Chapter Four – Spencer
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Spencer said to his bear as he steered his truck toward Meryl’s cottage, his tools rattling in the back as the sun rose over the mountains.
It’s the best idea you’ve had in months, maybe ever, his bear countered, restless and eager beneath his skin. You know those boards aren’t safe. And it’s our duty to keep our mate safe. So it’s our duty to go over to her cottage now.
Spencer had spent most of the night staring at his ceiling, unable to shake the image of Meryl stepping on a rotten board and crashing through to the crawl space below. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her hurt and alone in that cottage with no one to help her.
His bear had paced and growled all night until finally driving him toward the door long before dawn. When the sun had finally crept over the horizon, Spencer had gotten out of bed and, after one cup of strong black coffee, loaded his truck with tools, timber, and anything else he might need.
Now here he was, driving to Pine Cottage, unsure of the reception he might receive from his mate.
As he rounded the last curve of the lane, the cottage came into view, looking as though it had been neglected for too long.
Before the mate bond drew him back to Pine Cottage, it had been years since he’d come this way, and he had no idea it had become so run-down.
But the bones of the house were good. He hadn’t lied when he told Meryl it had been well-built and well cared for until recently.
We’ll soon have it shipshape, his bear said with complete confidence. And when our mate sees how good you are with tools, she’ll want you to stick around.
We’ll see, Spencer said. He wasn’t sure his mate would be so easily won over. If only he were like his brothers, who all seemed to have won over their mates with food, either cooked or grown.
But Spencer’s talents lay more with wood. With seeing what something could be, even when time and weather had done their best to wear it down. He knew what to do with damaged wood. Meryl Aldwick was another matter entirely.
His truck crunched over the gravel as he pulled up beside Meryl’s car. She hadn’t fled in the night, then. That was something, at least.
Spencer killed the engine and sat for a moment, staring out at the mountains and breathing in the cool morning air. The combination always helped calm him.
But we’re not going to win our mate over sitting here in the truck, his bear said.
No, we are not. Spencer opened the door and got out, going around to the back of the truck to grab his toolbox.
Meryl hid behind a notebook. Spencer, apparently, hid behind a toolbox.
The sound of hammering reached him before he was halfway to the house.
There she was, kneeling on the broken porch with a claw hammer in her hand, trying to pry up one of the rotted boards.
Her hair was tied back in a messy knot, and she wore jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
The notebook lay open beside her, covered in what looked like a rough floor plan, with sections marked in different colors.
She’s been busy, Spencer’s bear rumbled with approval.
“Morning,” he called, keeping his voice even though his pulse quickened at the sight of her.
Meryl startled and looked up, hammer still poised in midair. For a moment, she only stared at him, surprise giving way to something harder to read.
“You’re back,” she said at last, straightening and pushing a loose strand of hair from her face, leaving a smear of dirt on her cheek.
Spencer nodded, climbing the steps carefully and avoiding the one he already knew was weak.
“Couldn’t stop thinking about those boards by the front hall.
And this porch.” He set his toolbox down and crouched beside her, looking at the board she’d managed to loosen.
“The crawl space, too. I kept wondering what was going on underneath.”
That, at least, was true.
Meryl studied him for a second, her expression guarded. Then she glanced back down at the lifted edge of the board. “I figured I should start somewhere. The porch seemed... urgent.”
“It is.” Spencer ran his hand along the exposed wood. It crumbled under his fingers, soft with rot. “You’ve got the right idea, but we need to check the supports underneath before we tear up too much. I don’t want the whole thing giving way while we’re standing on it.”
“We?”
Spencer met her gaze steadily. “If you want the help.”
She hesitated, and he could almost see her weighing it, pride on one side, practicality on the other.
“I haven’t made up my mind about a contractor,” she said finally.
“No problem.” He reached for his toolbox. “Can’t leave you putting your foot through the floor on my conscience.”
That shifted something in her expression. Something close enough to make his bear sit up and take notice.
She likes us, his bear said with confidence.
That’s a start, Spencer replied.
“At least let me make coffee,” she said, setting the hammer aside. “I’ve got a camping stove set up in the kitchen.”
Spencer nodded. “Coffee would be good.”
His bear approved of that, too.
Meryl disappeared inside, and Spencer took the chance to inspect the porch more thoroughly.
He kneeled near the edge and peered underneath, pulling a flashlight from his pocket.
The beam cut through the shadows, showing him exactly what he had expected and hoped not to find.
Several support posts were compromised, and the joists were damp and dark where water had gotten in and lingered too long.
“How bad is it?” Meryl asked from the doorway.
“Bad enough,” he said, looking up at her. “But not impossible. The main structure’s still doing its job, as far as I can see. We’ll need to replace about half the support posts and most of the decking.”
She nodded and handed him a steaming mug. “Only half. I figured it would be more.”
That won the smallest smile from him. “There’s your bright side.”
The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Show me the hall first,” he said, taking the coffee. “If we make the way in safer, everything else gets easier.”
“Do you mind?” The hope in her voice was quiet, but it was there.
“Not at all.”
The coffee was strong and black, exactly how he liked it. Spencer took a grateful sip, then followed her inside to look at the hallway floor.
The morning light highlighted every flaw in the worn floorboards. Spencer set his coffee down and kneeled, running his hands over the boards near the threshold where he’d noticed the give yesterday.
“This section here,” he said, pressing down on a board that flexed under his weight. “We need to pull these up and see what’s underneath.”
Meryl kneeled beside him, notebook in hand. “How many do you think need replacing?”
“Won’t know until we look.” Spencer reached for his pry bar. “But I’d guess at least three, maybe four.”
He worked the tool under the edge of the weakest board, applying steady pressure until the nails began to creak and lift. The wood groaned in protest as he pried it up, revealing the space beneath.
“Hand me that flashlight?” he asked, and Meryl passed it to him without hesitation.
The beam illuminated the crawl space below. The joists looked solid enough, but there was evidence of old water damage. Not as bad as he’d feared, though.
“Good news,” he said, looking up at Meryl. “The subfloor structure is sound. We just need to replace these surface boards.”
Something in her expression shifted. Not quite relief, but a little of the strain left her face. “That’s... better than I expected.”
“Pine Cottage was built right,” Spencer said, running his hand along one of the exposed joists. “Solid oak framing, proper joinery. Someone took real care over it.”
He pulled up two more boards, revealing more of the structure beneath, and he could feel Meryl watching him, taking mental notes, asking occasional questions that showed she was thinking ahead.
“If we replace these boards,” she said after a while, “how long before I need to worry about the rest of the floor?”
Spencer considered this as he measured the gap for replacement timber. “The rest looks sound. It all needs refinishing eventually, but not replacing.”
They fell into a rhythm after that. Spencer worked on removing the damaged boards while Meryl made notes of the measurements and gradually cleared away the debris.
She was methodical, he noticed, organizing the removed boards by size and condition, separating nails and hardware into a small container, keeping track of what they found.
When it came time to cut the replacement boards, Spencer showed her how to measure twice before marking the cut line. Her hands were steady as she held the wood, and she asked smart questions about grain direction and how to account for the house’s natural settling.
“You’ve done this kind of work before,” he observed as she helped him fit the first new board into place.
She shrugged. “Not exactly. But I’ve watched a ton of how-to videos. Assess, plan, execute, check.”
“That’s about right,” he agreed, hammering the board into place.
By midmorning, they had replaced four floorboards in the hallway and identified the worst sections of the porch for rebuilding. The progress was visible, satisfying in a way that made Spencer’s bear rumble contentedly inside him.
Meryl carried an armful of broken boards into the front room and set them down near the wall. Then she stopped by the window.
Not for long. Just long enough to brush her fingers over the damaged edge of the window seat.
The seat looked no better in daylight than it had yesterday. Probably worse. The top board was split and warped, the paint peeling, and the damage too obvious to ignore. But even from where he stood, he could see what had been there.
And the care whoever made it had taken. It had been built to be used and loved.
Meryl glanced back at him. “Hilda used to read there.”
The words were quiet enough that they barely seemed meant for him.
Spencer set down the hammer. “I can see why. It’s the perfect spot.”
She nodded once, then drew her hand back and looked away as if she had said more than she meant to. A second later, she was all business again, flipping open her notebook.
“We should probably focus on the porch next,” she said.
“Probably,” Spencer agreed.
But he looked at the window seat one more time before he turned back to his work, storing away the shape of it, the angle of the sides, the way her face had changed when she touched it.
They worked through until early afternoon, the pile of replaced boards growing steadily. The hallway floor was now secure, the worst of the porch marked for rebuilding, and they had even managed to identify where the roof leak was likely coming from.
As Spencer packed his tools, he felt a satisfaction that went deeper than simply finishing a job. The cottage already looked more hopeful, less abandoned. And Meryl seemed more hopeful, too, her notebook now filled with organized lists rather than overwhelming problems.
“I’ll bring proper lumber for the porch tomorrow,” he said, closing his toolbox. “If that works for you.”
She looked surprised. “You’re coming back?”
“Unless you don’t want the help.” He kept his voice neutral, though his bear was already growling at the thought of staying away.
Meryl hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I could use the help. But I insist on paying you for your time.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he said, not wanting to argue but having no intention of taking her money. “Maybe just coffee again. It was good.”
That earned him a small smile, brief but real. “I’m sure your time is worth more than a cup of good coffee.”
“Make it two,” he teased, and her smile deepened.
As he walked back to his truck, Spencer glanced over his shoulder. Meryl stood on the newly secured section of the porch, running her hand over the rail.
See? She’s beginning to fall in love with the place, his bear rumbled with satisfaction.
Spencer wasn’t sure about that last part. But as he drove away, he found himself thinking not about the hallway boards or the porch supports, but about the way Meryl’s fingers had rested for a moment on the ruined window seat, as if she already understood it had once mattered.
Pine Cottage was still a mess, but it no longer felt impossible. And neither did the connection beginning to form between him and Meryl.