by Ellie Hall
He almost smiled at the memory, but wouldn’t give himself the satisfaction.
There was no doubt Francesca was queen-like, but she’d never rule his mountain or him. He revved the four-wheeler and sped off, telling himself not to give her arrival another thought.
Back at the cabin, Rocky checked on the dogs. The lower level of the cabin was nestled into the side of the mountain and built like a walkout basement. He let the dogs upstairs often enough, but down below was their den.
He greeted each of them and calm washed over him. Rocky let out a long breath as he sat down on a wooden bench that he’d built. Scooter looked at him with his big curious dog eyes. Dakota licked his hand. They were all so well attuned they could sense even the most subtle shift in Rocky’s mood.
“Guys, I told myself to forget it, but I can’t stop thinking about her sweet as sugar smile.”
One dog barked as if in understanding.
Kuma whined.
“I know. I’d better get back to work.”
For the next hours, Rocky was supposed to be chopping wood. He was supposed to be working. He was supposed to be tending to the dogs.
Not thinking of Francesca’s laugh, or the tilt of her head when she called baloney on the family feud—his father did not tolerate what he’d called “language,” not even on the rink, so Rocky had trained himself to use other words even in the privacy of his mind to avoid a curse ever slipping out.
His father. The will. The argument with his brothers. It all came skating back.
Hawk Ridge Hollow was a small town. Even though Rocky had sequestered himself in the mountains, word had spread. All of his brothers had ultimately honored their father’s wishes even though their disagreement over the matter was what had torn the five of them apart.
He turned back to his chores. It was easy enough not to think about that because there was no way he’d be getting hitched, ever.
But that didn’t stop him from imagining what it would be like to sit with Frankie Costa in front of the fire on a cold winter night.
Chapter 3
Frankie
It was true that Frankie could take care of herself. After all, she’d grown up in New York City and had six brothers. It came with the territory. But the woods and bears and the man next door were another matter.
When she’d walked into the cabin upon arriving the day before, it was obvious that no one had been there in years. She’d spotted more than one mouse. While the rodents where she lived in the city were decidedly bigger, she wasn’t a fan.
She spent the afternoon cleaning. Well, what she could reach. The cabin was packed to the rafters with old junk—boxes and boxes, heaps and piles. Someone had either used the space as storage or her grandfather was a packrat. Er, mouse.
She cleared a path for herself and cleared the many paths the mice had left and decided to tackle the rest the next day. Frankie hadn’t gone there to clean or go through old stuff, but there wasn’t much else to do. Plus, she found that sometimes cleaning provided her with a good distraction.
Lately, it was from her restaurant woes, but after the bearded giant came to her rescue, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
When she laid in bed that night (after washing the sheets twice, just to be sure), the sight of John—or was it Rocky?—riding in on his mechanized stead came back in full focus.
At the time, she’d been so terrified of the bear on the front porch she hadn’t really appreciated the full spectrum of attraction she felt at her new neighbor’s brawny muscles, chiseled features, and beard.
How was that possible? All the guys she’d ever dated were clean-cut—and there were only a few of them with no thanks to her brothers. Maybe that was because she figured the Costa crew would be less likely to object if the guy she dated looked like the picture of a perfect gentleman.
When Frankie closed her eyes, she visualized the interaction in the driveway, going over his answers and the way the gray light punctuated his caveman-like attitude. There was confidence too. She had a healthy respect for mother nature but there was no way that bear was going to mess with him.
Although, she didn’t mind messing with Rocky—or John. He’d given both names and she sensed there was a story there. Not that it was any of her business, but she was curious about him. She opted to go with Rocky, on account of his stony demeanor, until he corrected her.
The expression on his face after she’d eaten the chocolate was priceless. She’d offered him some, but go figure. Who could possibly resist chocolate? He was stubborn and she knew stubborn. With six brothers, one would think that the siblings would’ve learned the art of compromise, but no way. The Costa children were like a pack of mules if they wanted to be.
As Frankie finally drifted to sleep, she thought of the family feud, what had come between their grandfathers—Charles and Francesco? Maybe the boxes of junk would reveal the story.
The next morning, the dim light sliced through the drapes hanging over the windows. Frankie sat up, thankful she didn’t have any overnight visitors—bears or mice. She shivered as her feet touched the wood floor. When she parted the curtains, snow drifted from the sky. A couple of inches already formed a layer on the porch rail.
New York City hadn’t yet seen the first snowfall that season and there was always something magical about it. She watched in wonder as the flakes danced from the sky.
When Frankie turned to face the room, she drew a deep breath. “Doesn’t look like I’ll be going anywhere today. I’d better get to work.”
Her cell phone reception was terrible—probably why Rocky next door didn’t have one, but she had a playlist on her phone and cranked up the music.
The log cabin layout was open and simple. The front door opened to the living room. To the right was the dining table and behind that, the kitchen with a side door leading to the ramp that Rocky had mentioned was what had saved her life. Dave Wilson, apparently the guy who’d been hired to clear the snow, didn’t shovel it from the front steps that led to the wrap around porch. He probably figured entering through the kitchen made more sense or had seen inside with all the boxes and figured it would be futile for anyone to enter through the front anyway. Nonetheless, it was nice of him to clear the porch though that probably had more to do with him not wanting to be held responsible if it collapsed under the weight of all the snow.
To the left, in the cabin, were the hearth, a bathroom, and bedroom. There was a loft space above spanning the kitchen and bedroom, and that was where Frankie remembered she and her brothers had spread out sleeping bags and had slept when they’d visited.
Just before Rocky had sped off the day before, he’d given her a look, as though of recognition. Like he remembered the Costas’ stay at the cabin. Maybe his grandfather or father had warned him to keep away from the Costa kids. They seemed to be about the same age, though with his beard it was hard to be sure.
That was the last time she thought about Rocky for the next few hours as she opened boxes, shuffled things around, and quickly realized that her parents had been using the cabin as a storage unit, containing the last forty-something years of their family’s lives.
She pulled out a bowl that looked like a water watermelon sliced in half. Then some tiki decorations and a grass skirt. Her parents had thrown a Hawaiian-themed party for their thirtieth wedding anniversary since they couldn’t actually go to Hawaii—they saved their pennies for trips back to Italy.
Another box held high school graduation tassels and other mementos from the seven seniors they’d watched walk across the stage and receive their diplomas. Yet another contained the old set of dishware her mother retired when all the kids had finally moved out and she got a new set even though she’d tried to foist the old set off on each of her six kids, but her brothers weren’t the type to cook.
It seemed that her parents had saved everything. When did they travel to Hawk Ridge Hollow to deposit it all? The only place they ever went was home to Italy. Then she recalled three trip
s, each spaced five years apart. The first was when her Aunt Elena came from Italy and stayed with the kids—her older brothers had tried to get away with things their parents forbid, but she’d kept them in line. Frankie must’ve been around ten or eleven—roughly five years after the original family visit to the cottage.
She wondered why her parents didn’t just donate all the stuff. Why travel all that distance just to fill a house with junk?
As she continued poking around, she realized that there wasn’t anything from recent years. She didn’t think they’d been back for roughly five years, at least. Were they due for another visit or had her dad left her the key to check up on the cabin? Why keep the place if no one was going to enjoy it? Even if there wasn’t a mortgage, there were probably property taxes and insurance, which made for a rather expensive and distant storage unit. More importantly, what was she going to do with it all if she was going to try to enjoy her visit for a few more days? She couldn’t even get to the fireplace and it was cold inside.
Frankie’s stomach grumbled and she went to the kitchen and spun around. “No, no, this won’t do. I’m working with a space at least six times as big as my studio apartment in New York and have less than half the room to move around.” She started clearing the kitchen. “And now I’m talking to myself, which means I must be hungry.”
When she finally moved everything out of the way, the scene outside the back window wasn’t of woods per se. No, it was row after row of perfectly spaced pine trees—Christmas trees, actually. Another memory came back of young Frankie and her brothers playing hide and seek back there. But she remembered the trees being much smaller and she had been much smaller. A smile budded on her lips at the thought of her and her brothers scampering around. She’d been so committed to everything at the restaurant, she could hardly recall the last time she had that kind of carefree fun.
She rummaged through the fridge, seeking inspiration for what to make for lunch then she stopped suddenly and leaned against the counter. She realized she hadn’t properly cooked a single meal, nothing more than eating take out or heating up leftovers since the restaurant had closed. It had been weeks.
With the help of her former employees, they dismantled the kitchen—no way was she leaving Welk all of her appliances—clear the dining room, and put everything back the way it was before she’d had it renovated to look exactly like her grandmother’s kitchen in Italy. The kitchen where she’d first expressed an interest in cooking. The kitchen where she’d learned to cook. The kitchen where she’d been trusted to make a meal. The kitchen with a framed newspaper clipping on the wall in her grandmother’s home in Italy was of the scene out the kitchen window. Her breath halted.
The article had been written in English with the headline Costa’s Christmas Trees. She’d never paid attention to it. Never thought it was odd there was an English newspaper clipping on the wall. She was too interested in whatever her Nonna was doing by the stove, the delicious scents, and tastes.
Her grandfather had spent his lost years operating a Christmas tree farm? As soon as she had cell service, she had to talk to her parents.
First, she set to work making a Christmas-inspired risotto dish that filled the musty cabin with the delicious smells of butternut squash, fresh sage, and roasted pecans. As she slowly stirred the arborio rice, she gazed through the window on the side of the house, the one that faced the woods Rocky had thundered through on his four-wheeler.
Once she’d dished up a portion of the risotto and cleared a corner of the table, she sat, staring the boxes while she ate. She could almost see the room lit up with a Christmas tree, the hearth strung with evergreen swag, stockings hanging, and flickering candles making the room glow.
Christmas was still weeks away and she didn’t plan on staying, but what was there back in New York City?
Heartbreak.
Dashed dreams.
Goals that got away.
She let out a long breath.
What if she cleaned up the cabin and spent Christmas there, figuring out her next steps? She had a bit of money to live on for a few months. And the flip side of the stubbornness that she shared with her brothers was determination. She’d figure out what to do in the next weeks and return to the City in time for the New Year when she’d roll out her new plan—whatever that was.
After washing the pots and pans, she found a container and put some of the risotto in it to bring to Rocky—it was the neighborly thing to do especially after the bear-scare.
It was still snowing, but she could see the path he’d used and started singing to herself. A couple of her brothers went on a hike for a bachelor party one year and were told to be noisy to ward off bears. One Costa alone could make some noise but put at least two together and it was a party, a festa—at least that was what her mother had always said, but when her mother said it, it sounded like it gave her a headache rather than a joyful celebration.
After a few quick minutes, she reached a clearing with a house nestled at the back of the lot and an enormous truck parked askew in the driveway. Several dogs started barking. She stopped short. Maybe they were what kept the bears off his property.
“Hello,” she called. When only the dogs answered, she repeated it. “Rocky?”
Like her family’s cabin, his was built into the mountainside, but he had a set of doors on the lower floor, where the sound of the barking was coming from. A deck hung above much like her wrap-around front porch.
Frankie passed his plow truck and was going to try the main door to the house when she spotted a wooden outbuilding on the edge of the woods. A thin ribbon of woodsmoke rose up from the chimney. As she followed a shoveled path, her boots crunched in the snow.
Frankie knocked lightly on the door. No one answered. The whirring of a machine came from inside. Was he ignoring her? Maybe he didn’t want company? Too bad. He was the only other person for miles, and they were neighbors—family feud or not. Although her risotto was delicious, there was no way she’d eat it all before it spoiled.
She dug in her heels, knocked louder, and just as she was about to barge in, the door flung open.
He loomed over her, his eyes sharp, his expression peeved. “What?”
God hadn’t given her six brothers for nothing. She’d faced bad-mannered boys (at least when their parents weren’t around) and worse. Never had she backed down. She’d carved her place in the Costa family by sheer will and she’d do the same on that mountain.
“Not what,” she said in a firm tone. “Instead, try, ‘Hello.’ ‘Ciao,’ will do as well. Or ‘Nice to see you,’ or ‘What brings you here?’”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” He held up his hands. Sawdust sprinkled down.
She looked up and up some more. Rocky was tall. So tall. Strong everywhere. Broad shoulders. Gray eyes. Masculine features that reminded her of carved marble, only he had a healthy hue even though she doubted the sun shined much in Hawk Ridge Hollow.
His lips were a bit hidden in his beard, but they were full, and a bit pouty like he didn’t smile much. But she did. He had a piece of sawdust, about the size of a piece of rice, in his beard.
“What?” he asked. A line formed between his eyebrows.
She held out the container of risotto. “I made lunch. Had extra.” She tried to hold back laughter. Anytime her brothers and she were in an argument and any one of them showed the faintest smirk, it was game over. They’d all start laughing and the problem would be forgotten.
“Uh, what’s risotto?” he asked, eyeing the container.
“Try it, you’ll love it.” She cupped her hand over her mouth still trying to keep her laughter at bay.
“It’s dusty,” he said, clapping off his green Henley as though he thought she was covering her mouth because of the sawdust.
“That’s not helping,” she replied and then burst into a belly laugh.
“Hey, are you coughing or—?”
She reached up and plucked the piece of sawdust from his beard. “You probab
ly don’t want to eat this.”
He flinched at her proximity. “Oh, ha ha. Very funny. Occupational hazard.”
“And what occupation is that? A professional grouch? The Grinch on the mountain?”
He scowled.
“You know I’m right.”
“Wrong. I carve—” He gestured vaguely behind himself as though suddenly slightly self-conscious if such a thing were possible from such a large and commanding man. When he’d moved his arms, the muscles flexed strongly, bulging under his shirt.
Frankie absentmindedly waved her hand in front of her face to cool off. Heat poured out of the workshop. He sure had the wood stove cranking. She fought the urge to plunge her head into the nearby snowdrifts. She went to the mountain to get away from confusing feelings and drama. Adding a man to the mix was not the plan. Getting back on her feet and figuring out her future was.
A moment passed and their eyes drifted together. He staggered back as though he too felt the heat enveloping them. “I have to keep it warm in there to dry out the wood.”
“Oh,” she said though it came out more like she was parched, hadn’t had anything to drink for ages. She pushed past him and entered the small space. Maybe he could slake her thirst.
Shelves held all manner of wood and figurines along with tools and a large work table.
“You probably don’t want to let all the heat out then,” she added, finally finding her voice.
He closed the door. “Welcome to my workshop.” He took off his knit cap and ran his hand through an unruly mop of hair.
“Oh, so the grouch does have manners.” She didn’t look away from the intricately carved dogs to glimpse his expression—which she hoped was one of mirth. Instead, she was drawn to photos of dogs and their wooden counterparts in various stages of completion.