Chapter 3
Ella
Somewhere around four in the morning, a snowplough blade scraping my driveway dragged me clawing out of uneasy sleep.
Jake Brennen. I know it was him; he’s the only one who ever cleans my driveway.
I lay in the dark, heart tripping, listening, but all I hear is the hush of snow settling on the roof and the click from the fridge in the next room.
Beside me, Nora had kicked off her blankets and was cocooned around my pillow, her freckled nose peeking out.
She seemed as unfazed by the night as a lunar rock.
It was the first Monday back after Christmas break, and right away, I wanted nothing more than to snuggle back down and go back to sleep.
But that wasn’t happening. I hauled myself out from under the covers and went out to the kitchen to let Scout (our golden lab) out to do his business, while I brewed a cup of coffee, and then got his food dish.
I frowned at it. He hadn’t touched last night’s dinner, which wasn’t like him.
Usually, he gobbled it up the second the dish hit the floor.
Concerned, I dumped the contents into the trash, washed the dish, then refilled it.
He sniffed it then walked away, back to his bed in front of the gas fireplace.
I made a mental note to call the Vet if he didn’t eat his breakfast as I made my way back to Nora.
She resisted being wrenched out of her dreams, batting me off until the third or fourth time I tried to dress her as she slept.
She made a grunting noise, then shoved a stuffed fox down her pajama top, so that its blank, embroidered face stared out through a notch in the collar.
That was Nora, stubborn, but too clever to fight directly.
After giggles and a quick snack for her, we made it out to the car by 5:30, minus two gloves (mine) and a scarf (hers), and with approximately all of my will to live.
The car stank faintly of sour milk and chicken nuggets and made me briefly think that it was time to get a new car, until Nora said, “You look like a zombie.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I muttered, throttling the ignition until it turned over. “I feel like a zombie.”
“Will anyone be up when we get to the lodge?” she asked, yawning.
“Uncle Kane’s already up. He’ll drop you at school later,” I said, steering toward the main house at Wolf Creek.
The headlights caught snow drifts like frozen waves across the road, interrupted by the clean path a tractor had carved through.
Jake’s handiwork, maybe—all the way to the lodge, hopefully.
And if he had, despite him being a grump, I would bake him an apple pie as a thank you.
By 5:45, I had Nora settled on the couch in the living room with a blazing fire in the fireplace. She was already falling back to sleep before I even straightened up.
“Why don’t you just move in here?” Kane asked. “There’s plenty of room now that the others went back to Toronto.”
The ‘others’ are the rest of our siblings, Declan, Kat, and Connor, and their spouses.
We’d been over this conversation many a time, but the more that I thought about it, the more it sounded like a good idea.
There would be no dragging Nora out in the wee hours of the morning in minus thirty-degree weather.
But part of me didn’t want to give up my privacy.
“I’ll think about it,” I said as I headed towards the door.
“Gotta go,” I waved, closing it behind me.
A half hour later, the bakery came into view as I rounded the corner onto Main Street. A postage-stamp of a building wedged between a western-attire shop and a livestock-and-feed supply store, both of which did more business than we did, which was a lot.
The bell over the door sounded as frozen as I felt.
Usually, I would be greeting Helen, who would already have the heat cranked up and the coffee on, but she was scheduled to have knee surgery at eight a.m. I looked at the clock on the wall and hoped that it would be a slow morning, at least until Frank, the owner, showed up at 9:00.
I went right over to the coffee machine and started a pot.
Then, I checked the wall thermostat. It was balmy, 69 degrees.
I bumped it up to 71 and headed into the kitchen to preheat the ovens.
After hanging up my stuff in the staff washroom, I tied on an apron and looked at the bakery orders for the day.
Three birthday cakes, plus one smash cake, three dozen cupcakes, and two orders of cheddar stuffed bread.
All on top of the regular bakery items for sale.
While the ovens heated up, I went out and made myself a cup of coffee.
The first customers were always the same: Mister Stein, who bought day-old baguettes for his pigs, and Fran Darling, who ran the historical society. She always wanted her scone “hot as a tire iron.” I liked Fran, mainly because she knew how to eat a scone properly.
With a sigh, I pushed away from the counter and headed to get the day’s baking started.
By the time I’d turned over the “OPEN” sign and started another pot of coffee, I’d had one tray left to put in the showcase.
The bell tinkled above the door as I headed to the kitchen to retrieve it. “Just a second, I’ll be right there,” I called over my shoulder.
I carried the tray of donuts out and placed them on the top shelf of the showcase. Expecting Mr. Stein, I plastered a smile on my face. “Good morning, Mr…. Ah.”
It was someone else. Tall, broad-shouldered, and unfamiliar, bundled in a pea coat that looked like he was in Toronto rather than Pinecrest, staring at the display counter with a forensic level of concentration.
I looked at his hands. The right one was scratched and swollen at the knuckles, and his thumb had a crescent of dried blood under the nail, like he’d smashed it with a hammer.
He saw me watching and gave a little half-smile I couldn’t quite place.
“Can I help you?” I asked with the same plastered smile on my face.
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll take, uh… two of those,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the apple fritters, “and a black coffee. If that’s not too much trouble.”
“Save me from the day if it is,” I said, and he laughed—not a belly laugh, but the startled huff of someone not used to being answered sincerely. He had a crooked smile and the kind of eyebrows that suggested trouble sooner or later. But not for me, thank you very much.
I boxed up the fritters, poured the coffee, and slid the cup across. “Take off the lid when you’re ready to drink it,” I warned. “It’s broken, and you’ll spill it on yourself. I would give you another, but the whole shipment was like it.”
The man nodded, already fishing in his wallet with his left hand. “Heard you all got hit pretty bad last week. Snowstorm?”
“Three feet in under twenty-four hours,” I said. “Broke six roofs, shut down the highway. We’re still digging out.”
He smiled, almost sadly. “I read about that. Must be a tough winter for everyone.”
“Nothing we’re not used to.” I looked out the window at the dark clouds. “There’s a blizzard on its way.”
His eyes flickered up at me, bright and icy clear. “Does that happen often, a blizzard?”
I shrugged, found myself smiling back. “You have no idea.”
He tapped the glass, hesitated. “So, you’re the… owner?”
I shook my head and wiped my hands on my apron. “No, just the early shift. Frank Henderson owns the place.”
He looked amused. “Hard to imagine anyone needing a bakery open at—” he checked his phone “—8:10 AM.”
“You’d be surprised what secrets people are willing to share in exchange for a donut, Mr…?”
He hung back, then offered his hand. “Caleb. Just Caleb.”
His grip was warm and dry, but I saw the way he blinked at the contact, as though it reminded him that he was real.
For a while, we didn’t speak. He nursed his coffee at one of the tables, chewing with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who wasn’t there for the donuts at all.
I stocked the scone trays, arranged the croissants into pleasing angles, and kept him in my periphery.
He watched snowflakes dissolve against the front window, then watched me, then the snow again.
Eventually, he spoke. “I grew up not far from here. Left after high school and haven’t really been back since. Weird, right, how different it all feels when you come home?”
I nodded. “Pinecrest’s mostly the same. More vape shops, maybe.”
He grinned. “Less cowboys, too, seems like.”
“Oh, there are still cowboys,” I said. “They just hide better. Less Stetsons and more ball caps.”
He laughed, then tapped his cup, looking thoughtful. “Sorry if this is weird, but… where’d you say your family was from?”
I tensed. I didn’t like people snooping into my past. But then I remembered this was a small town where everyone traced everyone else’s family like it was a game. “Originally? My family roots are from Ireland.”
“But you’re a local,” he said, with that smile again. “It counts.”
He paused, then made eye contact in a way that was half-invitation, half-dare. “And you always wanted to run a bakery?”
“Oh, this isn’t mine. Frank, the owner, will be in around 9:00 if you want to talk to him. I don’t really need to work, but this keeps me here, keeps me anchored.”
He laughed, this time for real. “Anchored. I get that.” His gaze dropped to his hands. “Guess we all end up where we’re most needed.”
I should’ve left it there. Instead, I said, “Not all of us. Some people run because it’s easier than being needed.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just turned his coffee in both hands and looked at the swirling, oily film on top. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”
On that note, he stood, left a $20 tip, which was way more than his order, and shot me a parting look that lingered even after the jangle of the bell.