Half Moon Hill: A Destiny Novel

by Toni Blake

  “Or I can call my mom,” Amy offered. “Or Logan’s. They both make great cobblers. Or Edna probably has a recipe, too.” Edna Farris was Mike’s wife’s grandmother, known far and wide for her baking skills, especially her apple pie.

  And for heaven’s sake, why on earth had Anna even bothered buying a cookbook anyway? She should have known every person in Destiny would have an award-winning recipe for any and all baked goods known to man. She smiled her appreciation. “That would be great.”

  “I’ll start with my mom,” Amy announced, then picked up the phone. Anna smiled her appreciation as she waited, truly grateful for Amy’s kindness. Last summer, they’d both pursued the same guy—fireman Logan Whitaker—but now Anna could see that her attraction to Logan had been more about seeking a port in a storm than anything else. Logan and Amy were clearly meant for each other, and were happily engaged now, and Anna was only glad she and Amy had moved past that and into real friendship.

  When the little bell above the bookshop’s door jingled, Anna looked up to see Sue Ann and her friend Jenny Brody walk in.

  “Hey Anna—what’s up?” Sue Ann greeted her with a smile. “How’s the house?”

  Anna shifted her own smile in Sue Ann’s direction. “Coming along,” she replied. “I’m about to start on the exterior.” Maybe saying it with confidence would give her some.

  Anna greeted Jenny, as well, who explained that they were having lunch with Amy. Then Jenny checked her watch, glancing to Amy, who was now busy writing, the phone tucked beneath her ear.

  “In a hurry?” Sue Ann asked. Both wore pretty, feminine dresses, making Anna feel the differences in them all the more as she glanced down at her cutoff shorts. “I thought I was the busy one with the lunch hour ticking away fast. You’re on summer break.” Jenny was a teacher at Destiny High School.

  “Just want to get to the café so I can take a few minutes in the restroom,” Jenny said, then held up a plastic bag from the drugstore around the corner. The look on her face told Anna that Sue Ann must know what was inside.

  And in response, Sue Ann rolled her eyes. “Seriously? You’re going to take a pregnancy test there? You want to find out you’re pregnant at Dolly’s Main Street Café?”

  At first, Anna wondered if maybe they’d forgotten she was there—but maybe everyone in Destiny was so chummy that they just didn’t care.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be,” Jenny replied glumly. “Since I never am. So I’d just as soon get the disappointment over with rather than spend the day building up any hope, you know?”

  Now Sue Ann glanced at Anna. “She and Mick have been trying for a while without any luck and it’s starting to get to her.”

  Okay, she’d been right—apparently this was just how open the ladies of Destiny were about personal things. And since Anna wasn’t that open with people she didn’t know well, she felt uncomfortable and simply murmured, “Oh. Wow. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Jenny shrugged and attempted a smile that came off more like a grimace. “Thanks. I just keep hoping it will suddenly happen.”

  “Well, maybe today’s your lucky day,” Sue Ann said, clearly trying to be more supportive now. “Maybe Dolly’s will actually turn out to be the magic spot. Or . . . you can just go here while we’re waiting on Amy.”

  But just then, Amy hung up the phone. “Hi girls,” she said, casting her usual friendly grin their way. Then she looked to Anna, holding out a sheet of pink notepaper. “My mom swears by this recipe.”

  Anna took it, expressing her thanks, and then felt obligated to tell Sue Ann and Jenny that she was embarking on her first real baking project, on which they both wished her luck.

  “Are we ready?” Jenny asked then. “Not that I mean to be impatient, but—”

  “But you’ve got a pregnancy test burning a hole in your pocket,” Sue Ann finished for her in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Well, what about Tessa and Rachel?” Amy asked, looking confused.

  Sue Ann replied. “Tessa’s meeting us there. And Rachel had to cancel—sick with some kind of stomach bug.”

  “Ugh,” Amy said, wrinkling her nose. “She wasn’t feeling well when I talked to her a few days ago, either.” Then she looked back to Anna once more, her eyebrows lifting hopefully. “Anna, why don’t you join us?”

  “Yes!” Sue Ann said, so enthusiastically that Anna couldn’t help being flattered. “That would be great. Come with us.”

  Even so, though, she hesitated. It was sweet of them, and she knew the invitation was sincere. But they all knew each other so well—they’d known each other since they were little. And though Anna had been born here, she still felt acquainted with them in only a casual way. She wasn’t sure she felt at ease enough with them to be hearing about personal things like trouble getting pregnant or . . . who knew what else they might bring up.

  So even despite knowing it was the perfect way to start feeling less hermit-like, she heard herself saying, “Thanks for asking, but I’ll have to make it another time. I really need to get to work on this cobbler.” She held up the recipe as if it provided proof.

  Yet Sue Ann tilted her head to one side. “Lunch is only an hour—you’ll have plenty of the day left for baking.”

  And Amy gave her head a persuasive tilt. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  But, perhaps sadly, Anna wasn’t even tempted. She truly liked Amy and all her friends, yet at the same time, she just preferred to be alone these days—with her blackberries and her dumb cat. Maybe you really are becoming a hermit.

  “Thanks,” she said, “but I have so much to get done on the house, I need to get back to work as soon as I get this cobbler in the oven. We’ll do it another time—promise.”

  Anna stood back and looked at the disaster area her kitchen had become. Stray berries sprinkled the new countertop she’d installed over the winter, and purple blobs stained every surface. The whole space appeared lightly coated in flour, with bits of sugar mixed in for good measure. Given the mess, she thought it was a wonder that enough of the ingredients had made it into the baking dish to actually create a cobbler.

  “Meow.”

  She peered down at the cat who currently traipsed about in the flour at her feet. “Darn it, I forgot to ask Amy about you. And don’t let me find flour paw prints in the hallway . . . or else.”

  “Meow.” He didn’t sound the least bit nervous.

  While her creation baked, she cleaned up the kitchen, and herself, and her cat’s paws. She thought about moving forward on repairs, determined to find a project to start on before the day was out. She knew she could do this—it was just a matter of getting started, easing into it.

  And maybe that was how life in Destiny would be, too—maybe it was a matter of easing into it, bit by bit. Maybe the next time someone asked her to lunch, she’d go. Maybe it would be easier if it was only one other person—just Amy, or just Sue Ann. And it wasn’t that she lacked confidence or social skills—it was still simply the innate knowledge that she was so different from them and always would be. She didn’t like cats. She didn’t know how to bake. She remained slightly turned on by the memory of the wildman in the woods touching her feet.

  Whoa—where had that last one come from? And sheesh, it was still hard to believe. But this sealed the deal—because truly, no self-respecting Destiny lady would respond that way.

  Oh well, it’s over now. You might not even see him again. And probably the only reason she’d suffered that strange reaction was lack of sex. It had been a while. And really, a lack of men in her life in general, other than her brothers. In ways, it had been an awfully long winter. And that’s what you get for becoming a hermit—bizarre sexual responses to the first masculine dude you run into, even if he needs a haircut worse than anyone you’ve ever met.

  She gave a little shiver, trying to shake the whole thing off—but again the fleeting thought passed through her mind: What does Duke eat out there?

  When the inviting aroma of warm cobbler wafted
past, she glanced at the clock and—oh God, it was past time to take it out! Rushing to grab up a couple of the gingham potholders Amy had given her as a housewarming gift last fall, she yanked open the oven door, pulled out the casserole dish, and . . . wow, it was pretty beautiful! Berry juice bubbled through the top of the golden brown crust like little bits of hot purple lava—and it smelled even more delicious now.

  “Meow.”

  She looked down to find Erik still at her feet, staring up.

  “I know,” she said, nodding happily. “It looks pretty amazing, doesn’t it? I might just be a good innkeeper, after all.”

  And now that she felt like a successful baker and her confidence was high, she set the dish on a trivet to cool and walked outside. Find a project on the outside of this house. Pick one. And then figure out how to get started. You’re clearly a born baker—so you’re probably a born carpenter, too.

  But as she stood in the front yard, looking at the grand-but-now-shabby old Victorian, her attention was for some reason drawn to the woods to her left—to the old path that led into the trees next to the honeysuckle bushes. The path she’d followed to pick berries. And the path on which Duke had carried her out.

  What did he eat? And what was he doing right now? How on earth did he spend his days? And sure, she got that he didn’t want to be around people right now, but what exactly was his plan? To just live alone like an animal in the woods for the rest of his life? How much sense did that make?

  But these aren’t your questions to ask; they aren’t your problems. You have enough problems—even if, admittedly, Duke’s made her own seem much more manageable. It was one thing to become a hermit in the way she had, but another altogether to do it in the way he’d chosen to.

  And was he hungry? When was the last time he’d had anything delicious, or even good?

  Sighing, she glanced toward the front door of her house and thought of the cobbler in her kitchen. God knew she didn’t need to sit around devouring a whole cobbler that she’d baked as an experiment. The truth was—she’d gotten the bright idea to bake it, but she hadn’t thought about who would eat it.

  Maybe Duke would like it.

  And maybe that was a crazy thought in ways—after all, he’d made it clear he wanted to be left alone and he’d acted perfectly self-sufficient with his propane refrigerator. For all she knew, he was having gourmet meals every night.

  But she didn’t think so.

  And somebody needed to eat the cobbler.

  And he had been nice enough to pick the berries and bring them right to her door.

  So maybe she’d just return the favor by taking him the cobbler. In the same way his bringing her the blackberries had felt like a peace offering of sorts, taking him the cobbler would be her gesture of peace in return. And then she’d somehow feel like they were even—and like it was saying they were both okay with the situation.

  All in all, she couldn’t help thinking it was a good idea.

  Of course, ten minutes later as she trudged with her cobbler dish between her hands through the woods—even darker now than they’d been the last time due to clouds that had moved in this afternoon—it began to seem like a slightly more stupid idea. She started remembering that he scared her a little. And that he had a mysterious—dangerous—past. And that even if he’d seemed completely in his right mind the more she’d talked to him, a guy living out in a fallen-down shack in the forest by choice couldn’t really have it all together. Suddenly, the word Unabomber came to mind. Shit—what was she doing? When had she become the Hermit Welcome Wagon?

  Still, she felt she’d come too far to turn back, especially when the old cabin suddenly appeared in the distance. Like before, the ivy and other vines covering it served as camouflage, making it so she didn’t quite see it until it was right before her eyes, like something materializing out of nowhere. Poof!

  Was he in there? Well, regardless, maybe she should just leave the casserole outside and be on her way, the same as he had with the berries. Yes, that sounded like another good plan.

  Fortunately, a small window next to the door stood open, creating a wide enough sill on which to set it safely. She’d covered it with a gingham cloth—another gift from Amy, who seemed almost as fond of gingham as she was of cats—so it would be less likely to draw bugs or animals before Duke found it.

  Stepping slowly up to the window, she paused, listening for any movement inside, and when she heard nothing but the faint tweet of a bird somewhere, she edged closer to the old dilapidated sill and carefully lowered the cobbler dish. For good measure, she straightened the blue and white cloth, making sure it covered all four corners.

  There, a nice treat for Duke when he came back from wherever he was.

  That was when a fist clamped down on her wrist.

  The shock of it shot up her arm and into her heart as she let out a yelp. Her gaze locked on the masculine hand that held her, and a second later, Duke Dawson’s hairy face and gray eyes appeared above it through the open window. “If you’re gonna go sneaking around, Daisy,” he said, “you gotta be a little quieter.”

  She blinked, flinched. “I was perfectly quiet.” She was trying to get used to being touched by him again. And wondering why he hadn’t yet let go.

  He chose that exact moment to release her arm from his grasp, leaving her in a weird state between relief and slight disappointment. A few seconds later, the door opened a few feet away and her wolfman stepped out. “About as quiet as a freight train. Heard you tromping through the weeds twenty yards away.”

  She knew he was exaggerating, but thought he looked more amused than he had during their first encounter, like he was actually teasing her this time.

  Not quite sure how to respond to teasing from Duke, she went barreling full steam ahead with “Thank you for picking the berries.”

  He gave a short, simple nod in reply. “Thank you for . . .” He looked toward the windowsill. “Whatever that is.”

  “A cobbler. Made from the blackberries. I . . . didn’t know what you were eating out here, so . . .”

  “Don’t worry about me, Daisy, I’m getting along just fine,” he informed her, and she was just about to regret trying to do something nice for him when he added, “But thanks. Haven’t had anything like that in a while and it’ll be a nice change.”

  “You’re welcome. I . . . hope it’s edible.” She hadn’t exactly planned the last part—she’d just been thinking aloud.

  Still seeming more lighthearted than she could have anticipated, now he even let out a quick laugh. “Should I be scared?”

  For some reason, she moved right past the irony of the question and found herself feeling unusually sheepish. Maybe even a little vulnerable. In the past, she’d mostly stuck to doing things she was naturally good at—maybe life had held enough challenges without her having to challenge herself on top of it. So she wasn’t used to being in the position of having no idea if her efforts were a success or not, and she’d only remembered a minute ago that she didn’t actually have a clue how the cobbler would taste. Plus—hell—something about him just kept her feeling a lot more tense than usual, whether or not there was a cobbler involved.

  “It’s . . . the first thing I’ve really baked,” she admitted. “Sort of an experiment. I’m planning to open my house as an inn once I finish all the repairs, and . . . I thought it would be nice if I could serve homemade baked goods. I also got a cat. For the inn. Because it seemed like something people would like.” Oh God, shut up. He’s a motorcycle gang member with a jagged scar on his face living in the woods—he doesn’t care about your Mary Poppins aspirations as an innkeeper. Or your cat. Unless maybe he needs something to focus on during target practice. She cringed slightly, suddenly worried for Erik, no matter how irritating she found the four-legged meowing machine.

  “Makes sense,” he said simply.

  “It does?” Her eyebrows shot up.

  “Wondered what you needed that great big house for. Now I know.”
>
  “You don’t have to worry, though,” she heard herself adding, even if she wasn’t sure why she cared about reassuring him. “I have a lot of work to do on the outside, so I won’t be opening for a while yet. So, I mean, there won’t suddenly be guests around—you’ll still have . . . privacy. For now.”

  He narrowed those dark eyes on her, and his pointed stare pinned her in place. She was generally good with men—confident, comfortable—so why did she find it hard to make eye contact with this one? Maybe it’s the scar and scraggly hair. Maybe it’s because there are so many question marks surrounding him, some of them pretty ominous. “Does this mean you’re willing to keep my secret?” he asked.

  “I told you I would.”

  “Figured you might’ve changed your mind by now.”

  She just shook her head. “Nope. I can be a good neighbor if you can.”

  One corner of his mouth quirked into not-quite-a-smile. “Yep, I can be a good neighbor, Daisy Duke.”

  Her spine stiffened slightly. “I might think you were a better neighbor if you’d quit calling me that.”

  “Why? I like the shorts. They suit you.” And when he glanced down at her hips, she did, too. Today’s particular jean shorts were cutoff Levi’s she’d torn badly while installing a new bathroom sink a few months back. She tended to wear a lot of denim these days because it was both comfortable and sturdy. And she wasn’t about to ask exactly how they suited her, God forbid—but her cheeks heated slightly anyway, and she only hoped the shadiness of the woods hid her reaction.

  “Ankle’s all better, looks like,” he said then, dropping his gaze lower and saving her from coming up with a reply.

  She nodded. “Yes. Good as new, thanks.”

  “Use the crutches?”

  “I did,” she assured him.

  “Good girl.”

  Her eyes darted up to his and their gazes locked. The small liberties he took with her unnerved her a little—how did a guy in his position have the guts to be so bold?—and yet somehow she was beginning, bit by bit, to grow less wary of him.