Chapter 15
Fifteen
How could you? He is only a werewolf, and they can be terribly emotional creatures, you understand? Quite sensitive about these things. You could do permanent damage!
— GAIL CARRIGER
Ford Boone had reneged on our deal.
At least, that was how I interpreted three days of silence on his part.
After parking with me by the covered bridge and letting me buy him cake, he’d gone silent.
Monday had passed with nary a text.
Tuesday? Gone in absolute, unboyfriendly silence.
I’d used my words like an adult and asked him if he wanted to get together, but he’d told me he’d have to pass because he couldn’t.
He did not elaborate on what, exactly, couldn’t meant. Perhaps there had been wild animal infestations of biblical proportions, requiring him to work twenty-four-hour days and sacrifice his personal life. Perhaps he had to wash his luscious beard or give a presentation on wolf things to the Wolf Council and was therefore unavailable for dating me.
You did not, however, need to actually sacrifice your love life if you were a busy person. Multitasking was something many people successfully managed to do, and I would have understood if he’d brought up a busy schedule when he’d proposed our twelve-month deal.
Since he was a man (or at least a wolf-man), I decided he likely had poor communication skills and possibly inadequate practice communicating, and it was on me to bring his speaking skills up to par. Therefore, I gave up on the texting and developed a new plan.
After work on Wednesday, I stopped by the Piggly Wiggle and picked up peaches so I could make a peach cobbler. I got enough to feed eight lumberjacks.
This was also a key step in my plan.
I asked Sanye to help me with the baking and then to drive me over to the Boone place that evening, with the intention of feeding those boys, but also corralling my wolf alone so we could talk through the current state of our temporary relationship. I figured that if Sanye drove off, stranding me, he’d either invite me in or drive me home, and I intended to use that time to talk. If I was being a drama queen or needy, he should tell me that.
Every day was barely going to be enough to fit in all the things I wanted to do to him. And also with him, for him, and alongside him. I wanted all the prepositions with Ford.
I’d been out to the Boone place before, but not since climbing Ford in the lake and spending the night in their guesthouse, and never as a Boone girlfriend. Driving up the majestic alley of trees that led to their place felt different, although I could not have explained why.
Trucks jammed the big, circular driveway in front of the Southern Gothic mansion they called a farmhouse. At least four of the Boone brothers were home. Ford’s beast of a truck was there, as was Ranger’s EV truck, a shiny new Ford F-150 Lightning.
He’d been one of the first people to buy one. Ranger believed in preserving the environment and had been heard to argue that it needed any life ring we could toss it, which included making wise decisions in trucks.
Sanye—who was on board with the surprise boyfriend plan and was convinced that there were two ways to a man’s heart (one through his stomach and another through a more southern and rigid organ altogether)—barely paused long enough for me and the peach cobbler to hop out before she was speeding away, leaving me choking on a cloud of red dust. We’d strategized that the Boone brothers, being Southern gentlemen, could not turn me away if I had no way of going home.
Plus, I had peach cobbler. No one passed up a free dessert.
I climbed the steps, past some impressive banks of orange daylilies in full bloom, and banged on the front door like I was the electricity meter reader come to turn off the power because the bill had not been paid.
The Boone property was not small, which only proved I was right when I said they were wrong in calling their home a farmhouse. Sanye and I had joked more than once that someone had been compensating by DIY-ing the biggest, most expansive property in Moonlight Valley.
Forty acres, kissing distance from the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, with a hundred-year-old mini mansion that had started life as a tiny farmhouse and grown into six thousand square feet of living space with a wraparound, colonnaded veranda on three sides.
Moonlight Valley gossip said the Boones had not one but seven fireplaces and that the place was a This Old House wet dream. For sure, the Boone brothers had spent most of their lives replacing, refinishing, and refurbishing the place by hand themselves, and their work was not done yet.
While I waited for a Boone to acknowledge my existence, I worked on channeling confident, sexy, and controlled. The porch was pretty. Someone had painted the wooden floorboards a deep clay-red and hung a swing from the ceiling.
I could picture myself curled up there doing…what? Reading a book? Canoodling with Ford? Planning a long and happy future with him? Yes! My imagination skipped dessert and rocketed past happily ever after.
Still, there were imperfections in the house.
It was old, it had done its best to fall down at some point, and the Boone brothers had clearly refused to let it. Paint peeled in spots and new boards alternated with the old in the porch. Care and neglect, new and old.
Boone was their daddy’s name, but their momma’s family had been the kind that wore cashmere on a daily basis and looked like they’d stepped out of the pages of a J.Crew catalog. I’d always imagined them with a garage full of gleaming Land Rovers, a marble kitchen bigger than a graveyard, and more connections than a spider web did strands.
They’d certainly been people who did not talk about money, but had always had it and assumed that their children would always have it. Kate Pemberwell had changed all that by stepping out with Darrell Boone as high school sweethearts and then by marrying him the day after their graduation.
People had whispered that he’d been expecting one heck of a wedding present from the Pemberwell family.
Instead, he’d wound up with seven kids, an anger management problem, and a local reputation that made the Grinch look benevolent.
I banged on the door and waited. When no one answered, I tried again, feeling like the Jehovah’s Witness lady come calling.
Eventually, I gave up and wandered around the outside of the house. Animals were everywhere I looked; either the Boone brothers brought their work home on a regular basis, or they were fixing to open a zoo. I spotted multiple dogs, cats, an armadillo, a raccoon family, a fox, and a three-legged deer.
About when I was ready to give up, I spotted a redhead with broad shoulders, standing legs akimbo and hands on hips. Target acquired. Either Atticus or Ford was minding a large grill.
“You got my meat?” he asked without turning around.
Ford, my heart yelped.
I had a bad case of the nerves. I shook them off as best I could. I’d come out here, and I’d committed to my assault on the Boone place. I could not retreat now, even if I had to resort to sweet, sweet bribery.
“No.” I cleared my throat. “But to be clear, I did bring peach cobbler.”
Ford turned around, startled. For one awkward moment I wasn’t sure if my plan would fail. If it had been terrible and doomed to crash land. Then Ford smiled, his face lighting up.
He came down the steps to the porch two at a time, wrapping me up in a giant bear hug that paid no never mind to the dessert I was carrying. His mouth found mine, delivering one heck of a kiss, his hands sliding underneath my shirt to stroke my bare skin. This worked so well for me that I moaned and almost bobbled the cobbler.
I’d have liked to have kissed him forever, but after about two minutes, we surfaced and put an inch or so between us. Ford’s mouth nuzzled my ear, making me warm all over.
“It’s been forever since I saw you,” I sighed, cupping his face with my free hand. His beard was deliciously soft beneath my palm, and I desperately needed to divest myself of my dessert burden so I could fully appreciate him.
“I missed you,” he growled and gave me another kiss. This one was longer and deeper, spinning out the tension between us and thickening the air. I wanted to do so much more than kiss him. So, so much.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Someone plucked the baking dish out of my hand mid-kiss. Or rather, end-kiss.
Ford growled some, but didn’t let go. Instead, he gave an irritated huff and nipped my neck too gently to leave a mark before lifting his head. I turned in his arms and discovered Ford’s twin standing next to us. He shot me a welcoming smile before returning his gaze to the cobbler he’d claimed.
But they weren’t really identical, I’d come to realize. Sure, on the outside, they looked alike and were monozygotic twins. Mix-ups and mistakes happened all the time in town. I’d mixed them up on that critical, first-kiss night.
Now I knew better.
They were two very different people. Atticus was smoother, less rough. His smiles came easily, and he got along well with people. Ford, however, had all these interesting edges and unexpected spots. He hardly liked anyone, and I treasured being one of those select few.
Atticus waltzed away with the peach cobbler.
“Don’t be eating that!” Ford yelled.
Atticus ignored him.
“I brought you all something sweet,” I blurted out. I’d forgotten the sophisticated, witty script I’d practiced in Sanye’s car. Hopefully, my delicious peach cobbler would compensate.
Ranger came out of the house in time to hear this. “But we’re having a sausage party.”
“A sausage party?”
Ranger set the platter of sausage he was carrying next to the grill. “Yes. This is my championship-winning sausage. It’s hot.”
“Range,” Knox growled at his brother, dropping down into the Adirondack chair nearest the grill. He dipped his head at me. “Evening, Alice.”
Ranger shot an unimpressed glance at his brother. “You don’t want to eat my sausage? We also have zucchini.”
If Ranger suggested eggplant, I’d lose it.
Ford scowled at Ranger, then wrapped an arm around my waist and drew me against him. His mouth quirked when he realized I was trying not to laugh, but he did not comment on Ranger’s menu. Instead, he shifted us to an Adirondack chair, set me on his lap, and resumed scowling at his brother.
His scowl made no impression on Ranger, who pointed over my shoulder. “My garden has produced an overabundance of zucchini. Ergo, it is zucchini and sausage night.”
Since in addition to being a champion pitmaster, Ranger usually won a half dozen ribbons for his amazing produce, this seemed plausible.
I squirmed on Ford’s lap, trying to get comfortable. His arm banded around my middle; his hard thighs pressed against my own softer backside. By the time I was situated, he was groaning and I could feel his…zucchini.
I felt a little dazed. I had a whole new sympathy for Ranger’s fascination with large, phallic vegetables.
“I have giant zucchini,” Ranger volunteered.
Knox leaned over and smacked the back of Ranger’s head. “Keep your zucchini to yourself.”
“I can’t do that,” Ranger said, sounding offended. “First, an overabundance of supersized vegetables is no joking matter. Plus, if Alice is staying to eat with us, it’s important to plan ahead. Fortunately, I have plenty of zucchini for her.”
“Ranger!” His brothers bellowed his name in unison. They did not appear to appreciate Ranger’s sense of humor.
“What? I’m just saying I’ll eat her peach if she tries my zucchini.”
“You are not getting anywhere near her peach,” Ford barked.
“So no zucchini?” I sighed dramatically. “That’s very disappointing for me.”
“Go show Alice your zucchini,” Atticus said to Ford, waving us off. “She’s clearly experiencing a vegetable shortage. Go fix that.”
I leaned back and looked up at Ford. “It is true that there is a terrible shortage of huge zucchinis in my life. You should rectify that.”
Knox choked on his laughter. Atticus snorted.
Ford glanced at me, his face caught between amusement and disapproval. I grinned at him.
“Show her around the garden,” Ranger agreed, his tone bland. Then he added, “But come back for my hot zucchini. Because it’s the best.”
“RANGER!”
Dinner turned out to be amazing, although eating with the Boone brothers was disturbingly like eating with a pack of wolves who had only bothered to shift into human form because paws and forks did not work well together. They growled, they squabbled, and they clearly loved each other. Ranger’s sausage hit the spot, and his zucchini was deliciously spicy. There was not a crumb left of my peach cobbler either.
I had an early shift at Vanity Fur Salon on Thursday, so we headed out soon after supper finished up. When Ford put me into his truck, Knox, Ranger, and Atticus stood on their front porch and waved goodbye. They were sweet men and their perpetual bachelorhood was a waste.
As I promised to return tomorrow night (accompanied by a blackberry cobbler), I decided that I should really exert myself to find them each a girlfriend. How hard could it be? Plus, it would make me really popular with the female portion of Moonlight Valley’s population.
I was planning my strategy when Ford made an unexpected left onto a road that was little more than a dirt track. We hadn’t gone more than a mile from the Boone place.
“Is this where you tell me you know an awesome shortcut?”
“I’d never try to reduce the amount of time I spend with you. I know you’ve got work in the morning, but I wanted to show you something.”
“Something good?” Pine trees shot up into the darkening sky on either side of us.
Ford slid me a glance. “Knox and I built a hunting cabin out here four years ago. It’s a private place. Secret.”
“Atticus doesn’t know about it?” There wasn’t much Ford’s twin didn’t know. I hadn’t quite decided how I would feel if, say, Atticus learned our intimate details.
“No. Not even Atticus. Knox thought we’d keep it between the two of us. And now you. It’s my cooling-off place, where I come when I get angry and need to let my wolf out to run.”
The possibilities of a private space ignited my imagination. A place to make new memories for the two of us. We could be just Alice and Ford here, away from all the expectations of family.
Maybe here I’d tell him how I felt about him, how I was starting to think I could put the love label on those feelings. Maybe we’d make plans here for the rest of our twelve months.
Ford drove with absolute confidence, steering left, then right, then who knows where. With anyone else, I would have been nervous, but this was Ford. I was safe with him. I let him drive, let go of my worries about where we were going.
The hunting cabin that popped out of the gathering darkness was a surprise. It was made of logs, with a red tin roof, and set back under the trees. It wasn’t large at all—just big enough to hold a couple Boone-sized mountain men.
Ford came around to open my door. I waited for him because he liked doing this, and when I got out, his right hand came to rest on the small of my back, a heavy, comforting weight.
His left hand held out a set of keys. “These are for you.”
“For me?” I grinned up at him. “I’m pretty sure you already gave me a house. This is becoming a pattern. It’ll set the bar high for our paper anniversary.”
He laughed lightly and shook his head. “That was your house. This is my place. Now you can come in whenever you want.”
I could feel the heat of him at my back, the comfort and security of his arms around me. Time stood still for a brief moment, or at least I sure wished it did.
This felt good. Right and perfect. Like something to hang onto, a hug or an embrace. Let’s stay here. Let’s not move FOREVER.
Not having secret mindreading skills to go with his secret lycanthropy, Ford walked us toward the cabin. I followed, connected to him by his hand at the small of my back and something else far more intangible. I let him unlock and open the front door so we could step inside.
The cabin was small. And perfect. And perfectly, unexpectedly romantic.
I’d anticipated hunting gear and leftover furniture. Maybe some sleeping bags and a primitive kitchen with boxes of cereal and cans of soup. Instead, I found myself in a woodworker’s masterpiece.
The kitchen cabinets were fancier than the ones in my tiny house, with wolf heads carved into the doors. Wolves edged the table and featured prominently on the backs of the matching chairs. I could imagine Ford taking his time to create the hardwood floors and the paneling on the walls, head bent over whatever tools he used (okay, so I knew nothing about wood or carving or whatever this was).
Even better, there books were stacked beside an armchair pulled up in front of the fireplace and a lumberjack-sized bed covered with an honest-to-God white comforter. There was nary a big-screen television or video game console in sight. No dirty laundry, no crumpled beer cans, no random piles of gym equipment.
“There’s no electricity,” he said, as if that had just occurred to him. “Not up here.”
“Okay?”
So we were going to cozy up by the fire like a nineteenth-century hero and heroine? I was so on board with that.
Ford plucked a lantern off a shelf and fiddled with it. A flame sprang into being. “Are you okay with the dark?”
“I might be,” I admitted. I could imagine the two of us spending the night together here, sharing our truths, opening up.
Ford watched me carefully, taking in my reaction to his hideaway. He was likely thinking about us getting naked. About us having sex—no, making love—in this tiny, perfect jewel box of a cabin.
“Ford, you are such an overthinker.”
“An overthinker?” He raised an eyebrow, crossing thick arms over his broad chest.
“You bet. You see, your hideaway here is romantic. But I feel the need to point out that I’d have sex with you even if you didn’t own the perfect sex palace. I don’t need romantic fires, candlelight and privacy.”
I waved a hand at the lantern he’d lit and set on the table. “I’m not holding out for a perfect moment. I don’t want you to be hands-off or planning out our bedroom activities. I just need you.
“I love your wild and reckless side. I’d be happy to jump you in your truck, behind the band gazebo, out in the woods. It’s not the setting I need—it’s you.”
I was so sure of this that it scared me. I was a scientist, and science was not about certainty. Nothing could be established as being one-hundred-percent certifiably true, and we dealt in near certainties based on experimental evidence. My Ford experiences all pointed to one certainty: he was a good man, a committed man…and he was my man.
I loved him, and that love meant I didn’t need or want romantic gestures. Gestures could be empty, and words could be just words. How and where we made love together didn’t matter.
Ford’s gaze softened as I spoke, his eyes warming up. He gave me a heated, full-body inspection.
I was as happy as a clam at high tide. And hot. I was so, so hot. Perhaps he would take me at my word about not needing perfect moments and go for it now? We could do it hard and fast, up against the wall. Or on the floor. There were many surfaces we could christen with our passion.
Ford moved with slow deliberation toward me. That ruled out the fast—but not the hard—portion of my half plan. He didn’t stop coming until he’d backed me up against the wall.
When he set one big hand behind my head and the other on my hip, I considered panting. Or moaning. Possibly grabbing on to him and never letting go.
His eyes flickered with amber and heat. He stared down possessively at my mouth as he said, “Alice, I’ve put a lot of thought into our first time. I won’t rush it. We’re not picking up burgers to eat out of a bag in the car. Not when I could take you out somewhere special and we could have all four courses and dessert twice. I have plans for you…”
“I do like a good plan.” I sounded breathless. “Although to be fair, I’m also a huge fan of burgers.”
Ford leaned into me, capturing me between his big body and the wall. His beard scratched deliciously at my cheek, and a shiver ran through me.
The fingers gripping my hip slipped underneath my shirt, his thumb drawing small circles on my bare skin. He was an inch north of my waistband, and my body urged him to head south, south, south.
“Ford,” I said, his name a demand, my hands fisting the sides of his flannel and yanking him closer. “I do not need or want to be on some kind of perfect princess pedestal, especially if you’re not gonna join me there.”
“You don’t know all the steps in my plan, Alice. And it has a lot of steps.” His mouth found my earlobe, kissed it, and I shivered. “I’ve got dozens of steps.”
“Then let’s start now.” I tightened my grip on his shirt, pressing my needy body into his bigger, warmer one. This felt good, and other things would feel even better.
We could christen his beautiful bed. Or his wall. The floor. The shaggy rug in front of the fire. There were no bad options.
He shifted his weight off me with a sigh. His face was sober and stern, fierce and restrained. “There’s no pedestal. I respect the hell out of you, though. That’s nonnegotiable, whether you like it or not.”
As he had after our previous dates, Ford walked me to the pink door of the Little Love Den and pressed a suitably chaste, third cousin twice removed–approved kind of kiss on my mouth while Emperor Meowpatine stared at us through the window. It was sweet and intimate, but no tongue and nothing that was not G-rated.
His parting grin was big, though, and I was tempted to run after him and yell I’m in love with you, Ford Boone! Instead, being both intrigued by his alleged plan and not wanting to jinx our blossoming relationship with premature declarations of feelings, I let him go.
I’d planned to spend an hour or so sorting through Aunt Sally’s things. When Ford had cleared away the flattened remains of her trailer, he’d boxed up what he could, and I’d been going through the boxes. So far, there hadn’t been much to salvage.
The cats had demonstrated in no uncertain terms that they were indoor/outdoor cats and that being forcibly removed from Aunt Sally’s property had not been to their liking. They did not care that there had been tree issues and had no problem with accepting Little Love Den as a suitable replacement domain. Ford had made them tiny cat doors, so it seemed fine.
I started with the closest box. An hour later I had a stack of books next to me and an empty box full of cats. Barack Obameow perched on top of the newest Nora Roberts, two years of Aunt Sally’s favorite cooking magazine, and several random encyclopedia volumes.
I liked knowing that Aunt Sally had touched these pages. That she’d held these books. Spent her time with them.
I was particularly pleased to find A Little Princess halfway through the box; it had been “our” book, and Aunt Sally had read it over and over to me during our summers. I’d liked to imagine that I was the long-lost princess, and I’d wished desperately for a monkey. We’d looked up a recipe for Bath buns, and Aunt Sally had made them every Sunday while I conducted experiments on yeast.
I let the book I was holding fall open, riffling through the pages. I was wasting time and being inefficient, but I missed Aunt Sally. This was the closest I would get to her now.
The truth was that although our relationship had not been as close as it could have been, I wasn’t ready to box her up and let go of her.
I hated knowing I couldn’t visit her in the summers, that she wouldn’t be here. I was furious at the pine tree for taking away the last place where I could feel her—and deeply grateful to Ford for salvaging what he could from the sticky, green mess.
This was when the note fell out of the book, straight into my lap. I could practically hear Aunt Sally chortling up there in heaven. The note was addressed to me in her swoopy, near-illegible handwriting, but like she always had, she’d turned the I in my name into the nose of a happy face.
I opened the note, my heart hammering loudly in my ears. It wasn’t long; Aunt Sally was not someone who had seen the point in expending a great many words, either in person or in a letter.
Alice,
I did not invest in any diamond mines while I was alive. Pastor Phee was quite certain that as silver and gold were God’s metals, they were certain to be a blessing. I therefore purchased silver coins and it has turned out that God has excellent—and lucrative—taste in metal
Pastor Phee also received divine inspiration on several occasions regarding that crypto-money-thingy, and let me admit that God was very fond of Pastor Phee and did not lead her astray.
Taped to the back of this note is a key. Follow the treasure map and use the key. Please try not to think too poorly of me. I hope that inheriting the several million dollars that my investments have yielded will—I have no idea what it will do. But please enjoy it and do not forget to feed my cats.
Love,
Aunt Sally
In addition to Aunt Sally’s short note, there was a page that looked like it had been torn out of a map atlas. She’d scrawled a big X on top of the fine state of Texas, and in the margins she’d added an address. There was another, much shorter note: Upon further contemplation, I believe leaving you clues and no address would be counterproductive.
She’d left me directions to a bank in Texas.
She’d left me a treasure.
She might have been addicted to hermitizing and collecting cats, but she’d been there for me the best she could.