on the dented mailbox. An Anchorage newspaper waited in the tube below. Ursula tucked the newspaper under her arm and followed the drive to another gate that Betty had never used. Ursula gave a soft testing whistle, but no guard dog appeared to challenge her, so she unlatched the gate and slipped inside, closing it behind her.
The sun never made it over the mountain this time of year, but the sky was growing brighter and she didnât need her flashlight to make her way along the driveway toward the porch. No lights shown in the cabin windows; hopefully she wasnât wasting her time. An unfamiliar pedestal table rested beside Bettyâs old Adirondack chair on the porch.
The steps crackled in the cold as she climbed them. Frantic barking erupted inside the house, punctuated by thumps of a canine body slamming repeatedly against the inside of the door Ursula hoped was securely latched. No need to knock, anyway. She held the plate in front of her and practiced her most welcoming smile as she waited for her new neighbor to call off the dog and answer the door.
And she waited. Eventually, the dog gave up on breaking the door down. Instead the heavy curtains in the window pushed upward, and a black-and-white head appeared. The dog tilted its head, watching her. Obviously, the dogâs owner wasnât home.
Ursula set the rolls on the table, pulled a notepad and pencil from her pocket and jotted a short message of welcome and her phone number. As she bent to tuck it under the plate, she noticed a whimsical carving around the table pedestal of a chubby puppy chasing its tail. She smiled. Maybe her new neighbor wasnât the curmudgeon he seemed.
She headed home at a brisk walk, breathing in the crisp air. Behind the fence, spruce trees sagged under their load of snow. It was a lovely winter day, with not a breath of wind. The porch table reassured her. After all, how bad could a man be who loved puppies? Heâd find the rolls and call her, and they could get this all straightened out. Everything was going to be fine.
* * *
MAC WATCHED HER go from behind the curtain. Figured. Heâd driven thirty-nine hundred miles to get away from people, only to have some strange woman pounding on his door three hours after heâd finally managed to fall asleep. Well, she didnât literally pound, but she might as well have considering the barking fit her visit inspired.
To add insult to injury, the bounce in her step as she strolled along his driveway seemed to indicate she was enjoying her morning, in contrast with his pounding head and gritty eyelids. A cold nose pressed into his hand. He turned to greet the dog. âI see youâve been hard at work already.â
The pit bull wagged her tail and jerked her head toward the empty bowl in the kitchen. He took the hint and filled it with kibble before starting a pot of coffee for himself. While it brewed, he dropped to the rug for his usual round of push-ups. He used to go out for a run every morning before breakfast, too, but the paparazzi put a stop to that.
Once heâd completed fifty push-ups, he got up and pulled the curtain aside to make sure the woman was gone and had latched the gate behind her. The dog scratched on the door, so Mac opened it to let her out and stepped onto the porch, shivering in the cold. A newspaper and plate of rolls sat on the tableâcinnamon pecan, according to the cutesy label shaped like a daisy. Underneath, he found a note asking him to call her.
Just what he neededâsome nosy neighbor trying to woo him with homemade treats. Heâd sworn the local lawyer to secrecy, but somehow word must have gotten out he was here. Well, she wasnât the first woman to make a play for him since heâd become successful, and like all the others, she was doomed to disappointment. He whistled for the dog and returned to the cabin, dropping the note into the trashcan under the sink. He started to pitch the rolls in after it, but his stomach growled, reminding him heâd not yet had a chance to buy milk for his raisin bran.
No sense letting good food go to waste. He picked up a roll and bit into it. Cream cheese frosting melted in his mouth. He chewed, savoring the blending of fresh bread and sweet cinnamon. Quite possibly the best cinnamon rolls heâd tasted since he was a boy, visiting his grandmotherâs house. He took another bite. These might in fact edge Gramâs off the middle podium. Shame he wouldnât be getting any more once she figured out he was a lost cause.
He poured a cup of coffee and sank into a chair at the scrubbed pine table, pushing aside a pile of mail heâd found in a box when he unpacked. A return address caught his eye. A bill from the private investigator. Chandler had sounded almost apologetic about billing him for the hours spent following leads that went nowhere, but Mac didnât care how much it cost, how many possibilities turned out to be dead ends. They couldnât quit. Not until they found Andiâs killer. Eventually, they would. People didnât just vanish.
He set the bill aside to pay later and slid the newspaper from its sleeve. A subscription offer fluttered to the ground. He opened the paper and took another bite of cinnamon roll. And another. There was something restful about perusing local politics and events that didnât concern him. By noon, heâd written a check to the investigator, unpacked all the boxes marked kitchen, called to subscribe to the Anchorage newspaper and wiped out the entire plate of cinnamon rolls. He washed the plate and set it in the drainer to dry. His family used to eat off blue-and-white plates not too different from this one when he was a boy.
His job was to wash dishes, and his mother would dry. Sheâd wipe each plate, stack them in the cupboard and sigh because there were only seven. Heâd heard the story a dozen times. How her cousin had taken home a plate of leftovers one evening and moved off to California without ever returning the plate, leaving her with an incomplete set. He was never clear exactly why Mom couldnât have asked for the plate back or bought another one, but she didnât. Instead, she mourned the loss nightly.
He eyed the plate in his drainer. According to the note, the woman lived in the big house on the next property over. He needed to drive into Seward that afternoon to buy groceries. He could easily drop off the plate on the way. But his polite gesture could be misconstrued as a friendly overture, which posed a danger to his privacy. If he ignored her, sheâd leave him alone.
And that was really Macâs only goal in moving to Alaska. To be left alone.
* * *
URSULA HAD WAITED three long days, but the call never came. How was she going to convince the guy it was in his best interest to sell if he wouldnât talk to her? Her cinnamon rolls seldom failed, but maybe he really didnât eat gluten. Time to pull out the big guns.
She took a jar of smoked sockeye sheâd canned last summer from her pantry. Chopped green onions, lemon juice, cream cheese and a few secret seasonings turned it into her special salmon dip. She filled a crock and tucked it into her backpack, along with a bag of moose jerky, and strapped on her snowshoes.
A fresh snow had obliterated the tracks on the ski trail since their aborted outing a few days ago. No doubt the groomer had laid fresh tracks on the main trails but he could no longer reach her property with the gates closed. Getting them opened should be her first order of business.
She reached the gate, relieved to see the SUV parked between the house and the garage. Good. He was home. Hopefully, the dog was in the house with him, but if not, she had a plan B. Ursula rattled the gate and waited.
Sure enough, a black-and-white blur bounded toward her, almost disappearing into the deep snow between leaps. The dog must be in great physical condition to be able to bark and run at the same time.
The pit bull reached the gate and bounced into the air, almost head high, barking. Ursula wasnât sure this was going to work, but she had to try.
