Page 42 of One Last Promise

Yes, she’d known he liked her—he’d asked her out. But . . .

“Did you turn me down for a date because of Hazel?”

“I felt like it was too complicated.”

“I’m a helicopter pilot. We cando complicated.”

She turned away before this all got out of hand. “Not my kind of complicated.”

Silence again, and she decided not to fill it.

But maybe he got it.

He finally took another sip of coffee, then tossed the rest out into the yard. “I have to go to town to get a part for the plow and some groceries for Mom. Want to come with me?”

“Sure. I’ll get Hazel?—”

“Hazel is fine here with my mom. She’s going to make cookies. I’ll bet Hazel would enjoy learning how to make them. Mom’s recipe is world—or at least Alaska—famous.”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“She’ll be fine.”

Laughter from the yard below suggested that Tillie might have a fight on her hands ripping Hazel away from Kip. “Okay. Let me tell her, then I’ll change and meet you.” She finished her coffee, then while Moose went into the house, she walked down the steps to talk to Hazel.

“You sure you want to stay?”

“Forever!” Hazel threw her arms around her mom. “Can we get a puppy?”

“No.” Tillie unwrapped Hazel’s embrace. “I will come back. In the meantime, obey Mrs. Mulligan.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Mom. Another lie, of sorts, but Tillie just nodded.

Some guilt she’d determined to live with.

An hour later, she walked down the sidewalk of Copper Mountain, Moose’s hometown, heading toward the hardware shop.

“Your family owns this?” She spotted the wordsAce’s Hardwaredrawn on the window.

“For eighty years. My grandfather before him.” A tiny bell jingled as they came inside the old wooden building. She felt like she’d stepped back in time with shelving along theperimeter and, like a card catalogue in a vintage library, rows of wooden shelving that contained small drawers, all labeled. The place smelled of history and wisdom. A couple of faded pictures in frames hung near the wooden counter, one with a man standing in front of a 1960s Ford truck, another with three generations, four people—two men, two teenage boys—crouching in front of a moose, clearly hunted.

“That’s my grandpop, Arlo,” Moose said.

“His namesake,” said Ace, who stood at the counter. An older version of Moose, he bore Moose’s girth and height, and dark brown hair. He wore a pair of Carhartt overalls, his name on the upper chest.

“Namesake?” Tillie asked.

“Got that part, Dad?”

Ace pointed to a box on the counter and grinned.

Moose looked at it. “This is all we need to fix the tripping system?”

“Four springs. Had them special ordered.” Ace stuck his hands in his pockets, sat on a high stool, smiled at Tillie. “So, you’re the waitress.”

“Dad—”

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