Page 44 of Boston
The main room of the cabin spread before him, stretching right and left. The enormous hearth with a fireplace and a pot-bellied stove sat at the end of the cabin on the left.
“This place is huge,” Cora said.
Right now, it only held a single full-sized couch, though Boston had sketched out adding at least two more, along with a foosball table right in front of the windows on the left side.
A big dining room table sat on the right, and it could seat twelve, with a kitchen behind that, complete with full size appliances and a ten-foot counter that would hold plenty of food for big groups. A hallway sat directly across from the main entrance and led first to a bathroom just behind the kitchen.
The room right behind that was a mud room with washer and dryer hookups, as well as the outside exit to the side of the house. The fire pit that Boston had already cleaned up this year and planned to use for their Dutch oven feast that night sat twenty feet out that side door, with towering pines and junipers surrounding the graveled area. The smaller second bedroom sat in the back corner where the tree appeared to have punctured the roof.
Boston shrugged out of his heavy pack as he walked toward the kitchen. He lifted it up onto the counter and let it fall down, the relief in his shoulders stretching all the way down his spine and into his hips.
“You’ve only been out here a few times?” Cora asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“It’s pretty clean for that.”
“Let’s go see what it’s like in the bedroom.” He could barely look at her as he headed for the hallway. His hiking boots thunked against the hardwood floor, making an angry noise reverberate against the walls on either side.
The bathroom seemed fine, as did the mud room. The door to the second bedroom stood closed, and that alerted Boston. He slowed and put his hand on the doorknob. It felt a normal temperature, and he drew a deep breath and pushed open the door.
The outside air whooshed at him, trying to grab onto his cowboy hat the way the wind in Wyoming always did. A tree limb, probably six inches in diameter, poked down through the roof, about midway across the far wall.
“Yep, there’s a tree in here,” Cora said, and Boston actually smiled.
Plaster and organic debris had been scattered across the room and the bed. Boston stepped carefully, but the floor didn’t seem to be impacted.
“This window has a huge crack in it,” he said. “And this wall will need to be assessed for structural damage.” He stood very nearly under the limb now, and he looked up. “But I don’t see the sky through this hole, so it sure seems like that limb jammed itself in there and then stopped.”
“Yeah,” Cora said from behind him. “Come away from there, Boston. You’re making me nervous.”
He turned. “Who’s watching out for the other now?” He grinned at her as she rolled her eyes.
“Seriously, you’re standing under a broken tree limb.”
He retraced his steps back to her and slung one arm around her waist as he turned to survey the damage again. “I don’t think either one of us are sleeping in here tonight.”
“No, I don’t think so either.” Cora turned around. “This must be the master over here.” She practically scampered away from him to the doorway directly opposite of this one. It stood open, and sure enough, the big king bed that Boston had slept in before stood proudly unaffected by the tree limb across the hall.
“I can take the couch,” he said as he came up behind Cora.
He hadn’t packed a sleeping pad or blanket, pillow or sleeping bag, because there were beds in this cabin, and he’d seen no need for it.
“I’m going to go start the generator and unpack our food. I wanted to do Dutch oven tonight, and it takes the fire some time to burn down to coals.”
“All right.” She walked slowly over to the bed and ran her hand along the quilted bedspread. It boasted bears, pine trees, elk, and bison, and Boston wondered what she thought of it.
You’d never see that in Miami,he thought as he went back down the hall to the kitchen.
Cora joined him several minutes later, and she collapsed onto the couch with a mighty sigh. Then she said, “You’re not sleeping on this thing.”
Boston looked up from the now-humming fridge, where he’d been putting the chicken thighs he’d marinate tonight for tomorrow night’s dinner. “What do you mean?”
“Have you sat on this couch?” She bounced a little bit. “It’s as hard as a rock.” She got up and gestured to it. “Come sit down.”
Boston left the rest of the food and did what she said. He sat where she’d been, and his first instinct was a great big,Heck no, I’m not sleeping here.
“It’s fine,” he said.
