and ongoing expenses.”

  “There is that. You wouldn’t want to drag down Sam’s finances. Especially since they have a new baby.”

  “Exactly. And if Sam sold the inn, I’d have to move back to Anchorage. I don’t want Rory to have to change schools again, when she’s just starting to make friends. Let’s just hope our mysterious neighbor is open to possibilities when I stop by tomorrow with the rolls.”

  Marge adjusted the position of her coffee cup. “I hope he’s not gluten free. Most of those actors are, you know. He’s probably on some weird acorn and kiwi fruit diet or something.”

  Ursula shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  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 didn’t eat gluten, he’d surely appreciate the gesture.

  Movie star. She shook her head and smiled. Why would someone famous want to buy Betty’s cabin? It only had two bedrooms. The kitchen hadn’t been remodeled since the forties. Neither had the bathroom. The guy probably asked Penny’s 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, weren’t they? Ursula opened her laptop and did a search for Kenai Peninsula Borough’s tax records. She located the property on the map and clicked on it, but the record hadn’t been updated from Betty’s name. Ah, but she had a source. The assistant at the tax assessor’s 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. “So, Michelle, I seem to have a new neighbor. I was trying to look up his name on the tax records, but they haven’t been updated yet.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him?”

  “Well, I was hoping to do some background research first, to—”

  “Sorry. Can you hang on a minute? Someone’s in my office.” Michelle didn’t bother to put the phone on hold, and Ursula tapped her fingers while listening to a long conversation about the probable whereabouts of someone’s stapler before she came back on the line. “I’m sorry. What was your question?”

  “I just wondered if you’d received the paperwork on the new owner of the property next door.” Ursula read the parcel number from the form.

  “Let me look.” Papers crackled. “Here it is. It’s an LLC.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A limited liability company. This one’s called R&A Holdings.”

  “Does that mean he’s running a business there?”

  “Not necessarily. Some people hold their assets in LLCs for other reasons.”

  “Doesn’t he have to give a name or something?”

  “Not on my records. Sorry. Guess you’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way and introduce yourself.”

  “I guess so. Thanks anyway.”

  “You’re welcome. Stop by next time you’re in town and we’ll grab coffee.”

  “I will. Talk with you soon.” 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.

  * * *

  MAC’S 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, he’d fallen asleep almost immediately, but it wasn’t 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. He’d 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 grandfather’s 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 SHE’D 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 she’d 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 shouldn’t be. And she didn’t want to wait too late, for fear he’d 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 Betty’s 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 didn’t need her flashlight to make her way along the driveway toward the porch. No lights shown in the cabin windows; hopefully she wasn’t wasting her time. An unfamiliar pedestal table rested beside Betty’s 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 dog’s owner wasn’t 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 wasn’t 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? He’d 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. He’d driven thirty-nine hundred miles to get away from people, only to have some strange woman pounding on his door three hours after he’d finally managed to fall asleep. Well, she didn’t 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. “I see you’ve been hard at work already.”

  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 he’d 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 table—cinnamon pecan, according to the cutesy label shaped like a daisy. Underneath, he found a note asking him to call her.