Second Chances (Nugget Romance 3)

by Stacy Finz

  Darla’s brown eyes grew wide. “Seriously? That’s an actual business?”

  “Yeah, it’s an actual business.” Harlee pulled her coat tighter to ward off the cold. “You’d be surprised how much people lie. Especially men. I’m not just talking posting ten-year-old pictures of themselves.” They lied about their weights, about their ages, their careers, their sexual orientations, and sometimes they even lied about where they lived—like the man who failed to mention that his Folsom residence was actually a state prison.

  “Do you have a special license to do it, like a private investigator’s license?” Darla wanted to know.

  “Nope. Not necessary.” To shield herself from lawsuits, Harlee required that her clients sign a waiver that a lawyer friend had drafted, releasing her from liability.

  “How do people find out about you?”

  “Word of mouth.” Harlee finished her sandwich and tossed the wrapper in a nearby wastebasket. “I also have a website.”

  “Wow.” Darla acted like Harlee was doing something groundbreaking, which, for the first time since she’d been “downsized,” gave her a nice burst of confidence.

  “What about you?” Harlee asked. “Why’d you decide to cut hair in Nugget, besides the fact that your dad owns the barbershop?”

  “To tell you the truth, I wanted to stay in Sacramento,” Darla said. “I’d finished a two-year internship at one of the most prestigious salons in town. But renting a chair there would’ve been astronomical. I haven’t built up much of a client list yet. Plus, my dad wants to go part-time so he can start easing into retirement. I thought I’d fill in on his days off.”

  “You must’ve grown up around here then?”

  “No,” Darla said. “My parents divorced when I was young and my mother and I moved to Sacramento. I used to come for visits, but other than . . . well, you’re my first friend.”

  It didn’t take a crack reporter to figure out that there was something Darla wasn’t saying. But Harlee didn’t know her well enough to press. Harlee had to confess that despite her initial impression, Darla was turning out to be good company. So good that Harlee spent an hour telling Darla her life story. Before parting ways, Harlee promised to visit Darla at the barbershop the next time she came into town.

  On her way home, she swung by the grocery store to pick up provisions. Unfortunately, the Nugget Market was no Whole Foods. Fortunately, unlike at Whole Foods, she could actually afford to buy food in the no-frills grocery store. Harlee filled her shopping cart with enough staples to get her through the week, including ingredients for chocolate-chip cookies. She was going to thank that nice neighbor of hers and bribe him to fix her pilot light.

  “Looks like you’re planning to do some baking,” the checkout clerk, a plump woman who reminded Harlee of her grandmother, said. “You new around here? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Sort of. My family’s had a cabin here for ages. We used to come up for vacations and weekends. Now I’m moving in full-time.” At least until Harlee landed a reporter job.

  “Welcome back.” The woman introduced herself as Ethel, the market’s owner. “You prepared? The weather here gets pretty nasty.”

  “I think so.” Why tell her about the pilot light? It would only make Harlee look like a clueless city slicker and she’d bet anything Colin could fix it. The scruffy mountain man seemed extremely capable and willing to help out. Hopefully she could at some point return the favor.

  At home, she got started on the baking project. At least her electric stove worked and had warmed up the kitchen, because the rest of the cabin felt like an icebox. Two hours later, Harlee trekked up the hill, found Colin’s driveway, and hiked down, carrying a neatly tied package of two dozen cookies.

  “Holy moly,” Harlee said aloud when Colin’s house came into view. “Grizzly Adams is living large.”

  His log home reminded her of a ski resort with its enormous porch, massive picture windows, and a two-story stone chimney. She knocked on his door. When no one answered, she peeked inside the windows. The interior was just as lovely as the exterior—lots of cozy rugs and muted paint colors. Not what she would’ve expected from a man who drove a beat-up pickup and looked like he’d been hibernating in a cave for the winter.

  He even had a porch swing. How sweet was that? She figured it was as good a place as any to leave the cookies and the thank-you note she’d written. Hopefully bears wouldn’t be enticed by the smell. One summer, when she and Brad were still in their teens, a bear had turned over their barbecue to lick out remaining food bits. They’d thought it was the coolest thing ever and had hung out the window to take pictures. Looking back on it, not such a safe idea.

  While here, Harlee decided to scope the place out a little more. Everything from the flagstone walkways to the hand-forged iron fixtures was stunning. Not at all what she expected from her rugged neighbor. A bachelor like him she figured more for a simple one-room cabin.

  She could see through the window that the garage was spotless. Half the space had been dedicated to the Harley-Davidson he’d said he owned. Gleaming and safely stowed away for winter. Now that she thought about it, Colin did have a bit of a biker look, especially the long brown hair and bushy beard.

  She strolled around back to check out the yard and found an outbuilding similar in structure to the main house, including a soaring roofline. Smoke from the chimney and the buzz of machinery drew her closer to investigate.

  Between the power tool and loud music, Colin didn’t hear Harlee knock. Finally, she let herself in and nearly stumbled over a farm table. Colin stood next to it in a pair of goggles, cutting wood on a band saw. When he saw her, he stopped, flipped up his goggles, and turned off the music. The Lumineers.

  Gorgeous pine rockers and gliding benches lined one wall. A potbelly stove sat in the corner, a fire burning.

  “Wow,” she said, turning in place, not knowing where to look first. There were finished pieces and works in progress stacked everywhere. She ran her hand over the smooth logs of a four-poster bed frame. “You made all of this?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said stiffly, stuffing his hands in his pockets while she examined the log bed closer. “That was an experiment.”

  “It looks perfect to me.” To which he shrugged.

  “It’s beautiful. Your house . . . this shop . . . Amazing.” She continued turning in circles trying to take it all in. Nightstands, coffee tables, and porch swings like the one on Colin’s deck.

  He merely nodded, removed the goggles from around his neck, and set them down on a workbench. She couldn’t tell whether he was peeved about her intruding into his private world or bashful about her seeing his work.

  But why hide it? The man was an artist.

  “Where do you sell it all?” she asked.

  “Mostly on the Internet. In the summertime, I set up at the weekly farmers’ market on the square.” He swiped at the sawdust on his sweatshirt. “I returned the U-Haul. You come for the firewood contacts?”

  “I brought you cookies,” she said. “I didn’t know you were home, so I left them on your swing.”

  “The crew on my construction site had to leave early.” He cocked his head to the side. “Cookies?”

  “To thank you,” she said. “And to bribe you for another favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You think you could look at my pilot light? It’s off and I couldn’t get it going. The heat’s not working and the water’s ice-cold. I nearly froze to death in the shower this morning.”

  The corner of his lip lifted in a half grin and for the first time she noticed that he was handsome. Not Brad Pitt handsome, but nice looking with a chiseled nose, straight white teeth, and eyes the color of caramel. All the facial hair made it difficult to know what the rest of his face looked like. Or his age. But he was in good shape—tall, broad, and muscular—leading Harlee to believe he couldn’t be too old.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said.

  He opened the door on the
cast-iron stove, snuffed out the fire, and they walked back to her cabin. She led him inside the garage, where the hot-water heater was strapped to the wall in a corner. He crouched down to get closer to the switch and pulled his sleeves up. That’s when she noticed his tattoo. Five black dots arranged in a quincunx on his forearm. Harlee had seen plenty of body art, but the geometric pattern was so stark and simple that it piqued her curiosity.

  She was just about to ask him the significance of the tattoo, when he caught her looking at it and abruptly pulled his sleeve down.

  “Could you hand me the flashlight and the matches, please?” She’d found both in the garage earlier when she’d tried to light the pilot herself, and handed them to him.

  Colin continued to fiddle at the base of the hot-water heater. “Hmm. It’s not working,” he said, and stood up. “You said the heat’s giving you trouble? Where’s the furnace?”

  She showed him, and he fidgeted with the heater for a while. “Brad didn’t say that I had to light both,” Harlee said.

  “Yep,” he grunted. “Where’s your propane tank?”

  She took him outside to the front of the house, where the tank sat in a small enclosure, hidden on three sides by lattice fencing.

  “You got a bucket I can fill with water?”

  She didn’t bother to ask why. “I’ll find one.”

  Harlee came back shortly, hefting a mop pail full of water.

  He grabbed it from her and poured it over the tank. “You’re out of propane.”

  “How can you tell?” she asked.

  “See that frost line?” He pointed to the lower part of the tank. “It’s less than a quarter full.”

  “Crap! The Nugget Propane Company is closed for the next four days. The sign says the owner went fishing. Maybe I can find him and get him to open for just one tank.”

  Colin lifted his brows. “How do you plan to do that?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m a reporter. I’m good at finding people.”

  “A reporter?” he asked, slanting her a glance. “Like on television?” Clearly he was trying to remember if he’d ever seen her on CNN.

  “No. Newspaper. The San Francisco Call. But not anymore.” Man, it hurt to say that. She waited for him to ask the obvious question, but he didn’t. Thank God. “Is there any other place around here I can get propane?”

  “Reno,” Colin said. “But they won’t deliver to California on a day’s notice.”

  “I’ll go there and haul it myself.”

  “In that?” He nudged his head at her Mini Cooper in the driveway and choked on a laugh. “No one lugs around a five-hundred-gallon tank of propane. You have to get it delivered. And that may take a few days. In the meantime, you can use my shower. I’ve got lots of hot water.”

  “Seriously? Isn’t that kind of weird?” She didn’t even know the guy.

  “Probably,” he admitted. “But you can come over when I’m not there.”

  “Where will you be?” she asked.

  “Construction site—I’m building a house. You’ll have the whole place to yourself.”

  “Wow. That’s so amazingly nice of you. I might take you up on it.”

  But more than likely she’d take sponge baths instead. Or hit up Darla. Even though she didn’t know her any better than Colin, it seemed more kosher to shower at another woman’s house. Although she was dying to see more of the inside of that fancy abode of his. Just not naked. “In the meantime, can I borrow some firewood?”

  “Yup,” he said, and she could tell that he thought she was a dope for not being better prepared. “I’ll hook you up.”

  “Thank you. And, Colin, I want to take you to dinner for helping me out like this.” She couldn’t afford it, but the guy was a total saint.

  “No dinner,” he muttered.

  “I insist. Pick a nice restaurant. Maybe something at one of the casinos in Reno.”

  That seemed to startle him. “I can’t do that.”

  “Of course you can.” Was the guy some kind of throwback that he wouldn’t let a woman pay for his meal?

  “No, I can’t. So just drop it, please.”

  He said it so adamantly that for the life of her, Harlee wondered what she’d done wrong.

  Chapter 3

  Colin felt like the world’s biggest prick for turning down her invitation in the way he had. She’d only been trying to show her appreciation and he’d all but bitten her head off.

  But he had a good reason for saying no. For him to go to a restaurant was simply impossible.

  Crowds and small closed-in spaces scared the hell out of him to the point where Colin couldn’t breathe and felt like he was dying. Clinically, the diagnosis was social anxiety disorder, also known as demophobia, and claustrophobia. The former affliction made any kind of large gathering unbearable. The panic attacks came on so fast and furious—like a vise squeezing all the air out of his chest—that he avoided public places the way most people avoided gang-infested neighborhoods.

  Outdoor functions, like the farmers’ market, were about the only kind of large group gatherings he could tolerate. Something about being in the open, where he could see the sky, eased his anxiety. Inside, he could manage a half dozen people, but more than that sent him into a tailspin—sweats, nausea, and heart palpitations.

  If he had to go into the Nugget Market or the Ponderosa for food or business, he waited until there were only a few customers. Sometimes it meant stalking the places for an hour. On job sites, he found ways to work alone, where no one would discover his dysfunction.

  The phobias weren’t anything he advertised—Colin firmly believed you kept your crazy in the closet where it belonged. For that reason, he spent a lot of time at home or in his workshop.

  At least the claustrophobia he’d gotten a firmer grip on. If he did his breathing exercises and concentrated really hard, Colin could usually endure a tight space for a short time, despite feeling like the walls were closing in on him. Good thing, because in construction he found himself in a lot of cramped quarters. Basements. Attics. Closets. You name it.

  He hadn’t always been this screwed up, but like the shrinks said, he had extenuating circumstances. And until he could conquer his fears—so far, Colin hadn’t had much luck in that department—he wasn’t going to any restaurants.

  Hopefully, he’d make amends by building Harlee a toasty fire and lending her a space heater. There was probably one in his garage somewhere. That pretty woman was so ill equipped for mountain life it made Colin scratch his head and wonder why she’d come here in the first place. Especially in winter, when the weather could be deadly. Her ridiculous car wouldn’t make it one day in the snow.

  Clearly, she’d run away from home because she was having some sort of crisis. Job related? Boyfriend related? Who knew? His policy was to never ask too many questions. Besides, she asked enough for both of them. Nosy little thing.

  “Reporter,” he huffed.

  He’d set her up with heat, let her use his shower, but that was it. He didn’t have time to be her mountain guide, and he had plenty of reasons to keep his distance.

  One of those reasons sat at the bottom of his driveway when he got home.

  Al Ferguson got out of a gray Crown Vic, the outline of his shoulder holster plainly visible through the cheap fabric of his suit jacket. “Long time no see.”

  “No offense, but I haven’t missed you.”

  “None taken.” Al shielded his eyes as he watched Colin come toward him. “Were you on a hike?” That was Al code for: Why aren’t you working?

  “What’s going on, Al?”

  “Just routine. You know the drill.” Yes, Colin knew the drill.

  He opened his front door and waved Al across the threshold. Al went straight for the coat closet, turned on the light, and methodically ran his hands between Colin’s coats and jackets, checking the pockets, tapping the walls, and examining the floorboards. Satisfied, he followed Colin into the great room and stared out the mammoth pict
ure window, letting out a low whistle.

  “I still can’t get over this view.” He pivoted around the room. “You’ve always been a neat freak. You sure you’re not OCD?”

  Colin ignored the gibe—Al’s lame attempt at humor.

  Next, he let himself into Colin’s office, rifled through his desk drawers, and turned on his computer. “You’ve got mail,” he said, perusing Colin’s in-box. “Looks like you’ve sold a couple of rockers today.”

  Colin stood over Al’s shoulder reading the orders. Good. He needed the money to buy a new wood shaper.

  “You get that seller’s permit I told you about?”

  “Yep.” Colin rolled his eyes. “And I pay my taxes too.”

  “Good.” Al got up. He was a big dude with an inch on Colin, who was six-two. Colin put him somewhere in his forties. Though his face looked lived-in, he took fine care of himself—hadn’t let his muscle go to fat.

  Colin got the impression no one messed with big Al.

  After finding the master bedroom, Al searched the walk-in closet, then pulled up Colin’s mattress, running his hands over the box spring. In the bathroom, he took his time going through the medicine chest.

  He made quick work of the other rooms, peering under the guest bed, scouring storage spaces, checking the linen cabinets, and prying open the vents. Then he headed to the kitchen, sticking his head inside the refrigerator, moving around various containers of leftovers, and sorting through the produce drawers.

  “I see you’re eating healthy.” He gave Colin a full appraisal.

  Under the sink, he crouched down to pull out a number of cleaning supplies, lay on his back, and felt around the drainpipe. Finished, he sat up and put everything back in place.

  “Is this going to take much longer?” Colin wanted to know.

  “Why? You have an appointment?”

  No way was Colin telling him about Harlee. Al would find her and ask a lot of unnecessary questions. “I’ve got work to do.”