Chapter 3
The first time Ian saw Katie Layton, she was chopping wood, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, T-shirt rimmed with sweat, faded jean shorts ripped.
And the work boots and safety goggles? He’d never met a woman who wore either unless they were “pretending” for an occasion.
But to actually use them while doing work?
Ian homed in on the ax in the woman’s hand.
Nope, no woman he’d ever known could swing one of those.
He guessed she was about the same age as him, but he was too far away to see what she really looked like, though not far enough away that he couldn’t make out the toned legs, the tanned arms…
the curves…lots of curves. The woman hadn’t noticed his presence yet, and he took the extra few seconds to study her further.
Aerosmith’s, Walk This Way, blared several feet away, probably the reason she didn’t hear his car.
Small towns were different than cities, but still, shouldn’t a person be aware of their surroundings?
He bet he could have walked right into her house and taken whatever he wanted.
Small towns might have a cozy feel, and people might insist everyone could be trusted and no one was a suspect, but was that really true?
Did they not consider that sort of mentality could make them prey?
Uncle Jack, who wasn’t really his uncle but a second cousin or whatever, didn’t see the need to lock the truck or the garage and only locked the doors to his house because Aunt Dolly would have a fit if he didn’t.
Ian darted a glance at the female lumberjack.
She still hadn’t noticed him standing several feet away.
This was why bad things happened to people.
They stopped paying attention. They trusted too much.
They didn’t consider what could happen. His gaze settled on the cabin, took in the front porch, the curtains on the windows, the potted plants on either side of the front door.
This was the place where his father once lived, the place the old man thought had been vacant for years.
Except it wasn’t.
He wondered what the inside looked like. Would it be as rustic as the chalet he’d skied at last winter? Would there be quilts and crockery and hand-woven rugs? Would it feel like a home because it was one? Whose? This woman’s? If so, did anyone else know she lived here? Did they care?
Was she part of the new society push known as a squatter? That last possibility annoyed him. Why did people think they could just take what didn’t belong to them? Why did they feel entitled? And why did this woman–
“Who are you?”
The husky voice startled him, brought him back to the woman with the ax. “I was just wondering the same thing about you.”
“I live here.”
So, she was a squatter. Ian moved toward her, stopped when he was still several feet away.
“Really?” He glanced at the trees and dense foliage.
“You live in the middle of a forest?” The frown said she didn’t like that question, and the way she clutched the ax in both hands made him think she wanted to take a swing at him.
She ignored his comment, the frown deepened. “What do you want?” The gaze slid from his polo shirt to his designer jeans, darted to his leather loafers, then his watch before shifting back to his face. “You’re not from around here.”
No, indeed. Thank you for noticing and not lumping me with this pathetic, sad town. He couldn’t put thoughts to sound, so he shrugged and said, “I’m just visiting.”
“Visiting, huh?”
Was that a hint of curiosity in her voice? “Right, I’m staying with Jack and Dolly Finnegan. They’re my–” He caught himself before he spit out uncle and aunt. “They’re my cousins.”
“Jack and Dolly?” Her laughter spilled over him. “Jack and Dolly Finnegan are your relatives?” More laughter and then, “I would not have guessed that.”
“Why not? Because I’m not wearing plaid and a ball cap?” He took a step closer, noticed the red highlights in her dark hair. “Or because I’m not driving a truck?” If he were driving a truck, it would be a tricked-out one, not some old beat-up hunk of junk with a dented fender and scratched paint.
The woman’s smile faded, and she studied him as though dissecting and rejecting the many parts that made him who he was.
“Because there’s an arrogance about you.
Jack and Dolly don’t have an arrogant bone in them.
” She glanced at the car, shook her head.
“What happened? Couldn’t rent the BMW, so had to settle for a compact?
” She didn’t wait for a response, but continued her barrage of his character.
“Your tone says entitled, bored, and annoyed, so I’m guessing you weren’t dying to visit.
” Another head shake, and then came the words that pounded his gut.
“You’re not here because you want to be.
You’re here because you have to be. What did you do?
Run up your parents’ credit cards? Spend too many days by the pool instead of getting a job?
” The narrowed gaze shot straight through him. “Any or all of the above?”
Ian never admitted uncomfortable possibilities to himself, let alone some smart-mouthed woman who lived in the woods like a hermit.
He ignored the comments, shot back a few of his own.
“Since we’re doing ten-second-meet-and-greet analyses, I’ll go with recluse with trust issues and an aversion to the real world.
” He shot a glance at the cabin, his family’s cabin.
“And I’m also going with takes what she wants, whether it belongs to her or not. ”
“Get off my property and stay away, or I’ll tell your cousins you’ve been harassing me.” Her nostrils flared, her face turned red. “They won’t like that, especially when I tell them what you’ve said.”
Ian opened his mouth to shoot more accusations, decided against it. The last thing he needed was to annoy his “Uncle” Jack. “I think I’ll head out now.” He raised a hand, manufactured a smile. “Let’s forget this encounter, okay?”
The look she gave him said “not likely”, and then she picked up the ax and chopped another piece of wood, leaving him to wonder if she’d stay quiet or spill to Jack and Dolly.
It took two days for the whole town to start buzzing about Jack Finnegan’s kin, the city boy who didn’t know how to punch a timecard or stuff a shop rag in his pocket.
Ha ha ha. Talk about a fish out of water.
Did you see that boy trying to push a 2-wheel dolly? Acted like he never seen one before.
Who doesn’t know not to use their cell phone on company time?
And how about when he went to the front office to get a cup of coffee?
And the grease on his face?
Idiot.
Bet Jack’s blood pressure goes up every time he hears another story about the kid.
No doubt, but do you think his father taught him how to use a tool? The guy left town as soon as he could. Thinks we’re all hillbillies and fools who don’t know the difference between a fork and a spoon.
Still…
I guess we could have helped him by telling him what each buzzer means.
But that wouldn’t have been any fun, now, would it?
Want to take a bet on how long he stays? Let’s start a pool. Ten dollars says he quits before his first paycheck.
Ha. You’re on. I say he doesn’t make it three more days before he hurts himself. Gash or some such that sends him to the emergency room.
No doubt that could happen. He’s not used to manual labor, that’s for certain.
Did you see those hands? Not a spec of dirt under the nails.
Do you think he gets a manicure?
I hope not.
What about the hair? He’s too pretty with that tan and the dark hair.
And the cleft in his chin. Don’t forget about that.
Betty was fawning all over him, running her mouth faster than machine number eight. For an old spinster who’s never lived with anybody but her dogs, it’s a curious sight to watch.
Bet Nate will have a thing or ten to say about it. You know he doesn’t like show-offs or people who talk too much and say nothing.
That’s because Nate gets his message across with a look. Words aren’t necessary.
True, but he’s better now that he’s got a wife and kids.
Absolutely. Pop says he’s getting soft, like butter melting on hot corn.
The tales increased with raised eyebrows, laughter, and comments about hard work and doing the job.
Katie wanted to ignore all of it, had never considered herself interested in other people’s situations or misfortunes, unless she could help.
There was nothing she could do to help Ian Finnegan, and even if she could…
would she? She’d liked to say she would, but that wouldn’t be true, and that fact bothered her.
She’d always considered herself a caring person, willing to help, no matter the situation or the individual.
But she could not quite say this about Ian Finnegan.
By day nine, when the gamblers who thought he’d quit had lost their bets, something happened that made everyone curious about the rich kid from California.
The information the town had been receiving about Ian Finnegan and his numerous mistakes on the factory floor was more than enough to label him untrainable, disinterested, with an attitude that said he didn’t have to know how to change a light bulb because he’d hire someone to do it.
Of course, the boy never said as much, but what was a person to think when he stared them down, tight-lipped, not offering an excuse or an apology for his latest mistake?
Nope, he just waited until the lecture was over, and then he’d begin the task of correcting his mess—under the eagle eye of his supervisor.
There were sighs and head shakes and mumbled bet he can’t wait to get out of here.
And then Albert Benson’s minivan broke down in the parking lot.
The guy was in a panic because his wife needed the vehicle to get to her job, and he had to babysit the kids.