Alaskan Hideaway. Beth Carpenter

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followed her inside. She hung his coat on a hook and led them through an expansive dining and living room into a kitchen, which somehow managed to look functional and cozy at the same time. A collection of African violets bloomed in shades of purple and pink on a shelf under a grow light. Ursula opened a gate, which separated the kitchen from a small dining area. A cat, curled up on a chair cushion, took one look at the dog and took refuge on top of a corner cabinet.

      The dog stiffened, but Ursula made an uh-uh noise and shook her head. She pulled a dog biscuit from a cookie jar on a shelf by the back door and soon had the pit bull lying peacefully on a rug. She nodded at the cat. “That’s Van Gogh.”

      â€œVan Gogh?”

      â€œHe’s missing an ear.”

      Mac chuckled, and soon found himself sitting at a wooden table sipping an excellent cup of coffee. Fruit-scented steam rose from the muffin on the plate in front of him. Considering he’d only intended to drop off the plate, he wasn’t sure how he’d wound up here, but maybe it wasn’t too surprising that a woman who could pacify pit bulls and tame squirrels could maneuver him wherever she wanted him. She slipped into the chair across the table. “So, as I said, I’m Ursula Anderson.”

      â€œMac. Macleod.”

      â€œNice to meet you, Mac. And where do you hail from?”

      â€œOklahoma.” He bit into the muffin. Jammed with sweet blueberries, with a hint of something else, maybe orange? The woman had a way with baked goods.

      She raised a delicately arched eyebrow. “I’m surprised. I knew cowboys from Oklahoma when I was growing up in Wyoming. You don’t have much of an accent.”

      â€œI’ve lost it over time, living in Tulsa. People from all over the country live there.”

      â€œSo what brings you to Alaska?”

      Mac paused before his next bite. Here was an opportunity to make his point. He met her eyes. “Solitude.”

      She nodded. “I got that. I apologize for bursting in yesterday, and realize I was overstepping. I’ll try not to bother you again.” She nodded at the plate she’d set on the table. “Thanks again for returning that.”

      He shrugged. “My mother would turn over in her grave if I didn’t.”

      â€œI think I’d have liked your mother.” Ursula’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “What would she say if she knew you’d threatened to have me arrested for trespassing?”

      â€œI didn’t exactly...” She gave him the same look his mother used to when he was trying to talk his way out of trouble. He had to laugh. “Okay, I admit it. She’d have given me an earful.”

      Ursula laughed. “Now you sound like an Okie cowboy.”

      â€œI suppose that’s because I am one. Or I was, until I was seventeen and we moved to town.”

      â€œDid you raise cattle?”

      â€œYes, Herefords.” At least until that last year of drought, when Dad had to sell off the herd, bit by bit. And then they lost the bull. But Mac didn’t want to think about that. “Were your family ranchers in Wyoming?” he asked quickly.

      She met his eyes and paused, just long enough for him to wonder if she’d read his mind, before she gave a gentle smile. “My father was a mailman and my mother taught school. After I graduated from high school, I worked in the office for an oil company, where I happened to fall in love with a certain roughneck. Tommy believed Alaska was the land of opportunity. So we got married, packed up a truck and headed to Alaska.”

      â€œAnd was it? The land of opportunity?”

      â€œIt was for us. We had a wonderful life here.” She rubbed the bare ring finger of her left hand. “I scattered Tommy’s ashes on Flattop. That’s what he wanted.” Suddenly she smiled. “Look at that.” She inclined her head toward the dog.

      Mac turned. The cat had come down from the cabinet and was gingerly touching noses with the pit bull, who thumped her tail against the floor. After a moment, the cat rubbed against the big dog’s face and then curled up against her. The dog seemed fine with that.

      Ursula chuckled. “That’s quite a ferocious beast you have there. What’s her name?” She took a sip from her cup.

      Mac glanced down at his plate. “Blossom.”

      Ursula snorted and almost choked on her coffee. Once she quit coughing, she grinned at him. “Blossom? Really?”

      Mac shook his head. “I know. My daughter adopted her as a puppy. Andi happened to be volunteering at the shelter when they brought in this half-grown pit bull. She’d been starved and beaten, but Andi was convinced with love and care she’d blossom into a great dog. She was right.”

      â€œShe certainly was. Blossom is the perfect name for her. Where’s your daughter now?”

      Mac kept his gaze on the dog. “She’s dead.” It was the first time he’d ever said it aloud to someone who didn’t know the story. His daughter was gone. Forever.

      Ursula laid her hand over his and squeezed. “I’m so sorry.”

      Mac nodded, unable to speak. That familiar wave of grief washed over him, but in a way it was a relief, to acknowledge what he’d lost. For some reason it was easier with Ursula, maybe because she didn’t know him, didn’t know the story, had no preconceived ideas. She didn’t rush in with some platitude or awkwardly edge away as though grief was contagious. She simply accepted what he told her.

      Ursula looked over at Blossom, snoozing on the rug with a cat under her chin. “Your daughter must have been a gentle person, to raise such a gentle pit bull.”

      â€œShe was.” Mac swallowed the lump in his throat, remembering. “She was too gentle for her own good sometimes. Always saw the best in people, even when they didn’t deserve it.”

      â€œIf everyone could be like your daughter, the world would be a better place.”

      â€œYes it would.” If only there were no predators, no evil. But they were there, preying on the innocent, and it was her very goodness that had cost Andi her life. Her murderer had disappeared, but eventually they would find him and he’d go to prison for the rest of his sorry life. Mac would make sure of it.

      But today—today he could talk about the daughter he loved. He told Ursula stories, about Andi as a girl, giving away her school supplies to other kids. About how she would make him chicken soup when he had a cold. About how she’d volunteered at the animal shelter, and done every walkathon and fund-raiser that came along. “When she was seventeen, she spent two weeks with a team in Peru, building a new dormitory for an orphanage.”

      â€œWow. How did she learn about building?”

      â€œWe’d

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