“You think that’s cool or something?”
“Not cool I guess, but you certainly are close to nature, and that can never be bad. I don’t understand how you could live in nature and still be so grumpy.”
He ignored the grumpy remark. “Believe me, I’ve lived—and slept—in nature much more than I care to remember. And I only leave the sign up here by the road so people can find where I live. This isn’t a working campground. No one has stopped here for at least fifteen years.”
“You did, obviously. You live here.”
He pulled around a circular path to stop in front of a log-sided building which appeared as a hulking shadow in the darkness. The Cracker Jack box, she assumed. “I own this property. My grandfather left it to me a year ago. I still don’t know if it was a test of my endurance or a joke.”
She couldn’t see much of the surrounding land. Nightfall had reduced the landscape to vague images of a smattering of trees, a few concrete pads mostly covered in snow. “You certainly aren’t very grateful,” she said.
“I will be, come spring, when Cedar Woods becomes only a bad memory in my rearview mirror.”
She wondered what he meant. This had to be a prime piece of property. As far as she could determine, Lake Erie was still just across the road, and there were no buildings to obstruct the view. Since the massive cleanup of the lake several years ago, this property had to be a potential paradise.
Keegan’s phone rang. “Hello, Duke. Yeah, I’m back.” He paused. “I can bring your medication over in a few minutes.” He nodded. “Okay, if you think you can make it over here on your walker. The fresh air will do you some good.”
He disconnected and turned to Carrie. “Hang on a sec. I’ve got to switch on the outside lights so we both don’t end up flat on our butts on an ice patch.”
He did more than that. He flipped on a bright light and brought a snow shovel from behind the structure. In a few minutes he had a clear path from the cabin to the Chevy. Carrie had never shoveled snow. Her father had a service, a nice middle-aged guy who came out with his plow to lay salt and do the driveways at the first sign of snow. And the US Forest Service always maintained the roads for its employees.
She watched Keegan’s movements—sure, strong and practiced. She didn’t doubt he could shovel his way to the main road if he had to.
Keegan left the shovel against the house and came to the Chevy and opened her door. Spreading his arms, he said, “Let’s go, princess. Your humble servant awaits.”
His condescending way of speaking to her prickled. She’d been called “princess” many times in the past, often from males who were suffering from what they called her cold shoulder. And sometimes from folks who referred to her as the favored third daughter of Martin and Maggie Foster. She hadn’t liked the reference then, and she liked it even less now. In truth, the Martins loved all their daughters equally, never showing favoritism of one over the others. Despite his problems with her lifestyle, Martin was a wonderful father, and Maggie once was a caring and loving mother. Unfortunately her advanced Alzheimer’s disease had robbed her of the ability to even communicate with her children now.
“Don’t call me that,” she said to Keegan. “I’m not a princess. I spend most of my time outdoors, where I’m a hard worker. I know what it’s like to have dirt under my fingernails.”
“Sorry.” He almost looked appropriately chastised. “It’s just a logical assumption. I mean you’re wearing a three-hundred-dollar coat and designer boots...”
“That means nothing. You own a piece of lakefront property and this castle made of logs, and I certainly wouldn’t make the mistake of calling you Prince Charming.”
He smiled, showing nice white teeth below the scrub of moustache on his upper lip. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll try to be more careful with the princess references.”
He scooped her into his arms and began carrying her to the cabin. “I’ll come back for the crutches they gave you.”
“Good. I’m sure I’ll get used to them quickly.”
“Oh, yeah. They’re a piece of cake. You ought to be running a marathon any day now.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic, and you don’t have to treat me like a baby.” Truthfully, she hadn’t felt so secure in a long time. Keegan had strong arms, a comfy broad chest and a sure step. What more could a princess want?
A cackle of laughter permeated the quiet air. It was followed by the raspy voice of an elderly man. “Hey, Keegan, what you got there? I sent you in for a couple of pills and you come back with a woman. When I send you to have my oxygen tank refilled, you’ll probably come back married!”
Keegan stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and whispered close to Carrie’s ear. “Do not tell this man that I’m your husband.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I only did that so I could get out of the hospital.”
“Hello, Duke,” Keegan said. “You going to make it?”
Carrie tried to see the visitor over Keegan’s shoulder, but either Keegan was too tall or the man was too short. His voice and a soft metallic squeak of the walker indicated that he was closer. “Yeah, just a few more feet to go.”
Keegan took Carrie inside and deposited her on a large comfortable sofa. “I’ll be right back,” he said, “just as soon as I get Duke his pills and fetch your crutches. You know what they say, a caretaker’s work is never done.”
She thought he might have smiled at her, but if so, he turned away quickly, pulled up his collar and went back into the cold.
Thirty minutes later Carrie had mastered the crutches well enough to make it to a small but tidy bathroom and back to the sofa again. The doctor had told her to use the sticks for a short time and then rely on the walking boot. The transition couldn’t come fast enough. Walking with crutches wasn’t for sissies, and neither was going over eight hours without a meal.
As if reading her mind, Keegan said, “We should eat. What do you want?”
What was he going to do, show her a menu? How much food could he have in this place? She decided to make it simple. “I usually have grilled cheese and tomato soup when I’m not feeling well.”
“I can manage that.” He headed to the kitchen and began opening cupboard doors. “One Christmas dinner coming up.”
Oh, yikes! Christmas! Carrie had left all the presents in her car. And she’d promised to call her family. She dug her cell phone out of her purse, settled into the sofa cushions to muffle her voice in Keegan’s small living room, and dialed her father’s number. She had to be careful with her words so her father wouldn’t conclude that she was having a problem or that she’d disobeyed his very strict orders. Thank goodness her young nephew, Wesley, answered the phone. Carrie adored the six-year-old.
“Hey, Aunt Carrie, this is the best Christmas ever, except you’re not here.”
“I know, sweetie. I miss everyone so much.”
They talked about his gifts and the giant tree that her sister Jude’s friend had brought them. Jude
