"Why was she coming at you with a tire iron?" Paul asked.
"I— uh— stepped in front of the loader she was driving. It was carrying a full fork of logs at the time, and she had to ditch the machine. It rolled over, dumping the logs and landing on its side." Ethan closed his eyes. "She came climbing out of the rig, cursing and waving that tire iron."
"But who is she?" Alex asked. "How come we've never heard of her before?"
Ethan shook his head. "It's the damnedest thing. But from what I can tell, all the men respect her. Ron Davis escorted me to my truck at her order, and told me she can handle anything with an engine better than any man on the payroll. He said her name is Anna Segee, and that Bishop hired her three months ago when she moved into town."
"Segee?" Alex repeated, his brow raised. "As in Segee Logging and Lumber of Quebec?"
"How in hell would I know?" Ethan shook his head. "She can't possibly be related to the Quebec Segees, although she did have a bit of a French accent. But why would she be down here working for Tom when her family owns a timber operation half the size of the state of Maine?"
"I've met André Segee," Grady said, his gaze speculative. "And he didn't strike me as a man who'd want a woman anyplace near his business. How old is this Anna Segee?"
"She can't be a day over twenty-two," Ethan said.
"Maybe she's André's daughter, and she's down here because they had a falling-out," Grady surmised.
"Why doesn't André Segee want women in his business?" Sarah asked. "All the hard physical work is done by machinery."
"It's still a male-dominated industry for the most part," Grady told her. "And André has at least two, maybe three sons who'll inherit the business."
Ethan poured himself a cup of coffee. "We don't know if Anna is even related to the Quebec Segees," he said, sitting down at the table. "But I do know I'm not going to like being a millwright. Bishop's yard is busier than downtown Greenville in the summer."
"So let me get this straight," Grady said, looking at Ethan through narrowed eyes. "You stepped in front of a loader?"
Ethan didn't quite meet his father's gaze. "Yeah."
"And you're planning on thanking Bishop's foreman for saving your life by firing her just as soon as we own that mill, aren't you?" Grady asked in a whisper-soft voice.
Ethan looked him square in the eye. "A mill is no place for a woman."
"Tom Bishop seems to think it is."
"Bishop's getting old," Ethan returned. "He's obviously grown soft in the head. Will I be the one running Loon Cove Lumber or not? With the power to hire and fire?"
"Tom Bishop is leaving for Florida the day after we sign the papers," Grady said. "I couldn't talk him into staying even a month to help with the transition. And you don't know a damn thing about running a mill. That leaves Anna Segee."
"There's got to be competent men working there," Ethan said. "Bishop's got a crew of thirty."
"And he hired Anna as their foreman."
Ethan glared at him. "Do I have autonomy or not?"
"That depends. You going to cut off your nose to spite your face? Loon Cove is running in the black right now, but if you try to fix something that's not broke, it won't stay that way. We have a lot riding on this venture."
"Okay then, I won't fire her." Ethan lifted his cup to his mouth and grinned behind it. "Not unless she makes me."
Chapter Three
No wonder you can't make friends around here, if that's how you greet people," Tom said as he climbed out of his truck, his face a grin from ear to ear. He pointed at the shotgun in her hand. "Is it loaded?"
Anna broke open the ancient weapon and looked at the sky through the empty barrel. "I don't trust the old shells Samuel had. And I haven't had time to buy new ones."
"Then I suggest you buy a new shotgun while you're at it. That one's liable to blow up in your face."
Anna leaned the useless weapon against the wall inside the house and turned back to watch her friend mount the porch stairs.
"You look like hell," Tom said as he inspected her face.
"Thank you." She leaned to the side to look behind him. "What have you got back there?"
"Something to cure your ills. Mildred baked you a blueberry pie," he told her as he pulled a deep, heavy-looking dish from behind his back. "And this," he added, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pint bottle, "is from me."
Anna immediately opened the chocolate milk and took a long swallow, carefully wiped her sore mouth on her sleeve, and smiled at Tom. "Thanks. I needed that."
"Now tell me who you're gunning for," he said, waving her inside ahead of him.
"You must have met them on your way in," she said, leading the way to the kitchen, knowing Tom expected her to share Mildred's gift.
"I met a car full of suits, so I'm guessing they were the developers and not the historians," he said, taking a seat at the table as he tossed his jacket onto another chair.
"Bingo. They brought in the big guns this time," she said, putting the water on to boil. "From Boston."
"So you decided to show them your big gun?" Tom sighed and shook his head. "You have to stop confronting men with tire irons and empty shotguns. One of these days someone's going to call your bluff."
She rubbed her swollen jaw. "Someone already did."
"And you didn't learn a damn thing, did you?"
"I learned to stay out of reach," she said, sitting down across from him and leaning her arms on the table. "So, what brought you here today?"
"I'm being a concerned friend. Isn't that enough?"
"No." She nodded at the pie. "That's nice, but it's not the reason you're here. So, what's up?"
Tom stood and started opening drawers until he found a knife, and Anna patiently waited. He came back to the table and sat down, then began to methodically cut into the pie as if he were doing surgery. "I've sold Loon Cove Lumber," he said, his voice whisper soft.
Anna leaned back in her chair and stared at him.
Tom finally looked up, his face nearly as red as hers. "We sign the papers next month."
Still she didn't speak.
Tom set down the knife. "I'm tired, Anna. And I'm cold. I want to live where I don't have to wade through four feet of snow to go get the mail, I want to walk on the beach in Florida in January in my shorts, and I want to see my grandchildren more than once a year."
She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
Tom leaned across the table and took her hands in his. "Nothing will change. You'll still have your job. You'll just have a new boss."
"Who?"
He pulled away and stood up again, then started opening cupboard doors until he found the plates. He returned to the table and began dishing out the pie. He wouldn't look at her. "I can't say just yet, because I promised not to. But they're good people. And they're locals. They'll run the mill with the workers in mind."
"Locals," she repeated. "Which means they won't like having a woman foreman."
He finally looked at her, frowning. "Why wouldn't they? You're a damn good foreman."
Anna threw up her hands with a laugh. "This is Maine, Tom, where men are men, and women belong at home cooking and cleaning and making babies." She laughed again at his glower. "How hard was it for you to hire me? You had so many reservations about your men taking orders from me that you stood over my shoulder for an entire month and scowled at the crew, just daring them to give me a hard time."
"You've proven yourself. And I've made provisions in the sale. They can't fire any of my crew for the first twelve months."
Anna sat back in her chair. "How long have you been thinking about selling?"
"A long time," he admitted. "Mildred's been after me for years to retire."
Anna went to the stove when the kettle started to boil, put tea bags in the pot and set it on the table, took down two cups and set them out, then went to the fridge and got Tom some milk.
"I'm seventy-two, Anna. It's past time I began reapi
ng the rewards of my labor," he continued. "And both of my sons have established themselves out of state. Nothing's holding me here."
"There's the woods," she said. "And elbow room." She reached out and grabbed his hand reaching for the milk. "All you're going to find in Florida are people. They don't even have real trees down there, Tom."
He reversed their grip and squeezed her hand. "It's done, Anna. And I'm glad. Now be glad for me."
She covered his hand and squeezed back. "I am, Tom. I'm just a little surprised, is all." She smiled. "I still can't picture you in shorts."
The red returned to his face and he pulled his hand free and dug into his pie. "Ah, there's another thing," he said just before he filled his mouth.
Anna had forked up a piece of her own pie, but she stopped with it halfway to her mouth. "And what would that be?"
"I've offered one of your cabins to the new owner who'll be running the mill," he said, quickly following that bit of information with a gulp of tea. He sputtered and choked into his napkin. "Damn. That's hot."
Anna just glared at him.
He smiled back. "He'll pay rent," he offered as enticement. "Six hundred dollars a month."
"What!"
"With a six-month lease," he added, ignoring her shock. "You can put the money toward your taxes."
"The man's going to be livid when he sees what he's renting. The only cabin I've got that's habitable doesn't even have running water."
"And having a tenant means you'll have some muscle around when your ghost returns," he continued, ignoring her protests. He smiled broadly at her. "That's the best part."
"For you," she snapped.
He nodded. "I'll feel better knowing you're not living way out here alone." He looked at Bear curled up by Anna's feet. "You wouldn't get a new watchdog, so I got one for you."
"And did you tell this man that ghost-busting was part of the lease?" she asked. She stood up and leaned her hands on the table. "I can take care of myself."
"Six hundred dollars, times six, is thirty-six hundred dollars, Anna. That'll put a nice dent in your tax debt."
Anna blew out her breath, sat back down, and rubbed her aching jaw, realizing she'd been gritting her teeth. Tom was right, it would put a very nice dent in her tax debt. And it shouldn't be too hard to get the water running to the old cabin. "Who is he?" she asked, picking up her fork again.
"You'll meet him next month."
"Who?"
"I can't say, Anna. I promised. The buyers are local, and they don't want anyone knowing about the sale until it's final." He smiled. "Which is happening faster than I expected. We weren't supposed to close until April first, but my lawyer called yesterday and told me we can sign the fifteenth of March."
"You're sure about this, Tom? You know what you're doing?"
"I'm sure, Anna girl."
"Then I truly am glad for you. Samuel would be glad, too, don't you think?"
"He'd also be glad you're getting a tenant," he said. "He didn't stop to think about you living out here all alone when he left you this place."
"I doubt he was thinking I'd be here this soon, since he wasn't planning on crashing into that ravine."
Before filling his mouth with pie again, Tom muttered something about being glad the old goat hadn't died in his bed. Anna looked down at her own dessert.
Yes, the Samuel Fox she remembered wouldn't have wanted to spend the last days of his life in a nursing home, and he hadn't. Still, she wished he'd waited until they'd reconciled before getting himself killed.
"I'm not sure I want a male tenant," she said, more for conversation than anything else. She gave Tom a wistful look. "It's been kind of peaceful around here, with no men sticking their noses in my business."
"The new owner will be too busy learning to run a sawmill to bother you," he told her, a twinkle suddenly lighting his eyes. "And he's probably more afraid of ghosts than you are."
Anna rolled her eyes. "Oh God. He's going to try bossing me around at work, sticking his nose in every aspect of the mill."
Tom finished off the last of his pie, followed it with the last of his tea, then stood up and put on his coat. "Don't create trouble before it happens, Anna girl. If the man knows what's good for him, he'll leave the bossing to you." He walked to the kitchen door and looked back at her. "Just don't go after him with a tire iron for the first few days."
* * *
Just as soon as Tom left, Anna headed for the only cabin that wasn't leaning badly enough to scare off her new tenant. In its heyday, Fox Run had been a bustling lumber mill that had run two ten-hour shifts a day. The main camp, made up of two dozen buildings scattered over nearly ten acres, sat on two thousand acres of dense forest situated between the main road and Frost Lake. Most of the buildings were in sad shape, with some completely caved in. The stable, which had housed some thirty horses, was the soundest structure. The building that covered the main saw, stretching long and low for nearly a hundred and fifty feet, was also in pretty good shape. So were the cookhouse and bachelor bunkhouse. But several sheds and many of the family cabins had given up their battle with nature, and were slowly melting into the encroaching forest.
Lumbering had been labor intensive a hundred years ago, and Fox Run had been the winter home for nearly ninety lumberjacks and sawyers as well as several families. Now it was a ghost camp. And as of three months ago, it was all hers— including the ghosts.
Strange things had been happening around the mill since Anna had moved in. Odd noises came from the various outbuildings some nights, waking her from a sound sleep. In the morning she always investigated and found tools and old equipment rearranged, as if her ghost had been looking for something. One morning she'd found that even her truck had been searched.
But if the truth be told, ghosts were the least of her problems at the moment, as the tax collector was far more threatening. Samuel had left a sizable sum of back taxes due on the mill when he'd died, and Anna was up to her armpits in debt. As much as she hated to admit it, Tom Bishop was right: thirty-six hundred dollars would go a long way toward securing her heritage.
And what was one more man in her life, anyway? She hadn't met one yet she couldn't handle with a bit of calculated charm. She grinned. And if that failed, there was usually a tire iron or shotgun nearby.
Anna stopped in front of the straightest cabin and inspected it with a critical eye. It was leaning to the left and the roof sagged, but it looked sound enough to shelter the new owner of Loon Cove Lumber. And best of all, it was a goodly distance from her house.
Charlie suddenly landed on her head. "Aw, pest. I don't have time to play right now," she told the bird, perching him on her finger so she could hold him up to her face. "And you've got to stop sneaking up on people," she admonished. "We've got a new tenant moving here in a month, and I don't need you and your gang driving him off."
Charlie blinked at her and canted his head, giving a little chirp. Anna threw him into the air, watched him flutter to a nearby branch, and walked up the stairs of the cabin.
The door was frozen shut. She shoved against it, but her shoulder was still sore from her loader accident yesterday, so she didn't even try to bang it open. She walked to the window instead and wiped the glass to peer inside. The place looked dry and downright filthy, so she trudged to the old machine shed and returned pulling a sleigh of tools. It took her ten minutes using a pry bar, but she finally gained entrance to the cabin, took two steps inside, and immediately started sneezing. There was enough dust in there to bury a body.
For three hours she cleaned and straightened and tossed out broken furniture until she had a pile outside the door that would fill a dump truck. Finally, it was time to fire up the old woodstove, but first she had to climb up on the roof and check the chimney.
Not wanting to bother with a ladder, and thankful for the snowdrift that was in all likelihood propping up the back side of the cabin, she carefully worked her way onto the roof, then bounced a couple of times to make s
ure it would support her weight. She was just pulling the cap off the tin chimney when a car drove up to her house across the yard. Anna watched a man get out, climb the steps, and knock on the door.
"I'm over here," she shouted.
The man turned and scanned the camp, looking for the direction of her voice.
"Up here!" she yelled, waving at him.
The Stranger in Her Bed Page 3