Finding Hope (Nugget Romance 2)

by Stacy Finz

  “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. Although, despite Harlee’s initial impression, Darla was turning out to be good company. So good that Harlee spent an hour telling Darla her life story. Before they parted 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 shop 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,” said the checkout clerk, a plump woman who reminded Harlee of her grandmother. “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 and two hours later trekked up the hill. She found Colin’s driveway and hiked down, carrying a neatly tied package of two dozen cookies. At least her electric stove worked and had warmed up the kitchen, because the rest of the cabin felt like an icebox.

  “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 two-story stone chimney. She knocked on his door. When no one answered, she peeked inside the windows. The interior was just as fantastic 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.

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

  The garage was freakin’ spotless, with a lot of empty storage shelves. 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 noise of the power tool and the loud music, Colin didn’t hear Harlee knock. Finally, she let herself in and nearly stumbled over a stunning 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 every where. 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. Night stands, 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.

  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 you can fill with water heated on the stove? The water has to be hot.”

  She didn’t bother to ask why. “I’ll find one.” Harlee came back about twenty minutes later, hefting a mop pail.

  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 p
ointed 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 rolled his eyes. “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 female’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.

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  Chapter 1

  Nate shielded his eyes against the flashing red lights and followed the ambulance into the Lumber Baron parking lot and up to the front door. At least the driver had the good sense to kill the siren. No need waking the entire inn. Not at this hour, when they had a houseful of paying guests.

  He wondered if Samantha had already arrived and kind of hoped she hadn’t. His sister Maddy, while still on maternity leave, had been the one to hire the inept socialite to handle the everyday running of the Lumber Baron. Why, he had no idea. Samantha Dunsbury had more money than brain cells and wasn’t exactly reliable. Just four months ago she’d left her fiancé at the altar without so much as a goodbye text, got in her car and drove west from New York City. Given that the Dunsburys were Old Greenwich, Connecticut, money and there had been bogus reports that Samantha had been kidnapped for ransom, the fiasco wedding made national headlines. Folks in Nugget couldn’t stop talking about it. Of course, it didn’t take a whole lot to get the residents running their mouths. Pretty much anything remotely titillating got broadcast through the California town’s expansive grapevine like political fodder on the cable news networks.

  Here, Samantha Dunsbury may as well have been Paris Hilton. And the mystery of why she’d dumped her groom-to-be, a Wall Street tycoon, in the eleventh hour only added to the woman’s mystique.

  Nate didn’t care what reason she had for leaving her intended standing in a Manhattan church looking like the world’s biggest chump. His only concern was making sure she didn’t treat the Lumber Baron with the same indifference. He suspected that the spoiled heiress would have no qualms about leaving him in the lurch when she got bored with playing innkeeper.

  Nate glanced at his watch, let out a frustrated breath, and hopped out of his car. By the time he got inside the inn, the paramedics were rushing up the staircase to room 206. He trailed behind them, not wanting to get in the way, only to find that Samantha had indeed beaten him to the scene.

  “Take deep breaths, Mrs. Abernathy.” Sam held the guest’s hand. Nate didn’t know why Sam wanted the woman to focus on her breathing. According to Maddy, Mrs. Abernathy was having stomach problems, not a baby. “Maybe it’s just one of those twenty-four-hour flus.”

  “Sam, dear, I’m an emergency-room nurse,” Mrs. Abernathy said, her face mottled in pain. “It’s appendicitis and I want the damn thing out.”

  Sam looked up from Mrs. Abernathy and made eye contact with Nate. “What are you doing here?”

  The woman clearly thought she was the lady of the manor, and Nate wanted very much to set her straight. Not the time, nor the place, he told himself. “Maddy called me.”

  “Oh,” was all she said as one of the medics jostled her aside.

  “You need help, Mr. Abernathy?” Samantha called to a man Nate presumed was Mrs. Abernathy’s husband. He’d been hurrying around the room, gathering up assorted personal items and stuffing them into a suitcase.

  “I think I got everything,” he said, his brows knitted as he watched the paramedics check Mrs. Abernathy’s vital signs and move her onto a gurney. “How you doing, Alice?”

  “I’ve been better,” she responded, and Mr. Abernathy stopped packing to gently squeeze her foot, the only part of her he could get to while the medics worked.

  “If you leave anything, don’t worry,” Samantha assured him. “I’ll mail it to you. Let me take you to the hospital, Mr. Abernathy. I hate for you to drive when you’re stressed out like this. I could drive your car and Nate could follow. Or maybe you would prefer to go in the ambulance?”

  “You’ve gone to enough trouble,” Mr. Abernathy said, patting Sam on the back. “We appreciate everything you’ve done and hope we didn’t wake the entire inn.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m just sorry Mrs. Abernathy is sick and that you’ll miss your bird-watching tour. I know how much the both of you were looking forward to it.”

  Nate had to keep from rolling his eyes. Sam poured it on a little thick. He moved out of the doorway so the paramedics could get through with the stretcher. As they lifted Mrs. Abernathy out of the room and down the staircase, her husband reached for the suitcase. Before Sam could help him with it, Nate grabbed the handle out of her hand and joined the procession to the main floor.

  “You sure you don’t want me to take you?” Sam asked the husband again.

  “I’m fine, dear.” Mr. Abernathy pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “Alice is one tough cookie. Aren’t you, Alice?” He winked at his wife, who responded with a faint nod.

  “I’ll live,” she said, and reached for her husband’s hand.

  Mr. Abernathy turned to Sam. “You have my credit card number, so we’re square, right?”

  “No charge, Mr. Abernathy,” Samantha said, and Nate stiffened. “You just come back and see us when Mrs. Abernathy is better.”

  “We will certainly do that. And thank you, Sam. For everything.” Mr. Abernathy quickly headed to the back of the ambulance, told his wife he’d be right behind her, and kissed her on the forehead before the paramedics closed the door.

  Afterward, Nate helped him load the luggage into the couple’s Honda Accord and went back inside to find Sama
ntha behind the check-in desk at the computer. She was probably voiding the couple’s credit card transaction.

  “Hey, little Miss Sunshine, next time you decide to give away three nights in one of our best rooms, check with me first,” he told her. “We have a forty-eight-hour cancelation policy.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Abernathy didn’t know two days ago that she’d be coming down with appendicitis or she would have canceled,” Samantha said, her blue eyes narrowing.

  Nate didn’t appreciate the attitude. “Those are the rules,” he said. “I’m sorry she got sick. I really am. But while this may be a hobby to you, it’s a for-profit business for the rest of us.”

  “Why do you always talk to me like that?” She raised her chin above the computer and stared him straight in the face. Still, he detected a slight tremble in her voice.

  Here come the tears. It was nearly two in the morning and he didn’t have the patience for any more drama. He wanted to go home and back to bed.

  “You ever think that doing the right thing is good for business?” she asked. No tears. Just a bucketload of indignation.

  Great, now she wanted to tell him how to run a hotel. Well, he had news for her: He’d been working in the hospitality industry before she was old enough to teethe on her silver spoon. His parents ran one of the most successful boutique hotel operations in the Midwest and he’d learned how to take a reservation before he could ride a bicycle without training wheels.

  “Samantha, just check with me before you start comping the guests. Where’s Andy?”

  She looked down at her shoes, designer ones if Nate had to guess. “I told him he could go in the break room. There was no reason for the both of us to—”

  “He’s in there working on his music, isn’t he?” Nate wanted to put finger quotes around music, because the emo crap Andy wrote sounded more like the caterwauling of a feline in heat. Nate shook his head and wondered when he’d begun running a charity for slackers and dilettantes. At least the members of his staff in San Francisco were professionals. Every last one of them. “Well, get him back in here. Come on, I’ll follow you home. At least you can catch a few hours of sleep before opening.”