“Too busy living it up in the big city?” Jess prompted when my silence had gone on too long.
Her guess was so far off the mark, it spurred me into answering honestly. “Got sucked into a bad relationship. Lost interest in the rest of my life.” I shrugged. “Anyways, when I packed to move to Longtooth, I didn’t pack any of my hobby stuff because I thought I’d stopped caring about it. Now I’m realizing that I just… forgot.” Forgot how to enjoy things. Forgot how to feel anything.
“What hobbies?” Jess asked. “You might be able to get some of the stuff around town.”
“I used to knit.” I plucked at my sweater, an Icelandic sweater with the traditional decorative yoke. “I actually knitted this. And most of the other sweaters I own.”
“You did this? Wow.” Jess fingered the colorwork on my sleeve. “Getting knitting stuff should be easy. Give Caleb some cash next time he makes a run to Fairbanks or Anchorage, and tell him you want yarn and knitting needles.”
The thought of asking Caleb for anything made my stomach curdle. “I’m not going to do that,” I said flatly.
Jess’s expression flickered—I could see her decide not to argue with me. “Fine. What else did you do for fun?”
“I liked baking. Just to relax. But that’s not really an option here.”
“Why not?”
I gestured at the kitchen door. “This is a commercial kitchen. Even if Natasha were willing to let me play around back there, there’s probably some health code against it.”
Jess snorted. “This is Longtooth. There are no health inspectors. And there isn’t a soul in the entire Valley who’d complain about how Natasha handles her kitchen.” The door suddenly flapped open, and Jess turned. “Hey—Natasha! Can Grace use the kitchen to bake for fun?”
Natasha set a mug in front of me and filled it. “Grace, you didn’t tell me you like to bake!” Her eyes lit up. “Of course you can use the kitchen. Today?”
“Oh, I—well, thank you—but I don’t actually have anything planned. I didn’t even buy any ingredients.”
Natasha scoffed. “I have ingredients. Do you know how to make a babka?”
“I’ve eaten babka, but I’ve never made it before.”
Natasha smiled. “I will teach you to make my grandmother’s babka. It is how I stole Arthur.”
“You stole him?” Jess echoed.
Natasha looked smug. “Oh, yes. He came to Poland to meet a girl whose family knew his family. Both families expected they would marry. But I found him, and I decided he was mine. Poor Anastazja never had a chance.”
“Natasha!” Jess sounded scandalized, but she was grinning broadly. “I never knew you were such a minx!”
Just then, Arthur came into the dining room carrying a bucket full of tools.
“Arthur!” Jess called. “Is it true—did Natasha steal you from another woman?”
Arthur smiled good-naturedly. His gaze settled on Natasha, something steady and reverent reflecting in his eyes. “She didn’t have to steal anything. I was all hers the first moment I saw her.”
Natasha’s wicked little smile softened. “Arthur,” she said quietly.
He winked at her. “If you ladies will excuse me, there’s a burst pipe that needs my attention.”
I watched the entire exchange with a strange little ache in my chest. It grew and grew until something inside me cracked. I had to look away.
“So,” Natasha said, a little breathy, her cheeks slightly pink. “We will make babka. After breakfast.”
I nodded, still trying to get past the strange emotional charge that Arthur and Natasha’s love for each other had imparted. “Okay. Thanks, Natasha.”
“There you go,” Jess said, nudging me. “That’s one hobby restored. Now we just have to get you some knitting supplies.”
There was no way I was asking Caleb to go out of his way to get anything for me. I’d order them online, pay the extra charges, and wait the ten thousand years it took for deliveries to reach the interior of Alaska. Caleb was going to be the delivery boy either way, but in this case, he’d just be bringing a load of packages to the post office, and I could pick up my stuff from Wade.
When I finished my breakfast, I turned to go upstairs and found Caleb sitting at the table behind me with Harlan and Connor. His gaze flicked up to meet mine, his expression unreadable. I looked away, passing their table without a word. I climbed the stairs, wondering how long he’d been sitting there.
Back in my room, I changed into a shirt I didn’t mind getting flour and cinnamon all over. Then I spent the afternoon making babka with Natasha.
We sat at the workbench, drinking coffee while the dough went through its first rise. I asked Natasha about growing up in Poland and listened to stories about her brothers and sisters, her parents, her family’s farm.
“I sort of grew up on a farm, too,” I told her. My maternal grandparents had owned a dairy farm, and I’d grown up just down the road from them. I’d started working on the farm very young, doing the fun stuff like bottle-feeding calves. By high school, I was milking before and after school, planting alfalfa hay in the spring, baling the hay in the fall, and doing all the other messy, backbreaking tasks necessary to keep a small farm afloat. Even after moving away, I still worked on the farm when I came home to visit. But grandpa passed away five years ago, and my mom and her siblings sold the farm.
“Ah, this must be why I like you so much,” Natasha told me. “Farmers are a special kind. Hardworking.”
We commiserated over the endless, exhausting, glamourless work of farming. She told me more about her first few years in Longtooth, and the ways she’d struggled to adapt.
“It does not happen overnight,” she told me, and I knew she was referring to our conversation from a few nights ago.
I shrugged, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Natasha’s situation had been so different from mine. She’d come here as a wife, tied to the Valley by love and by law. I was just here because of a job—a job that I could do anywhere, and that could be done by anyone with the certifications. That transient feeling wasn’t helped by the fact that I lived in a hotel. I reminded myself that plenty of locals lived at The Spruce—Caleb, Jess, Elena, Connor, and Max. But their situations were different from mine, too. They lived in The Spruce because they were single and worked in town. But they had family all over the valley—parents and grandparents and siblings whose houses they could visit, eat at, stay at, any time. All I had was my little room.
If I could find what Natasha had found, maybe I’d feel more welcome here. More wanted. Immediately, Caleb appeared in my mind’s eye. I shoved him away. I didn’t need that humiliating reminder. My chest still felt cracked. Nobody had ever looked at me the way Arthur and Natasha looked at each other—and I didn’t think anybody was ever likely to. Even the guys in Longtooth who’d made no bones about their interest in me—Adam, Connor, Isaac—only looked at me the way a golden retriever looks at a hamburger.
“There is going to be another party this Saturday,” Natasha said suddenly. “You might have heard—for Linnea and Roland Teague’s twentieth wedding anniversary.”
I remembered Linnea mentioning something about it at school a couple weeks ago. She hadn’t asked me to come, so I’d assumed, with a mixture of hurt and relief, that I wasn’t invited. I realized now, that simply mentioning the existence of a celebration might be construed as an invitation in Longtooth.
“Roland’s a Teague and Linnea’s an Ankkonisdoy, so between the two of them, they’re related to almost everybody. It will be a big party. You can meet the rest of the Valley.”
I swallowed the anxious little whine trying climb out of my throat. If I wanted to stop being treated like a temporary visitor, I was going to have to suck it up and start socializing. If only I could meet the rest of the Valley in small groups, rather than in a huge crowd. But that wasn’t feasible. So a crowded party it was.
“That sounds great,” I lied cheerfully. “This Saturday?”
“Yes. There will be music and dancing and drinks and I’m making a cake. A very big cake.” She got up to fetch the ceramic bowl with the rising dough from its warm spot next to the oven. She pulled the towel back to check on it. “Ah, here we are.” She brought the bowl over to me. “See—twice as big. Now we punch it back down, and we shape it. Go on.”
I did as she directed. Surprisingly, the anxiety about the upcoming party had faded away to nothing after that initial spike. I worked the dough, enjoying the satiny feel of it, relaxed and unconcerned. A little while later, we had a piping hot cinnamon babka cooling on a wire rack.
“Whenever you want to bake, just let me know,” Natasha told me as she cut thick slices for us and spread them with butter. “You can use the kitchen any time.”
When we’d finished eating, Natasha wrapped the remainder of the babka up and made me take it to my room. “You are not so unhappily skinny as when you first arrived,” Natasha told me, pinching the back of my arm. “But you could still carry a little more weight, I think.”
I smoothed my hands over my hips. I was getting happier and happier with my shape, but I didn’t disagree with Natasha. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “A few more weeks of your cooking and I’ll have to switch to elastic waistbands.”
Chapter Thirteen
On Monday, there were no classes, but the teachers had in-service training. I had to drive over to Eagle Ridge for the meetings, where I got to meet my accidental nemesis, Tom Tremaine. He was an outsider, like me, but he’d been living in the Valley for more than a decade now, and had married a local. He was friendly, but that didn’t stop him from grilling me a little bit about my reading lists.
“How do you expect the kids to develop an appreciation for more challenging literature?”
I shrugged. “I don’t.”
Tom opened and closed his mouth, wordlessly appalled.
“Kids who enjoy challenging lit will pursue it on their own. Didn’t you, when you were young?”
“Well, yes, but at the guidance of my teachers.”
I picked an apple cinnamon muffin from the breakfast spread that had been put out for the teachers. “My upperclassmen do independent reading, and I steer the more analytical readers towards stuff that will challenge them. But I care a lot more that they enjoy reading. They’re going to develop better critical thinking skills from reading ‘fun’ books than they are from ‘literary’ stuff that they just skimmed, or looked up the cliff notes for. And even if they don’t, then at least they had fun reading.”
“So you prioritize ‘fun’ over learning.”
“I think learning only happens if students are engaged with the texts. So, yes.” I took a big bite of the muffin. It was possibly the best muffin I’d ever had in my life and I almost groaned out loud.
Tom’s expression flickered. Warmth I hadn’t realized was missing suddenly came into his eyes. I realized that this was the first real smile he’d given me since we’d been introduced. “I’m not sure I agree with you entirely,” he said, taking a muffin for himself. “But I can see you care about your kids.”
Ah, yes. That was the line I used to get at my old school all the time—if I cared about my students, I’d be teaching “serious” books, clearly I just didn’t want to do my job, et cetera. Tom had apparently been in the same camp until now.
“I do care,” I said fiercely.
“Margaret told me,” he said ruefully. “I should know by now not to argue with her.”
Eagle Ridge’s principal, Sheryl Toonikoh, called everyone to order shortly after that. We were all gathered in the school’s gym/cafeteria/auditorium. The school housed all classes from K-12, so even though there were half as many students as in Longtooth, the building was about the same size as the one I taught in. Refilling my coffee and taking a seat at one of the folding lunch tables, I steeled myself against the tranquilizing effect that these trainings always had.
“Good morning, everybody,” Sheryl said brightly. Outside the gym windows, the steel gray sky continued to darken as the wind picked up. “Looks like tonight’s storm might be moving in a little faster than we expected. We might have to let some of you head out early.”
I was the only teacher from Longtooth. Lucia had been meant to come with me, but she’d called early this morning to let me know she was too sick to come. Aside from me, the only other non-Eagle Ridge teachers were the four who’d made the trek down from Daghukkoda, a small village several hours north of Longtooth.
“Well. Let’s get started. We’ve got a speaker today. This is Dr. Jensen. I’ll let her introduce herself.”
The in-service training was completely unremarkable. It was meant to be a four-hour session, and then we’d be released back to our classrooms for whatever work we wanted to get done. But, two hours in, the wind had begun to rattle the windows and the sky had turned nighttime dark.
“Alright, we’re going to let our Longtooth and Daghukkoda teachers head out,” Sheryl announced. “The snow’s not supposed to hit for a few hours, but we’d rather you got home safely instead of driving through it.”
The drive home was rough. My arms were getting sore from steering against the wind, which pushed at my truck like the hand of an angry god. Even without actual snowfall, the wind pushed a constant stream of powder off the snowbanks that swirled across the road and made it impossible to see where the shoulder was.
Things got worse, when, halfway between Eagle Ridge and Longtooth, the Jimmy sputtered, coughed, and then died. I coasted to the side of the road and put it in park.
“This is not a good time for you to act up,” I muttered at the truck as I tried turning the ignition again. The engine made a mighty effort to turn over, but just couldn’t get going. I looked at the dash—no check engine light. A second later, I realized the fuel gauge was on E.
No. Impossible. I never let my tank get below half full in the winter, and I’d been especially vigilant about it since moving to Alaska. I had to stare at the fuel gauge for a few seconds before it really sank in that I’d let my tank run down to empty in the middle of winter in Alaska on the day of a fucking blizzard.
I sagged back against my seat with a tortured groan. I was going to have to call The Spruce and ask Natasha to send someone to get me. Not only had I made an unbelievably brainless fuck-up, but everyone in town was going to know about it. Someone was going to have to drive all the way out here because of me.
I sighed heavily and reached into my pocket for my phone. It wasn’t in the chest pocket where I usually kept it. I slid my hand into my other pockets—also empty. I checked all my pockets again. I grabbed my bag and dug through every divider and pocket. It was pointless, but I was still in denial, so I searched my glove compartment and cupholders. I checked under my seat. Then under the passenger seat. Then ender the back seats. I clambered all over my truck, searching every nook and crevice that a phone could fit into. When I’d finished that, I checked my pockets again.
No phone.
Had I left it in Eagle Ridge? Or was it sitting on my nightstand back at The Spruce? It didn’t really matter. Either way, I was stuck on the side of a rarely trafficked road with no gas and no phone. As if to emphasize my circumstances, the wind gusted so hard that the truck rocked on its tires.
I clutched the steering wheel and stared blankly out the windshield at the dark, empty road. The wind rocked the truck again and I closed my eyes and screamed as hard and long as I could.
It helped a little.
With a shaky sigh, I unclenched my hands from the steering wheel and clambered once more into the back of the truck. I had a roadside emergency kit back there, along with a few of my own additions. I pulled out the sleeping bag, the heat-reflective mylar blanket, and a pack of twenty hand warmers. On second thought, I grabbed the road flares and granola bars as well.
I waited until the truck had cooled to close to the outside air temp before I peeled off my scarf and ventured outside to die it to my antenna. I’d knitted it
myself from a gorgeous—and expensive—merino wool. It was silly, considering the situation, but I really had to talk myself into sacrificing it. It was a bright, vivid red, and it would flutter dramatically in the gusting wind. I didn’t think anybody passing by would be likely to miss me just yet, but once the snow started falling and my truck was buried, the scarf might be the only thing that distinguished me from the snowbanks on the side of the road.
I tied it to the antenna and then went back inside my freezing truck. I activated two hand warmers and tucked one into each boot. I took my parka off and wrapped myself in the mylar blanket, then put the parka back on over it. Keeping my boots on, I wriggled into the sleeping bag. I activated two more hand warmers and stuffed them into my mittens.
And then I just waited. How long would it be before somebody in Longtooth noticed that I was missing? They all knew I was supposed to be out of town today. What if they assumed I’d decided to wait out the blizzard in Eagle Ridge instead of driving home? Could I last that long?
I clenched my hands around warmers. I was strangely optimistic. Except for my face, I was almost too warm. The hand warmers claimed to last for 10 hours, but I knew from past experience I could get four hours of reasonable heat out of them. And I still had sixteen unopened ones. I told myself I was going to be fine and settled in for a long wait.
I periodically turned the ignition so I could check the clock, then turned it back off. I’d left Eagle ridge around noon. By two in the afternoon, nobody had found me yet, but the snow had begun to fall. It came down in big clumps, driven sideways by the wind. It had become truly dark by then, so I turned the ignition so that I could leave the headlights running. It’d eventually drain the battery, but I was choosing to believe that somebody would find me before then.
Cold Hearted: An Alaskan Werewolf Romance Page 12