by Ellie Hall
“This is impressive.” She picked up a carving of a Spaniel and admired the fine detail.
“Uh, thanks.”
“Do you sell them somewhere?”
“Most of them are individually commissioned by the owner, but I also work closely with animal shelters throughout the country to raise funds.” He brushed his hands together. “And I have an online shop.”
She faced him squarely and met his gray eyes glinted with the faintest flecks of green when they caught the light. She swallowed hard. “You earned back some of my respect.”
“I’d lost it?”
“Well, you were up about twenty points when you came to my rescue and then you lost a few notches from everything that’s happened since.” She moved the container of risotto toward him.
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Now, thank you for being all neighborly or whatever, but no thank you. I have plenty to eat.”
“And plenty of dogs from the sounds of it.” She peered over his shoulder. “Are you a big dog person?” Without letting him answer, she added, “You seem more like a dog person than a people person.”
A loud sigh came from by the woodstove. Frankie hadn’t noticed an old German Shepard curled up on a dog bed in the corner.
“Yup. You’re a dog daddy through and through.”
“I take in rescues and retired K9s. Police dogs.”
“Were you a police officer?”
“I’d have to have retired already. How old do you think I am?” His brow wrinkled.
“Old enough to become a grouch.”
He smoothed his beard as though fighting a laugh or a retort, she wasn’t sure. “My brother Owen is a cop.”
She set down the container of risotto on his work desk and then sat on the stool, examining his latest work in progress. It was exquisite. Each individual piece of fur was visible and the wooden dog looked exactly like the photo, except made of maple. She recognized the wood because she’d commissioned the tables in Mangia Bella to be made of the stuff.
Given his talent and helping out dogs, perhaps he wasn’t as rough and rugged around the edges as he seemed.
“I thought you were supposed to stay away from me,” he said, standing against the shelves across the small room with his arms crossed. A sharp look of warning hardened on his face.
She spun on the stool. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. I came up here to get away and wasn’t expecting a neighbor.”
“How long are you going to be here?”
“Long enough.” It thrilled her slightly to see how the words made him uncomfortable like she was interfering with his quiet life.
After six boys, her mother and father had always said she’d been born to shake things up.
“Long enough to what?” he asked.
“To find out if you’re really the grouchy Grinch under that beard or if there’s someone else hiding in there.” She’d made the decision on the spot. Yes, she’d figure out her future, but she’d also figure out Rocky’s past and what had happened between their families.
He grunted, tightened his arms across his chest, and lengthened his spine to reach his full height. He was massive and the way his biceps filled in his shirt made the small room much hotter than necessary.
Maybe her impromptu idea wasn’t such a good one. But her stubborn and determined nature won. “I’m going to church tomorrow morning. Would you like to come with me?”
His gaze remained fixed on the scene outside the window. “Do you mean would you like me to take you seeing as your car is about to get snowed in?”
She crossed the room and stood next to him, mimicking his posture. He shifted away from her slightly.
“Did it not occur to you to call a plow?” he asked.
She flicked her fingers in the direction of his truck, fitted with a snowplow on the front.
He gave another one of his caveman grunts as though he preferred having the bear for a neighbor.
Chapter 4
Rocky
No one except Rocky and the dogs had ever crossed the threshold into his workshop. He’d never let anyone see his works in progress except for customers and the people he worked with at the shelters. Those transactions were done online. What made him let Frankie in?
He scrapped that thought. She’d barged in. That was what had happened. She’d barged in with her shiny hair and big eyes, her sultry lips and demanding attitude. She was the kind of woman who was used to getting what she wanted. He refused to give it to her. He wasn’t interested in having neighbors or friends or anything more. It didn’t matter that she’d made him laugh. Or that she’d admired his work with a kind of...what was it? Awe? Respect? Like it mattered. It didn’t. She was just visiting...long enough to see if he was really a grouch or Grinch or what? A decent person? A civilized human being? Someone who could manage their anger—on and off the rink?
Kuma, one of the dogs, stood by the window in the cabin waiting, watching. Rocky sighed. She came over and rested her head on his bent knee. He scrubbed his hands down his face. Kuma had come a long way since she’d retired and moved to the mountain. She’d been alternately aggressive and depressed, which sometimes happened with former police dogs. Rocky worked closely with the animals, hiring specialists when necessary and helping to re-socialize them and give them the best life he could, the life they deserved after all their hard work.
Kuma’s ears pricked.
Rocky made a soothing noise, low in his throat to let her know it was okay. He couldn’t keep her from being on alert, but as the pack leader, the alpha, he needed to let her know that she was safe.
Probably a bird or maybe another deer had found its way into the yard. The property was surrounded by electric wire to ward off bears and other animals. It had been his first project when he moved up to his grandfather’s old place. It was intensive and something he needed to constantly keep up, especially with the winter weather. Too bad it didn’t keep out women, well, a woman.
A gate on the trail divided his property and the cabin next door, leftover from when the Costas and Hawkins didn’t hate each other. The story was Frankie Costa and Charlie Hawkins were once good friends.
Rocky had seen a few old photos from before he was born and the woods between the cabins had once been thinner. Rocky didn’t need friends. He preferred it when the cabin had been empty and the woods had filled in.
Kuma made a whining sound.
Rocky stroked her head and then clicked his tongue, signaling that she could go to the door.
He’d had to install special locks because most of the dogs could operate regular handles, which had caused a few to escape on more than one occasion—especially during thunderstorms. They did better when they had order, routine, and predictability. Rocky did too.
The woman, Francesca, sauntered up the path wearing a cream-colored jacket and plaid scarf. He remembered he agreed to take her to church. Her hair was styled and her cheeks had already grown rosy from the cold.
However, he wasn’t cold. Even the sight of her heated him up in a way that he had to fight against. Kuma swiveled to look at him in question. He nodded and gave her a command to indicate that the visitor was a friend, not a foe. Although, in reality, that was yet to be seen. But he didn’t want his dogs to freak out on her. The bear had probably scared her enough.
Her boots crunched along the thin layer of packed snow on the porch as she approached.
He had a sudden moment of boyish uncertainty. Did he open the door before she knocked since he and Kuma were standing right there? Living up on the mountain and getting accustomed to the quiet, he could hear someone coming from far away—the dogs did too. Oddly, he didn’t see Frankie blowing into his life, barging into his workshop, bringing him the most delicious meal he’d had in ages. He hadn’t planned on eating the rice pasta or whatever it was, but he made the mistake of opening the container’s lid the night before and caught the scent. Fresh herbs, cheese. He couldn’t resist.
His moment of hesitation wa
s long enough for her to knock on the door, sparing him from seeming like a weirdo and opening it first or hovering there like a ghoul. Was he overthinking things? Definitely.
“Buon Giorno.” She had a bakery-style box in one hand.
He stood there, stunned a moment. There was something about her slightly smoky voice, curling around those words that curled around something inside of him.
“Good morning,” she repeated in English. “Not a morning person?” she asked when he still didn’t answer.
Kuma came to his rescue and gave a bark of greeting and proceeded to sniff Frankie.
“Yeah. No. I’m up at sunrise. I, uh—” What was going on? He’d lost his ability to speak.
She folded forward slightly when Kuma nudged her head under Frankie’s hand for a pet—something she never did with anyone except him. Not that they had too many people around, but she’d never even been as inviting of affection and trust with the other trainers he worked with.
“And who’s this love bug?” Frankie asked, looking up from Kuma and meeting his eyes.
They sparkled. She sparkled. What was happening to him?
Kuma turned her head in his direction and barked once as though reminding him to introduce her.
“Oh, sorry. This is Kuma. She likes you.” The words were out before he could stop them. Before he understood what they meant. But it was true. The dog with the most difficult past, the one who’d taken ages to come around and trust him, liked the woman who’d just breezed into his life on an air of savory risotto, the subtle scent of perfume, and a sultry smile.
“She’s beautiful. Such a special girl,” Frankie said, scratching Kuma’s neck with both hands and somehow finding the special spot that got the dog’s back leg kicking with delight.
After a moment, Kuma trotted off and got a sip of water. Rocky needed one too.
Frankie peered over his shoulder and into the kitchen. “Ah, I see you polished off the risotto.”
“I gave it to the dogs,” he said without thinking. He didn’t want to give her the wrong idea. Better not to let her think he was friend material.
“It seems like they have good taste then.” She didn’t seem even slightly ruffled by his comment. She sucked in her cheeks. “Have you trained them to use utensils as well? If so, I’m doubly impressed.”
He followed her gaze to the container she’d brought by, still sitting on the counter, with a fork inside. He grunted. She’d caught him.
The Costas and Hawkins weren’t the kinds of neighbors who brought over dinner, hung out, or exchanged polite words.
As though reading his mind, she looked him up and down. “Are you ready for church?”
He was wearing a green button-down shirt. He smoothed his beard with his hand. “Sure am.”
They went to the truck and he opened the door for her, offering her a hand to get up since she held the box and the truck was lifted. It was the polite thing to do. He may have been a mountain man, but his mother did teach him manners.
He ignored the way her hand fit in his and how it softened at the warmth of his touch. He definitely didn’t allow himself to think about how his pulse quickened.
“I brought cookies for after the worship service,” she said, setting the container on her lap.
He got in the driver’s seat and flicked on the heat before starting down the long driveway. He wasn’t used to talking. He didn’t know what to say. The silence was usually more comfortable for him than chatter, except with her.
Thankfully, she filled it. “What do you know about Costa’s Christmas tree farm?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not much. Your grandfather ran it for about three years.”
“Here’s what I don’t understand. Christmas trees take a long time to grow. He wasn’t selling saplings to people to put up in their living rooms. So where did he get the mature trees? Were they already here and growing and if so, who’d planted them?”
Rocky cleared his throat. “From what I’ve gathered, it was my grandfather who planted them along with building the cabins.”
“So does that mean that they were once friends?” she hinted. “Neighbors? Business associates?”
He grunted.
“I don’t speak caveman. I mean, I’m willing to learn if that will help me understand you better, but you need to give me a little more than—” She imitated his grunting sounds.
He tried not to laugh. Tried to ignore the sensation in his gut. His hands tightened around the steering wheel. What was it about that woman that made her think she could just say whatever she wanted? And why did he let her get under his skin?
“I suppose they were friends once,” he answered as they pulled into town.
“So they weren’t always enemies?”
It became clear what she was getting at. “Are you suggesting that we try not to be enemies?”
She grunted in response.
Frankie Costa was infuriating, tossing his habit of grunting back at him. Suggesting they be friends. Being unabashedly upfront and unapologetically herself.
He wanted nothing to do with it.
They pulled into the parking lot of the old stone church. He chewed his lip a moment before getting out of the truck.
“Haven’t been here in a while?” she asked when he came around to open the door for her. It didn’t mean anything. He was just being polite.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“Just a guess.”
“My brothers and I get together every Sunday without fail and go to church and then out to brunch. Our parents too, when they’re in town.”
He did not want to talk about or think about brothers. He hoped they’d gone to church at different times. But it wasn’t only that. An emptiness had come over him several years previous. Or maybe it was that he’d divested himself of faith when he’d done something that he couldn’t forgive himself for. No one could. He wasn’t worth it.
After the service, Frankie approached a spindly, artificial Christmas tree in the entry room of the church. Numbered cards hung from the branches. “Adopt a family in need this Christmas season,” a woman called out to passersby.
“I’d like to adopt one,” Frankie said to the woman. “What do the families need?”
“Everything. Well, we have thirty families this year—the most ever—so we’ll take what we can get. A lot of these families recently relocated to our area after natural disasters destroyed their homes. They wanted a fresh start, but you can imagine how tough that is. We’re looking for gently used household items, clothing, gifts for the kids—that’s what these cards are, wish list items—, and I don’t think anyone would turn down a Christmas tree.”
Frankie’s eyes lit up and she smiled wide at Rocky.
“Will you help me?” she asked him.
“Help you what?”
She quickly explained that the cabin was full of boxes—the exact items needed. The woman passed her a card indicating where they were staging the collection.
“I just need a truck and happen to know someone...”
“You want to make me your plow guy, your chauffeur, and delivery man?”
Frankie took several cards from the tree, turned on her heel, and started for the door. He hurried after her as someone called his name. He’d almost made it out of there unnoticed—a hard thing for a Hawkins to do in that town. The beard helped him keep a low profile. However, his stature made him stick out like a sore thumb.
“Rocky? Is that you?” an older woman with white hair asked. “My, my. You’ve gotten so,” she swallowed, “wild-looking, but I suppose these mountains can do that to a man. You were always such a handsome boy.” She winked. “I can say this now, but you were always the best looking out of the bunch.”
He smoothed his beard. It took him a moment, but he realized it was Mrs. Niddler. She was his fifth-grade teacher. When he was a kid, she seemed like she was a hundred years old, which meant she was two hundred at least.
As his recognition dawne
d, she went on and on, talking fervently about the school district deficit and how Brynn Powell was single-handedly raising tons of money. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
A second woman joined them. She had a distinct nose and was also advanced in age. He realized she was Ms. Mayweather, his third-grade teacher. She said something about the resort, but he stopped listening because Frankie stood next to him, practically bouncing on her toes. She’d clasped his bicep in her hand. What had her so energized? And why had she tethered herself to him?
Mrs. Niddler interrupted herself. “Rocky, please introduce me to your companion.”
“Oh, this is Francesca,” he said, itching to get out of there.
“My friends call me Frankie. Frankie Costa. Nice to make your acquaintance.” She let go of his arm to extend her hand in greeting.
It was as though he’d been warming himself in front of a fire and the lingering heat from her hand remained there.
Mrs. Niddler’s brow furrowed and she looked from him to Frankie and back again. “Oh, you’re not friends? She said her friends call her Frankie. But you introduced her as Francesca. I thought she was the future Mrs. Hawkins. You’re the last one standing, you know.” Mrs. Niddler eyed him.
His insides tightened. Yeah. He knew.
Ms. Mayweather said, “Costa. I remember that name.” She held her finger aloft as though channeling the answer. “The Christmas tree farm.”
The wrinkle across Mrs. Niddler’s brow deepened. “But aren’t the Costas and the Hawkins families bitter enemies?
Frankie glanced up at him. He had to look away from those eyes of hers. Ones he could lose himself to. He was in a church for goodness sakes. He didn’t need to think about her as more than friends, as just friends, or as anything for that matter.
Yes, the Costas and Hawkins were enemies.
“Oh, I don’t know about bitter. I prefer sweet.” Frankie pointed at the table in the church hall. “I baked some cookies. When I was growing up, everyone would always gather after church and I’d always eat the cookies. This time, I brought some and I noticed there are only a few left, which tells me people like them.”