Chapter Nine
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IN THE end, Gwynn convinced them to stay in for a pancake breakfast despite Aunt Maude’s mumbling about missing out on Verdie’s cornbread.
And after breakfast, they convinced Gwynn to take some pie to Cash at Plane & Knotty Carpentry.
“Don’t let fear hold you hostage in this house,” Uncle Russ said. “But, if it would make you feel better, you could wear my balaclava to cover the lower half of your face. It’s cold enough outside, no one would think twice about it.”
She passed on the balaclava but wore her scarf over her nose as she trekked toward Broadway. In her hands she carried a plastic-wrapped plate heaped with a fourth of Aunt Maude’s huckleberry pie. How had her plans altered so much in twenty-four hours? She’d spent almost the entire last decade avoiding thoughts of Cash, yet in less than a day in his relative proximity, she’d already begun mooning over him. She hadn’t even put up a fuss when tasked with delivering the pie!
Okay, so Cash was a hot handyman with a chivalrous streak. That kind of guy existed in Boston, right? She simply had to try harder in seeking him out. They wouldn’t have shared history like she had with Cash, but that wasn’t a requirement for a successful relationship.
Up ahead, a church came into view, stalwart in its classic, rectangular structure and white clapboard siding. Gwynn bit her lip.
Shared history? Not necessary. Faith in God? An absolute must.
The steeple rose tall and straight, stretching toward the blue sky. A graveyard sprawled along the church’s west and south sides, its headstones dotting the snow-covered grass. Bare tree branches flexed over the graves, creaking in the breeze, and an older man stood beneath one, studying a headstone.
An older man wearing a red and black plaid jacket.
It couldn’t be.
“Excuse me!” Gwynn called out, changing her course to step off the sidewalk and into the graveyard. “Sir?”
He looked up, and her steps faltered. It was him! The Santa-double who’d bought her painting a few days ago. What was he doing here? He acknowledged her with a nod then turned and strode in the opposite direction, deeper into the graveyard.
Where was he going? “Sir, wait! Please.” Clutching the pie plate, she hurried after him, wending her way between headstones. Her foot snagged on a squat grave marker, and she almost biffed it. With quick side hops, she kept her balance and kept hold of the plate. Whew! Grinning, Gwynn resumed her trek toward—
He was gone.
She spun around and peered through the trees lining the graveyard. “Hello?” How had the man disappeared so fast? Why did he keep evading her? First at the Bozeman airport and now here.
Gwynn scrubbed her eyes with a mitten. “Or maybe I’m losing my mind,” she mumbled, pausing at the spot where he’d been standing. “Lord, keep me sane on this trip.” She glanced down at the simple arced headstone before her and gulped at the name inscribed on its gray face.
Hadley Jacobs
One life that touched many hearts.
Always loved. Never forgotten.
Her pulse thudded. It was like an out-of-body experience, seeing her birth name etched on a grave. And yet, the stone didn’t lie, for in one sense, she had died all those years ago.
“Was she a friend of yours?” asked a voice from behind her.
The Santa dude! Gwynn turned, and her grin fell. A stranger stared at her, his gloved hands gripping a metal detector. One thick scar disfigured the man’s upper lip, and a toothpick jutted between his teeth.
A tremor raced down her spine in realization. Not a stranger, after all. “N-no, she wasn’t a friend.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and he stumbled forward. “You look like you coulda been her sister.”
She looked like …? Dangit, her scarf had slipped. Backing away, she hiked the fabric over her nose. She couldn’t afford to have this man recognize her. “Not her sister, either.”
He jutted his chin at her. “Who are you, then?”
“Nobody. No one special.”
“Everyone’s special to someone. You got a someone?”
Gwynn shook her head, her hand securing the scarf.
The man pointed at Hadley’s headstone with the metal detector. “I heard money was lost right a’fore she died. A’fore they all died. Or hidden, maybe. And that she had somethin’ to do with it.” He jiggled the toothpick with his teeth, his gaze shrewd. “What do you reckon ’bout that? You back for the money?”
Her heart knocked against her ribcage, and Gwynn glanced toward the street. Empty. Drat. “I-I don’t know what you mean. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get going.” She moved to put a tombstone between them.
“You scared o’ me, lady? I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” she lied. “But people are expecting me, so”—she hoisted the pie, as though that explained everything—“have a nice day.” Gwynn made a beeline for the sidewalk. At the far corner of the church, she glanced back. The man continued to watch her, his toothpick bobbing between mashed lips.
With a shudder that had nothing to do with the weather, Gwynn hurried the last few blocks toward the Plane & Knotty barn. She didn’t slow until she barreled inside and shut the door behind her.
Collapsing against it, Gwynn expelled a breath and lowered her scarf as she stared at the ceiling lights. Thank you, Father, for keeping me safe. Charlie Parker had never hurt her, but as one of her father’s former lackeys, he likely didn’t have clean hands.
The muted drone of a power tool in a back room pushed past her thoughts, along with paws pattering on the floorboards. From around an oak desk, Sawyer came charging and barreled into Gwynn’s legs. Laughing, Gwynn stooped to receive a lick on the chin.
“Hey, boy. You remember me, huh?” She removed her mittens one at a time, careful to keep the pie out of Sawyer’s reach, and ruffled the fur at his neck. Then she straightened and glanced about, tucking her mittens into a coat pocket.
A myriad of furniture pieces jostled for attention in this front room. Whether stained or unfinished, each one appeared more visually stunning than the last: dressers and desks, tables and bookshelves, benches and stools and chairs. In the spirit of Christmas, mini-evergreen trees perched atop some pieces, while garland and festive picks adorned others.
Gwynn drifted among the beauty, her hand gliding over smooth surfaces, polished edges, and dovetailed corners. Tears collected in her eyes at the craftsmanship, and she let out another laugh. “It’s foolish to get emotional over furniture,” she told Sawyer as she opened a hutch door.
“It means you know quality when you see it.”
Her tummy flipped at the baritone, and she whirled around. The power tool no longer hummed. Instead, Cash stood in the back doorway, wiping his hands on a stained towel, his blue gaze assessing. He wore a leather tool belt slung low around his waist, and cowboy boots peeked from beneath frayed jeans.
Her throat went dry, and she curled her fingers over the lip of the plate, its rim digging into her ribcage. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Cash propped a shoulder against the doorjamb and smiled. “I must admit I had my doubts you’d actually come by, but as you can see”—he hooked his thumb into his tool belt with a wink—“I was prepared on the off chance you did.”
Gwynn’s cheeks flamed. She thrust the plate forward, balanced on her palm. “Aunt Maude asked me to deliver this. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Just working on a custom order. Thank you.” Cash took the offering, their fingers brushing under the plate, and Gwynn whipped her hands behind her back. He gestured around the room. “What do you think?”
“Of your shop? It’s wonderful.” She skirted a walnut end table beside her and inhaled the wood notes lingering in the air. “These pieces are gorgeous. When you said you were a carpenter, you totally downplayed your talent.”
“Thanks.” Cash set the plate on a nearby child’s desk then scratched the dark scruff on his jaw. “Speaking of talent, yesterday you mentioned painting mountains on a living room wall, or flowers on a frameless canvas, and it hit me. That’s what my furniture is missing. What would you think about painting scenes on a couple of my pieces?”
Gwynn’s eyebrows rose. “Paint on furniture? Yikes. Maybe to turn one man’s trash into another man’s treasure, but these pieces”—she spread her hands to indicate the furniture—“are already treasures. You don’t want me ruining your work with silly pictures.”
“You wouldn’t be ruining it. You’d be enhancing it.” Cash went to the nearest secretary desk and framed the center of its drop front face with his forefingers and thumbs. “Imagine a country scene here. Or”—he moved to the coffee table opposite the desk—“a winter scene on this surface. You could transform my ‘plane’ wood into gems.”
Gwynn stared at him. “You’ve put way too much thought into this.”
“I’ll pay you. That vendor I met with yesterday would go nuts over the idea.”
“It’s a bad idea.” Walking between two rows of bureaus, she glanced back over her shoulder. “Even if it were a good one, we couldn’t implement it. I live two thousand miles away.”
Cash opened his mouth, blinked, closed his mouth again, and jammed a hand through his hair. “Right.”
“But why wouldn’t the vendor like these pieces as-is?” She moved down another row. “You’re a gifted craftsman. You’ll have a booth at the Christmas Jamboree, won’t you?”
“Yeah. We don’t sell a ton of furniture at the Jam, but we drum up enough business from custom orders to keep us busy through the spring.”
“That’s gre—oh, good grief, I can’t seem to get away from you.” Another three-foot, red-robed Santa stood beside a squat metal mailbox, “Letters to Santa” printed on its side in curlicue font.
“What do you have against Stanley?” Cash asked, coming up behind her.
Gwynn choked. “That is not his name.”
“Gramps named him a few years ago. Stanley has a permanent spot in our shop, and kids come in all year round to mail their letters.”
I used to be one of them. Back when Stanley was plain ol’ Santa. She straightened the mannequin’s spectacles. “Lately, I keep running into some rendition of the jolly fat man, be he animate or inanimate.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing. Were you a naughty child, Gwynn Sadler?” Cash teased.
She turned to a tall dresser nearby. “Define ‘naughty.’” She peeked inside a middle drawer as the front entrance whooshed open, and cold air blew through the shop. Cash moved away, presumably to greet the newcomer.
“Hey, Handsome,” a female voice sing-songed.
Gwynn stiffened, but the dresser blocked the woman from view.
Footfalls suggesting sensible, winter boots strode across the floor. “I’m taking an early lunch break and brought you a treat from the café.” A paper bag shooshed with its contents followed by a bubbly laugh. “Although, you could consider it a bribe since I might need you to run interference between your sister and my customers. Ainsley’s scowl is enough to scare the roast out of my coffee beans. What’s this about you shackling her to this ‘stupid little town’ for the rest of her life? What happened to—oh.” The woman had stepped into Gwynn’s line of sight, and Gwynn braced for impact as the woman swept her from head to toe in an apprising look.
If Gwynn had known she’d run into both Alex Jacob’s former lackey and Hadley’s childhood nemesis on the same morning, she would have never ventured past the Davisons’ front porch.