4. Hannah
4
HANNAH
I lifted the book to my face and gave it a deep, giddy sniff. E-books were convenient, but there was something about the scent of ink and paper that thrilled my soul.
Today was a book day.
Books were my favorite thing in the world. I loved the musty smell of the paper. I loved the promise in their pages. Some books were a discovery. A new viewpoint, a new world, a new emotion. Other books were a warm hug. Plenty of books were both. And you never knew what it was going to be, even when you thought you did. You never knew when you were going to open a book and find a word, a sentence, a thought that made your heart thrum.
So it was no surprise I was a librarian, even though only a small part of my job had anything to do with books. The Aspen Springs Public Library was the hub of the community. Whatever the community lacked, we tried to provide. Internet access, after-school activities for kids, classes on everything from computers to yoga, and sometimes we were simply a safe shelter. We put those tax dollars to work and, quite frankly, the community got more than their money’s worth out of us.
But with another budget cut looming, that could all change.
I really, really needed this rodeo to bridge the gap between government funding and grants that we had applied for and would hopefully receive in the next year.
And this community needed it, too, even if they didn’t realize how much.
As the Director of the Aspen Springs Public Library, and the only full-time employee, my day had started at seven a.m., a full hour before we opened. We also had two part-time employees, Janice and Yvette, who ran the circulation desk, shelved books, and assisted with the after-school programs. And for eighty hours over the next three months, we also had Silas Moore, who was paying off his DWI debt to society with volunteer work. A couple of people like him showed up every year. People who couldn’t afford the DUI or DWI fines were often assigned community service. The only thing that surprised me anymore was how many people signed up to pick up trash along the road instead of fulfilling those hours at the library.
I got some paperwork out of the way and made sure we had all our classes and programs ready for the week. Most of my work days had very little to do with books but today was special. I had been looking forward to it all month.
Today was a book day.
Twice a year, I culled the library inventory. Books that were falling apart, smelled like pee or vomit, or had suspicious stains were all thrown in the garbage. Books that had served their purpose to the community and were no longer useful were set aside for our annual used book sale that we held every June. This made space for at least a fraction of the thousands of new books published every year.
Supposing we could afford to purchase any of them.
But I wasn’t going to let anything ruin my good mood today. Especially not thoughts of doom and gloom.
By the time I unlocked the library doors, I had a printout of the circulation report in my hand, a list of all the books that hadn’t been checked out in thirty-six months.
“Good morning, Mrs. Spencer,” I greeted the elderly woman who entered as I grabbed a rolling cart.
“Good morning, dear,” she replied before heading to her usual corner.
Mrs. Spencer was always our first visitor, October through April. As a retired widow on a fixed income, she used the library as a way to keep her heating bills manageable. She liked to sit in the red stuffed chair by the window, usually with a romance book that she never brought home. She’d read a book all in one sitting and check out another one when we closed for the evening, which she’d bring back the very next morning. She was a voracious reader, and it was always romance.
Goals, honestly.
Although I did worry about her on extra-cold nights.
I scanned the report. A good chunk of the books were history and reference books. Most of those would stay put on our shelves for students doing research papers and whatnot. They hardly ever checked out the books, but I knew they were well-used. I hoped we could clear out the five-year-old SAT study guides and replace them with new editions this year, but I wouldn’t toss the old ones until I knew for sure.
I started with children’s books, which tended to get damaged faster than any other genre. Once I tossed out anything gross, I made my way down the list. I decided to keep books I knew were still loved and read during story time on Saturday mornings, like The Bear Snores On and Llama, Llama, Red Pajama . I removed ten from the shelf, thanked them for their service, and placed them in the book sale pile.
By mid-afternoon, I had moved to the last—and hardest—genre on my list: adult fiction. These shelves were my heart and soul. Thrillers, general and women’s fiction, fantasy, romance—I loved them all and I hated to let go of any single one of them, but it had to be done. I comforted myself with the reminder that if anyone requested one of the culled books, I could help them find it at another library or maybe order the e-book.
There was an older historical romance that hadn’t been checked out in over three years, although it was hugely popular when it came out. I pulled it from the shelf and traced the outline of the man and woman in a passionate clinch. It was the kind of cover no one did anymore, but I still loved them. It was like looking at a painting.
This one happened to be one of my favorites. I had a copy on my shelf at home, although I hadn’t picked it up in years. I flipped it open to a random page near the beginning and read the words “You just plugged your soon-to-be husband” and just like that, I was sucked into Regan’s misadventures as a mail-order bride. Without realizing what I was doing, I sank down onto the blue carpet and turned the page.
Sometime later—who was to say how long, really, but it wasn’t a great sign that I was sixty pages deep—I was interrupted by an exasperated voice saying, “Hannah. Bell.”
I blinked the visions of an Old West cowboy from my brain and found myself staring into the bemused face of a modern one. I adjusted my glasses. “Zack?”
He huffed and straightened, putting us face to crotch. RIDE, commanded that atrocious belt buckle. I blinked again, then slowly dragged my gaze to his face.
His lips curled in a smirk. “Darlin’, you sure do make a pretty picture on your knees like that, but I’m gonna need you to stand up so we can have a proper conversation.”
“Oh! Right.” It always took me a minute to pull myself from a fictional world into the real one. I started to scramble to my feet but apparently I wasn’t fast enough because Zack scooped me up by the armpits and stood me in front of him.
“I said your name three times,” Zack accused.
“Well.” I looked down at the book still in my hand. “It’s a very good book. What can I do for you?”
His eyebrows went up like I had amused him. “ You’re the one who asked me for a favor, as you might recall.”
My brain finally switched back on. “The rodeo!”
“That’s right. The rodeo. We should start making plans, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. I get off work in—” I craned my neck to see the clock. Good grief. Today had flown by. “Thirty minutes. If you don’t mind hanging around for a bit, you could come to my place and we can discuss it over dinner.”
He squinted down at me. “You want me to come home with you?” he asked slowly.
“For dinner and rodeo planning,” I said. Firmly, so he wouldn’t think it was a pretext for something else. I knew Zack had plenty of women throwing themselves at him, and I wanted to be very clear on what I was offering, and what I was most certainly not. “I’m not even going to cook for you. We’re having leftover green chili chicken soup and cornbread.” My stomach growled at the thought of food. I had an hour-long lunch break, but as usual, I had forgotten to eat and worked right through it.
His lips kicked up again. “Sounds great.” He took the book from my hand and glanced at the cover, then back at me. “Go on and finish up. I’ll wait.”
I went back to culling books and Zack took my book to the chair cattycorner to Mrs. Spencer, who wouldn’t leave until we closed.
Five minutes later, I heard him laughing.
“I have five cats,” I warned as I unlocked the door to my sweet little bungalow and Zack followed me over the threshold. I should have thought to ask if he was allergic before inviting him over. I kept a clean house, but sweeping, vacuuming, and dusting could only do so much against five cats.
“Five?” he echoed. “Isn’t that a lot of cats?”
I sniffed. “Only compared to some. Others hold themselves to a higher standard.”
He grinned.
“You won’t see most of them,” I said. “They don’t like strangers.”
Evie took that moment to pad toward us, her plumy tail waving high, and proceeded to wind herself around Zack’s ankles.
He promptly dropped down to rub her head. No one could resist all that white fluff. Everyone who met her cooed over her pretty blue eyes, but I personally thought her best features were her brown ears and the matching tip of her tail, like she had been dipped in chocolate sauce.
“This one seems to like me,” Zack said, running his hand down her back in a way that made her arch and purr.
“Yes, well, Evie likes everyone,” I conceded. “She’s a slut.”
His head jerked up. “That’s not very nice.”
“It’s not a criticism. It’s a fact.” I scooped Evie into my arms and cuddled her against my chest. “She can’t stand to be alone and she’s happiest when someone is petting her. Plus she is forever trying to get St. Vincent to mate with her, despite the fact that they are both fixed.” I rubbed under her chin right where she liked it the most. “Probably because she wasn’t spayed until she was three years old. I didn’t know that when I adopted her, so their names are fortuitous.”
“Why’s that?” Zack asked. He moved closer so he could pet Evie, who was still in my arms.
“They’re named after book characters who fell in love,” I explained. “All my cats are named for characters in my favorite series. Annabelle was my first. You won’t meet her, even if you do see her, because she doesn’t have a high opinion of people in general and men in particular. Then I adopted Lillian and Daisy from a litter that was abandoned here at the library a couple years ago. Lord Vincent came next, and Evie joined us last year.”
“Do you plan on getting more?” he ventured.
I gave him an exasperated look. “A person does not plan to have more than two cats. They just happen. If you’re lucky.”
Evie jumped from my arms and padded away. Off to find St. Vincent, probably.
“I hope you’re hungry,” I said as I lead the way to the kitchen. “There’s plenty of food.” I tended to cook large batches of things and then lived off it for the next week. Cooking for only one person involved too much math.
“Starving,” he said. “Anything I can help with?”
I shook my head, already pulling the container of soup out of the fridge. “It will only take a minute to get everything together, and five minutes or so to reheat the soup.” I nodded toward the table. “Sit down.”
He sat. I could feel his eyes on me while I turned on the stove and dumped the soup into a pot. I removed the tinfoil from the cornbread pan and put three squares on a plate—two for Zack and one for me—to heat up in the microwave.
“Do you like butter or honey with your cornbread?” I asked.
“Butter,” Zack said, so I put some on the table. “So, the rodeo. Do you have a date in mind?”
“I was thinking early June, before rodeo season gets busy in Colorado. Is that enough time to pull it together?” I glanced over at him while I stirred the soup. The smell of green chilis and salsa verde wafted upward, making my stomach growl again.
“Eight weeks?” His head tilted as he considered. “We could make it work if you don’t try to get fancy with all eight events. I suggest you stick to the ones where contestants bring their own horses. The roping events and barrel racing. It will be easier to get insurance if you’re not including the real dangerous events like bull riding and bronc riding.”
“That makes sense. Could we also include performances? Like the high school equestrian drill team? They have their own horses.”
“That’s a good idea. James is working with a vault rider now at Lodestar. Maybe she’d like to perform, too.”
With the soup bubbling, I turned off the stove and ladled it into porcelain bowls, then pulled the cornbread from the microwave. Zack was immediately on his feet. He somehow managed to balance both bowls on one hand and took the plate in his other. Having nothing else to carry, I grabbed spoons and a knife for the butter.
“Do you want anything to drink? I have water and white wine. No beer, sorry.” I had the occasional glass of wine, but mostly I stuck to water and lots of tea.
“Water is fine, thanks.”
I filled two glasses from the tap and joined him at the table. “So, what do the roping events entail? Do they bring their own rope or is that something we have to provide?”
He froze in the middle of buttering his cornbread and stared at me.
“I’ve never been to a rodeo,” I reminded him. “I don’t know what any of the events look like.”
He set his knife down. “Well, darlin’, we’re going to have to do something about that.”