Page 1 of Gideon's Gratitude

Chapter One

Gideon

I’m certifiable.

I entered my house and quickly stripped out of my clothes in the mudroom. All of my clothes. I was soaked to the bone, and nothing short of a scalding shower was going to warm me. I tossed everything into the dryer, turned it on, and pivoted to Lucky.

Said canine looked mighty pleased with himself, and his tail wagging went into overdrive when I grabbed a towel and encompassed the large beast in a massive hug.

While I toweled off my faithful companion, I received plenty of doggie kisses for my trouble. “You’re certifiable.”

Lucky cocked his head, then woofed.

Maybe we both were.

Once my buddy was dry—or drier—I tossed the towel into the washing machine for later and headed into the house. Unconcernedabout my windows being uncovered—so was I—I made a beeline up the stairs and into the bathroom. The old pipes rattled as I coaxed hot water from the too-small tank—the tank I kept meaning to replace.

If it’s just you, what difference does it make?

Well, good point. If I continued to rattle around in my grandparents’ old home by myself, then it didn’t make a difference. Damn it, I didn’t want to be alone. At the moment, though, I was.

The hot spray was needles against my cold skin, but soon the warmth seeped into me.

Thunder cracked overhead. The wind was whipping up.

Good thing I’d filled the generator last week.

Power outages were common, with so many tree branches hanging so precariously near so many power lines.

Now, as I let out a deep breath, I reflected on what I’d seen. Lucky had alerted me to a newcomer arriving.

My Labrador Retriever, black in color, might not be good for much, but he was a good watchdog. Great, in theory, but given the multitude of tradespeople traipsing in and out of the construction site next door, it’d become wearying.

When his warning erupted today, on a statutory holiday, my curiosity had been piqued. Maybe someone wanted to put in some extra hours, I tried to convince myself. Nothing to see.

Or I could sate my curiosity and see what was up.

Instead of one of the vans from the trades, I saw a high-end SUV. Expecting some person in jeans and a coat, I instead saw a dude in a business suit who was totally ill-equipped for the weather. A guy of questionable sanity, obviously, wearing such inappropriate clothes.

Is he the owner?

I didn’t know.

Riley,the foreperson, the last time we’d spoken, had hinted the new owner—some rich guy from Vancouver building a weekend retreat—might actually make an appearance shortly. During all the months of construction, apparently, he’d never made the hour-long drive out.

Even after I made the noise complaint—which was totally justified—he hadn’t shown up.

He could’ve at least apologized. Quiet hours exist for a reason.Up here, on the mountain, some people didn’t take them seriously.

I did.

Needing rest shouldn’t have been something I needed to fight for. But I did, so I called the bylaws department for Mission City when the construction crew worked outside of the proscribed hours.

The city sent someone up.

Riley apologized and promised it wouldn’t happen again.

And it hadn’t.

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