3. Hannah
HANNAH
The mountain looms in the darkness, a cold, constant presence against the still night. The heater hums, filling the car with warm air, but I shiver as I pass the sign for Hope. A branch tore into it during the storm, leaving a dent in the metal and one side hanging askew.
I slow to the town speed limit and cruise through the empty streets.
I usually love this time of the morning, but seeing the Hope town sign bent out of shape has me feeling uneasy.
Maybe I should have listened to Abby when she begged me to stay home at the farm today.
It was a tense dinner last night. No one wanted to tell Pops about the sabotage.
But I don’t like the family keeping secrets, so I told him the truth, that someone used the cover of the storm to break into the cafe and vandalize it.
Abby thinks we should close until the repairs are done and the police know more, but Rachel was insistent we can’t afford to lose the business, especially as we closed for two days during the storm.
I kept silent, but I knew I’d set my alarm for 3:15 as usual and be there to bake and serve coffee to the townsfolk who desperately need everything to feel normal at a time like this.
The window is boarded up thanks to Sam, a local veteran.
Although I suspect it was Grant who arranged for his veteran buddies to mobilize and help get us all cleaned up and ready for business.
Sycamore Drive is open again, and as I approach the cafe, a lone figure sits outside on the sidewalk. I tense and ease my foot off the accelerator. The figure stands up, and I recognize the bulky shape of Grant.
I let out a long breath. When Grant said he was going to be my bodyguard yesterday, I was annoyed but also a little relieved.
I’ve been brought up to be independent, to rely on no one but my sisters.
The thought of needing a man to keep me safe irks me, but at the same time thrills me, which makes me even more annoyed.
Whatever my complicated feelings, seeing Grant emerge from the darkness chases away the anxiety of a few moments ago.
He gives me a silent nod as I drive past and pull onto the side street a few doors down. I park in the staff parking lot that services the local businesses, and by the time I open my car door, he’s come to meet me.
“You’re here.”
“I said I would be.”
“You said you’d be my bodyguard. I didn’t expect you to turn up at four a.m. to watch me bake.”
I open the trunk to pull out the box of groceries from home, and he nudges me out of the way and lifts the box out.
“You don’t have to carry that for me.”
“I know.”
I like a man carrying the box for me more than I should. It’s heavy, and I always struggle getting it through the door. But Grant wields the box easily as I open the back door for him. It’s been hastily repaired, and it’s tight. I have to shove the door to get it open.
I switch on lights while Grant takes the box through to the kitchen.
“Have you heard anything from Owen?”
Grant and the acting town sheriff are buddies, probably on account of both being veterans, and he might hear things before we do.
“They didn’t find any prints, no footprints, nothing.”
He doesn’t have to say what we’re both thinking. Whoever did this was a professional.
“Did you notice anything missing?” Grant asks.
“Some of the photos were destroyed, and one of them I didn’t find at all. It must have blown out in the wind.”
Grant tilts his head, his expression suddenly serious. “Which photo?”
“It wasn’t a photo. It was the reproduction Beth did of the deeds to the farm. She copied it for an art project in high school, worked the paper up to look old, and practiced her handwriting for weeks to get it right using an old-fashioned pen dipped in ink.”
“I remember it,” Grant says. “She copied out the original deeds?”
“Not all of them. Just the front page, the cool-looking bit with 1872 in big letters. Not the signatures, obviously. They were made up. But it looked so authentic we put it on the wall.”
Grant sets the box down on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and when he does his voice has gone carefully flat.
“Where was it hanging?”
“Middle of the wall, next to the farmhouse picture.”
“Where’s the real one kept?”
“Pops’s safe, upstairs at the farm. Why?”
But something has shifted in him, the way it does when he’s filing information away.
“You think that’s what they were after?”
He turns to me. “I’m not sure. Like you say, perhaps it blew away in the wind.”
He moves through to the cafe, and I hear him try the door followed by the scrape of furniture. It sounds like he’s checking under the tables to make sure no one’s hiding.
If someone was after the deeds to the farm, they’ll be disappointed. It was a high school art project, not an exact reproduction. She left off pages of small print.
I switch on the ovens and the coffee machine. Grant doubles back to the office and the bathroom, which is also out back. A few minutes later he comes into the kitchen, looking slightly less tense.
“All clear?” I ask.
He nods. Not acknowledging my teasing smile. I hate that he has to be here, but I’m glad he is. I can’t imagine what it would have been like arriving here on my own after yesterday.
I pour us both a mug of coffee and slide one over the counter to Grant. “So, you just going to sit around all day and watch me bake?”
He sips his coffee. “Something like that.”
“How about my sisters? I’m not the only one who works here.”
“You’re the only one who works here alone at four a.m.”
Which is true. Rachel gets here just after the school run to serve coffee during the morning rush.
“It’s going to get boring for you, hanging out here all day.”
He peers at me over the top of the mug. “I don’t think so.”
A different kind of shiver snakes its way up my spine. His words seem like he’s flirting, but his don’t-fuck-with-me expression says otherwise. Maybe he’s just really good at waiting, which makes me wonder what he did in the military.
I could lean on the counter and stare into his intense gray eyes all day, but I have cookies to bake.
“I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Today is honey cake day, and I take the jars of fresh honey Abby gave me and place them on the workbench. We always use honey from our hives and the fresher the better. She extracted this batch in the spring.
My phone’s hooked up to a speaker, and I put on my pop girl playlist. I need something light this morning to take my mind off the fact someone was in here throwing rocks through the window.
I grab a mixing bowl and the flour and tip in a large portion. Then I add the honey, the baking powder and eggs. I sing as I work, and my hips sway in time to the music.
Then I move to the other bench, and with a separate set of baking tools and the gluten-free flour, I adjust the recipe to take into account the lack of gluten and make this batch smaller.
There’s a small but loyal group of folks with celiac disease living on the mountain, and they know they’ll always find something they can safely eat at Sweet & Strong.
With the first two trays in the oven, I pause for a cup of coffee. Grant went to check the perimeter, and I find him near the back door with an open toolbox. He has the door off its hinges, and he’s fixing the lock.
He holds the screwdriver in his thick hands and deftly turns the screw.
His knuckles are thick, and there’s a scrape on the index finger of his left hand.
His nails are short and surprisingly neat, and every time he turns the screw I see a thick callus on his palm.
I imagine it scraping against my skin, rough against smooth.
His movements have a rhythm to them, a slow turning, driving the screw in deeper and deeper each time with his thick, competent hands.
My mouth goes dry, and there’s a tug deep in my core. He’s quietly taking care of me, and it’s an unfamiliar sensation. I feel as unhinged as the door he’s holding in his hands.
Grant looks up, and I forget what I was going to say.
I rake my gaze away from his hands to his face and catch a flicker of amusement in his expression.
He caught me staring at his hands, which shouldn’t be a problem.
It’s not like I was staring at his ass, although I have checked it out previously and can report it’s fine.
“I, ah, do you want another coffee?”
“Sure.”
I spin around so quickly I almost trip over my feet.
“And one of those honey cakes when they’re ready,” he calls after me.
I retreat to the safety of the kitchen where I can pretend the heat I’m feeling is from the ovens and not because I just got turned on by a man’s hands.