The Emerald Hills Collection

by Judith Post

  "No, I’m on my way. Give me ten minutes."

  Mallory and the animal eyed each other. Neither of them trusted the other one. The moon moved behind the trees, and gloom settled over her. The motion light flipped off. She rubbed her arms. She hadn't dressed properly for animal rescue. Didn't know she had to.

  On the other side of the stream, Whiskers got bored with the wait and returned to the yard. Damn cat. He got her into this. It seemed like forever before Mallory heard a car race into her driveway, a door slam, and Neil's footsteps hurrying toward her.

  Shadows filled the barrel. He flicked on a flashlight and peered inside it. "A mink," he said. "Feisty temperaments. Your lips are blue. Why don't you go inside the house and wait for me?"

  Gladly. Mallory waded across the stream again—colder this time—and started up the hill to her cabin. On the patio, she kicked off her shoes and water spilled out of them. When she opened the door, Whiskers darted inside ahead of her. She glared at the cat. As usual, Whiskers survived her displeasure and wandered to his empty food bowl, meowing for his dinner.

  Grumbling, Mallory fed him before going to the bedroom to change into flannel pajamas and a robe. She put on the tea kettle and opened the refrigerator, hoping someone had hidden a tasty meal inside it. Alas, no such luck. She pulled out the carcass of the rotisserie chicken she'd been snacking on for the last two days. She was tugging off chunks of breast meat when Neil knocked on the door and she motioned him inside.

  He looked at the remains of her chicken. "That's not your supper, is it?"

  She shrugged. "I worked late tonight and wasn't in the mood to stop for anything on the way home."

  "You don't cook?"

  He made it sound like an accusation. She bristled. "Nope, not my thing. That's why God created fast-food restaurants."

  His gaze swept her up and down. "No wonder you're so scrawny."

  "Scrawny?" Her jaw fell open, and she snapped her mouth shut. "Most people call me thin."

  "You don't wear any makeup either."

  "I am what I am. What's it to you?"

  "Most women who give up on their hair and makeup have had a bad relationship, that's all."

  Mallory touched a hand to her thick, chin-length hair. It was a tawny color that she liked. She considered it an attribute. "You have a way of getting under my skin. I'm usually friendly."

  "I bet." He washed his hands at the sink, then began cleaning the chicken meat off the bones. "You did me a favor by calling about the mink. I'll do you a favor by making you the best sandwich you'll ever eat."

  She sighed. "There you go again. Is there anything you're not good at?"

  "Lots of things, but I happen to be a first-class cook. Learned it in the navy. I know my way around a kitchen. Do you have any decent bread? Maybe some mustard and mayo? Pickles would be good."

  She rummaged for ingredients while he chopped the chicken meat. He added mayo and a little mustard, dug for some celery to dice, and whipped up a chicken salad. He scanned the empty shelves of her refrigerator and shook his head. "This will have to do."

  She poured him a cup of tea, along with one of her own, and they sat at the island that separated the kitchen from the living room. She took a bite of the sandwich and sighed.

  He smiled. It was an improvement, better than his usual scowl. "I'm thinking you never got married, or at least you'd have learned a few kitchen skills."

  She washed down her food with a sip of tea. "You'd guess wrong. I did three years of purgatory before I bailed and moved to Emerald Hills."

  "Purgatory? It was that bad?"

  "That's what purgatory is, isn't it, not good, not bad? Just sort of miserable."

  "But you lived together, right? And you still didn't cook?"

  Mallory pushed her empty plate aside. "We worked together for a museum, usually went out to eat. We were both sort of lonely. Not enough to make living together work." She finished her tea and looked at him. "You?"

  "Never took the plunge. Moved a few times too many. And most women don't find me all that charming."

  "Really." She bit back a smartass reply. After all, the man just fed her. Time to change the subject. "Will the mink be all right?"

  He blinked at her sudden transition, but let the personal stuff drop. "It's fine. The poacher set a barrel trap so that it would drown, and its coat would be unharmed. That brings a better price."

  Mallory bit her bottom lip. She ran through a list of people she knew from around here, and she didn't think any of them would break the law to poach.

  Neil glanced at his watch. "It's getting late. I'd better get back to the lodge. Wish we had a building closer, so it would be easier to keep watch around this part of the park."

  "Use my house during the day." The words slipped out before she could stop them. But she wouldn't be here, would she? Neil could do whatever he did and look out her expanse of windows while he worked. No one had a better view of this section of the forest.

  He raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Is that a serious offer? I'm in and out all day, keeping track of bird counts, crops, and wildlife. This would make a great base until we catch our guy."

  Mallory squared her shoulders. "I don't like traps. I leave home at seven every morning. Here." She went to take her spare keys off a peg by the door. "You can let yourself in and park your truck in the garage so that no one sees it. Nature's Bounty closes at six. I'm usually home by seven."

  He whistled. "That's a long day."

  "It's only during tourist season and holidays. In the winter months, Leigh and I don't bother opening Monday through Thursday. It's not worth it, not enough business."

  He nodded. "You have to make hay while the sun shines."

  "Something like that." She pushed off her bar stool to see him out. "You might want to bring something for lunch. You've seen the insides of my refrigerator."

  He grinned. "Thanks for the warning. And thanks for letting me use your house. It's a big help."

  Once he left, she cleaned the kitchen, then went to her studio. She had some finishing touches to paint on another batch of gourds. If they kept selling out, she'd have to spend every night painting, but she wasn't complaining. Too many sales were a good thing.

  * * *

  She glanced over the house before she left it. She'd picked up any clutter and made her bed. Not necessary, she knew, but she wanted it to look its best when Neil came. Not that it mattered what he thought of it, but she loved her cabin, and she wouldn't embarrass it by leaving it a mess for a stranger.

  How pitiful was that, she thought, on her drive into town. She personified her house. Was that as bad as talking to herself and having deep discussions with Whiskers? Maybe she needed to get out more.

  She and Leigh rushed around the shop, restocking, before customers burst through its doors. The rest of the day went by in a blur. By the time the last customer left, Leigh and Mallory both sagged onto the stools they kept behind the counter and gave themselves a minute to catch their breath.

  "Goodness me, we had such a sparse year last year, I was worried," Leigh said, "but I guess people are in the mood to spend money again."

  Mallory agreed. "It's like they're making up for lost time."

  Leigh surveyed the mostly naked tables and shelves. "I hope we have enough inventory to make it to the end of the week."

  "I have more gourds at home, but they're mostly Christmas or winter ones. I'm almost out of ones painted for Fall."

  "Thanksgiving's only a week away," Leigh said. "We'll sell what we have and concentrate on Christmas."

  On the drive home, Mallory stopped at Nancy's Restaurant for a take-out order. The aroma of an open-faced, beef Manhattan sandwich made her drool all the way home. When she punched the button for her garage opener, she was relieved to see that Neil's truck was gone. Whiskers greeted her at the breezeway door, and they went into the kitchen together. Whiskers loved roast beef as much as she did. They ate their supper, watching TV together. The only sign that Neil had
been there was an upturned glass that had been washed and left to dry.

  After supper, she hit the studio again, and this time, she stayed up later than usual painting. But the next morning, she dragged herself around the house, cleaning and straightening until it was time to leave.

  She and Neil played tag for the rest of the week, coming and going, without seeing one another, so Mallory was surprised when she pulled into her driveway on Saturday night, and Neil's truck was parked at the roadside and lights blazed inside the house. She felt guilty, parking in the garage and toting her Friday night order of fish and chips into the kitchen. If she had known….

  She shook herself. No, she wouldn't have ordered food for Neil too. He'd be leaving the minute she walked through the door. Whiskers didn't come to greet her. The traitor cat was in the kitchen, begging for scraps while Neil stirred a big pot of chili.

  He turned when he heard her and smiled. His gaze went to the take-out, Styrofoam box in her hands. "No problem," he said. He held up a plastic, storage container. "I thought I'd take some of this home and leave the rest for you to have tomorrow."

  She stared at the sturdy, metal soup pot. "You didn't buy that, did you?"

  He laughed. "No, I found it in your pantry, along with most of the ingredients I needed. I had to dust them first, though."

  She felt a flush creep up her neck and stain her cheeks. "I must have gotten it as a wedding present. I don't think I've ever used it."

  "Well, it's broken in now. It's a good pot, nice and heavy. Someone spent some money on it."

  "Probably my mother, she was so happy to see me married."

  He nodded. "Mothers are like that. Mine still asks me if I've met a nice girl."

  He ladled half of the chili into his container and asked, "Do you have something to store yours in? If you do, I can empty the pot and clean it."

  "No worries. It was nice enough of you to make it. I'll divvy it up later."

  It sounded like a dismissal, and she hadn't meant it that way. She struggled for a friendly follow-up. "I'd be happy to split my fish and chips with you."

  "Thanks anyway, but I'd better get going. I'm scheduled to do an early morning birdwalk, so I need to get some sleep."

  She walked him to the door and waved him away. A nice man. A perennial bachelor. Was it possible for a man and a woman to be friends when neither of them was interested in the other one? She shook the idea away. She'd learned the hard way that there were worse things than enjoying your own company—like purgatory.

  When she woke on Sunday, she pulled her shutters open and looked outside. Her bedroom was at the front of the house with a view of her wide porch, with its rocking chairs, and the flower beds and bushes that edged her yard. The birders would have come and gone by now, making their rounds at dawn. No self-respecting bluebird would show its beak this late in the day.

  The cabin was chilly, so she pulled on her robe and turned up the heat. Then she went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. There was still a skim of milk in the bottom of the carton, and she found three eggs. She opened the bread bag to pop two slices in the toaster, but a musty smell made her hold the bread to the light. Mold. Oh, well, no dippy eggs. She'd settle for scrambled.

  After she and Whiskers finished their breakfast, she pulled on clothes and went to her worktable. She sat on the chair that let her look out the picture window at the back of the house. Most Sundays, she left for her weekly trip to the grocery store about now, but not today. Take-out was going to be her best friend for a week or two. She needed to glue herself in her chair and paint like a crazy woman.

  Two rows of gourds, painted bright yellows, greens, and reds, sat drying. She was adding pine boughs and different winter birds to others before she leaned back and looked outside to give her eyes and shoulders a rest. She frowned. A man, dressed in camouflage pants and a hood that was pulled up to hide his face, was walking in the park, but not staying on the trails. He bent often to fiddle with something. Could he be the poacher?

  Ice slithered through Mallory's veins. What should she do? She reached for her cell phone and called Neil. "There's a man in the woods across from me. He keeps stopping and bending, and he's not on the marked paths. I can't tell what he's doing."

  "Stay put. I'm on my way."

  She watched the man make his way to the stream. He began to walk along its banks. When he heard a truck approaching, he climbed to the tree line and stood, hidden behind a trunk, to watch the street. When Neil pulled to the side of the road and started toward Mallory's back yard, the man took off.

  "Hey, you! Wait!" Neil stopped, hands on hips, and continued forward cautiously. When he crossed the stream, he, too, bent often, following a chain that must connect one trap to the next. When he finally knocked on her back door, much later, his expression reflected his frustration.

  "Missed him," Neil said.

  Mallory led him to the kitchen and offered him coffee. Neil plopped on the stool at her work island, took a sip, and grimaced. "Cold." He handed back his cup.

  "Sorry." She hadn't thought to check to see if the light was still on. "Want me to nuke it?"

  "No, I'm fine. Thanks for calling me. I should have taken the back way to that path, but I was afraid it would take too long. I thought cutting through your yard would be faster, but he heard me."

  Everything about Neil bristled. He was obviously used to succeeding at whatever he put his mind to. Mallory shrugged. She was more the type who stumbled her way to success.

  "What now?" she asked. "Do you think he'll leave and try some place else?"

  "No, he'll be back for his traps. My pickup doesn't have any park logos on it, so he probably just thinks I'm a friend of yours. He knows we're on to him, though, so I'm guessing he'll sneak in and get them at night, when he hopes no one is watching."

  "Hopes? Are you going to stay awake and try to catch him?"

  Neil scratched at his bald spot. "I might be losing my hair, but I'm not so old that I can't still pull a few all-nighters. I'll get my work day shortened, come home and take a nap, and then camp out at night."

  "In a tent?" There'd been frost on the ground in the mornings. Tents didn't appeal to her in good weather. They sure didn't sound good now.

  "No, he'd notice a tent. I'll sleep outdoors in my sleeping bag."

  She stared. She'd pegged him wrong. She thought he was intelligent.

  Neil threw back his head and laughed. "You should see the expression right now! There are people who enjoy winter camping, you know."

  "Why?"

  He laughed harder. "Man versus Nature, becoming one with the Earth." He wiped at his eyes. "Never mind. You're not going to buy it."

  Her stomach grumbled. She blushed, embarrassed.

  Neil glanced at the kitchen clock. "Have you had anything to eat?"

  "Breakfast." That was a long time ago. She'd gotten caught up in her painting and forgotten to go for lunch.

  "What if I run to town and grab us some grub?" He rummaged in his jeans pocket for his keys.

  "I have your chili to heat up."

  "You can have that for supper. Or knowing your refrigerator, breakfast. I never cook on Sundays. What sounds good?"

  "Nancy's Restaurant serves roast chicken and stuffing as their Sunday special."

  He raised an eyebrow. "You know the menu by heart, don't you?"

  "Nancy cooks better than my mother ever did," Mallory admitted. "And Mom cooks better than I do."

  "A sorry predicament, but I like roast chicken. Can you call in two orders while I drive to get them?"

  "I want to pay for mine."

  Neil sighed. "If you insist, but you did me another favor."

  Mallory went for her purse and handed him money. "I want the trapper to leave the park too, remember? So we're even."

  When he returned with the food, they avoided any serious topics while they ate. Before he left, Mallory said, "You can still use my house during the day, if you want to. He might try for a down time instead of
risking the walk through a woods at night."

  Neil nodded. "Thanks, I appreciate that. I'll keep this as my headquarters until I catch him."

  She knew Neil would go home, pack a sleeping bag, and find a spot to keep watch tonight. She went back to her worktable and got busy painting lots more birds to finish her gourds. They could dry overnight, and she'd get up early to stock shelves and tables tomorrow.

  As she drifted to sleep that night with Whiskers curled beside her, she thought of Neil, zipped in a puffy bag, listening for the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves to let him know the trapper had returned. She sighed, grateful that park work had never appealed to her.

  * * *

  Whiskers scratched at the door, as usual, as she made coffee the next morning. She cracked the door against a bitter breeze, shivered, and shut it as soon as the cat's tail cleared the opening. Her thoughts went to Neil. What a crappy night to enjoy the outdoors.

  She was stirring hot water into instant oatmeal when Whiskers raised a loud ruckus. She ran onto the patio, hugging herself against the cold, afraid of what she might find, and saw the cat circling something on the ground. She hurried toward him and stared at a shiny, new trap—open and waiting—in the middle of her yard.

  Fear twisted her stomach. Cold curdled her veins…and not from the damp and breeze. What kind of sick person crept onto her property in the middle of the night to try to harm her or her cat? Whiskers was safe. He spent lazy afternoons in the gourd bed she'd carved for him. Its magic would protect him. She, however, was gourd-free.

  A tree branch had fallen from the gusts of wind. She dragged it to the trap and sprang it. A knot clotted her throat at the sound the steel teeth made, snapping shut. She'd watched Neil, so bent and tugged at a chain. It lay loose. The trapper hadn't placed a string of them across her yard.

  Angry, she stalked to her trash bin, holding the trap by its chain, as though she were carrying something disgusting—like a dead rat by its tail. She was about to toss the thing in when she changed her mind. She'd take it in the house and leave it on the counter with a note for Neil, so that he'd know what happened. On her walk back to her house, the cold in her belly turned to fire. Damn the trapper! Anger flickered through her. She might not be adventurous, but that didn't make her a wimp. Trapping was bad enough, but he'd just waged war. And he didn't know his enemy.