Page 23 of Making New Plans

Louis had all but forged my signature on the adoption documents when I’d handed the leash to him. He’d asked why I didn’t want to sign. As concisely as I could, I explained I wouldn’t be here very long and didn’t have room for a dog in Boston. Even though he looked like I’d run over Arwen instead of simply saying I couldn’t adopt her, he’d accepted my reason without comment. Instead, he’d asked if I would walk her occasionally while I was in town, and I’d agreed before even thinking about it. Carter had gone on ahead to Wyatt’s house, but Owen had stayed with me and watched the whole thing.

He laughed as we walked away from the park. “My brother can work some crazy magic on people with his animals.”

The corner of my mouth quirked. “Seems to be a family trait. Handing out things a person needs. Any witches in your family?”

Owen shrugged. “Gram was super into gardening, but no, just the usual dreamers and wanderers.”

“I see. Which were your parents?”

A shadow passed over Owen’s face. “Both.”

Recognition flickered in my chest. That parent-less look. At least Owen had Louis. I had no one. Chloe’s face flickered in my mind. The heartbroken look that had haunted her eyes during and after she’d talked to her parents and her ex. I’d goaded her to catch a glimpse of that fire lurking beneath her sunshine-and-rainbows surface. My curiosity fed on thoughts of her and what else I could incite from those tempting lips.

After a few minutes of walking and talking about The Lord of the Rings (I complimented his “Furllowship of the Ring” tee shirt that featured each character as a cartoon cat), we arrived at a small white house with blue shutters and a matching door. A police cruiser sat in the driveway.

Instead of knocking, Owen went up to the front door and walked in. Music and laughter met my ears as I followed him through the small house to the deck where the tantalizing smell of barbecue and wood smoke lingered.

Carter had his lawn chair tipped back as he discussed sports with the military-looking man at the grill. Stocky with buzzed brown hair and a dark green tee shirt over plain khaki shorts. He flipped burgers and brats while also waving his spatula at Carter to punctuate his arguments.

When Carter spotted me, he leaned forward until the legs of his chair thumped onto the deck. “Well, look who’s here.”

The griller faced me with a Captain America smile. “Hey, excellent timing.”

I stepped forward, offering my hand. “Sheriff Wyatt, I’m guessing. I’m Hunter Erickson.”

“Just Wyatt is fine,” he said, still smiling as he shook my hand. “And I know who you are. Hunter Erickson, resident slash soon-to-be-owner of the Pine Grove Lodge. Thirty-two years old. Lives in Boston. Works as an architect for Gunderson & Towe Architecture Firm. Likes chili from Monty’s. And has only gotten one speeding ticket in the past five years.”

I quickly released his hand. “How’d you know all that?”

Wyatt laughed, totally at ease. “Small town. Part gossip, part sheriff’s duty.”

That made sense. But the sheer invasion of privacy? I should’ve known that was coming. But throwing out the bare facts of my life in front of others was like having an audience at my colonoscopy.

Owen shot me a glance then pointed to an empty chair. “Have a seat, Hunter. Beer?” he asked.

I almost gagged, the memory of stale beer breath as strong today as it was twenty years ago. “Anything but,” I grunted as I sat down.

“Sure thing. I think we have some hard cider or some soda?”

“Hard cider is fine.” I ignored the scrutinizing looks from Wyatt and Carter.

People, especially Tangled River townspeople, didn’t need to know why I’d rather drink from the bottom of the St. Croix than drink beer.

Owen reappeared with a frosty bottle of hard cider, which he handed to me. I took a big swig, and damn, that was good. Local, maybe?

While I studied the label, Wyatt flipped the meat before facing me again. “Not that I’ll go running to John Smith at the Gazette, but what is the deal with Pine Grove Lodge?”

The blood rushed from my head. I really didn’t want to discuss this. “It’s complicated,” I said. “Right now, I’m staying at the lodge to sort everything out.”

Six eyebrows went up.

“What’s Chloe’s take on this?” Wyatt asked.

Ten different replies skated through my brain, anywhere from “she already hates my guts” to “none of your damn business.”

“We’re working on it,” I ground out.

Wyatt frowned, rubbing his smooth jaw. Carter didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. Or maybe that was his default expression. The man had a serious case of resting bitch face.

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