Strawberry Hill

by Catherine Anderson

  “Not to me, either, Vickie mine. Not to say I don’t regret all the years we weren’t together. We could have had a lot more fun on that pine tree with the low-hung limb.”

  He caught her by surprise with the lewd comment and made her laugh. But that had always been the most priceless part of her relationship with Slade Wilder. Laughter when she least expected it. “Always thinking about sex, aren’t you?”

  “Not always. If a calf is coming breech, I don’t give it a thought.”

  “How about when we’re mad at each other?”

  He leaned down to settle his lips over hers for an instant, a tantalizing promise for later when they could be truly alone for an uninterrupted period of time. “Yep, I think about it then. I get singed by the green sparks shooting from your eyes, and all I can think about is how I’ll make you pay when you’re over being pissed.”

  At any other time, Vickie might have gone up on her tiptoes and looped her arms around his neck, because she definitely wasn’t angry with him right now. But she’d just looked out the window of the Wilder ranch house and knew the backyard below was filled to the brim with wedding guests, the minister, her parents, and their children. In less than a year, she and Slade had accomplished a complete melding of their pasts, the present, and the future. Their son Brody would serve as Slade’s best man, and she’d spotted him standing near a makeshift altar, waiting for the nuptial celebration to begin that would finally bind his father and mother together. Brody’s wife, sitting with their grandsons on the groom’s side, was feeling well enough now under new, expensive yet effective medication to work four shifts a week at the Mystic Creek Urgent Care as a registered nurse. Nancy, along with all her family, sat beside Randall, with all of his, on the bride’s side. There was a festive air to the gathering that Vickie could appreciate even from her vantage point inside the house.

  Vickie tugged Slade over to the window. “Before we go down, I want to stand here with you for a minute to admire that picture.”

  She tilted her chin to gesture at the crowd below, everyone seated expectantly, with Four Toes, now that Slade had secured the necessary permits to keep an indigenous black bear on the wildlife grounds surrounding his isolated ranch, held in check behind the winged sections of seating by Kennedy Fitzgerald. The residents of Mystic Creek had been instrumental in lobbying behind Slade and lending their support to his permit application. Vickie recognized that Four Toes had earned his place both in Slade’s heart and at his wedding.

  “Isn’t that a beautiful sight?”

  Slade nibbled on her ear. “It sure is. Even the dogs get to be present.”

  Vickie gave him a playful shove. “You aren’t even looking. Just think of it, Slade! How much things have changed for us. Our son has a place in your life, and he’s standing down there to be your best man. You have a special license now to keep Four Toes on the ranch—if only you had applied for one sooner, you could have saved yourself a lot of grief! When that little female black bear comes to us for permanent shelter on your land, Four Toes will be beside himself, having a companion of his species for the first time.”

  “Yeah. In a way he’s just like me. I waited for years for you to grow up.”

  Vickie elbowed him in the ribs. “Can you be serious? It’s important to me to acknowledge how much we have to celebrate, beyond you and me getting married. We aren’t the only ones in love. Even if we were, I’d still be so very happy. But Kennedy starts college in the fall for game biology after finding some direction in his life, and there’s your sweet niece Erin down there, studiously ignoring Wyatt, while he does just as good a job of ignoring her. Tex is here with that lady from Flagg’s Market with the black beehive hairdo.”

  Slade stepped behind her and looped his arms around her waist. “You’re right. It’s pretty amazing. It’s not about just you and me, living our own separate lives anymore.”

  Vickie leaned back against him, absorbing his strength and warmth. “It never was,” she told him softly. “It never is. The kind of love we feel for each other affects everyone around us. We never lost that, Slade, even all those years we were apart and I wished that I could stop loving you. I look down there and see an affirmation of our commitment to each other in the faces of everyone present. We did it, Slade. We are. It’s such a beautiful way to celebrate our wedding day.”

  He rested his chin atop her head. She felt a slight tension slip into his rangy body. “Vick?”

  “What?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

  “I think Four Toes is getting impatient for his ketchup. If we don’t hurry down there and tie the knot, he may eat the minister.”

  Vickie giggled and grabbed his hand. “You’re right! Let’s hurry, Slade Wilder. Bears are unpredictable, you know.”

  Together they navigated the staircase, neither of them needing to use the banister for support, but both of them aware that each day together was a beautiful gift and nothing lasted forever.

  Except love.

  Dear Reader,

  I am so excited to present you with Strawberry Hill, a story that speaks to me on so many levels and that I hope will touch your hearts. If you’ve read my work before, you already know how much I love domestic animals and our wildlife. It is always a heartbreak for me when I know a certain species is in trouble, as our American black bear is today. All across the country, black bear rescue organizations have facilities that are becoming overcrowded. This doesn’t mean that I’m saying the black bear populations are out of hand, only that, for one reason or another, there are not enough zoos, observatories, and shelters to permanently house and care for those bears in custody.

  So how can we help? First and foremost, small donations might work wonders. More importantly, though, please speak up if you’re ever with individuals who find a black bear cub and believe it should be rescued. No matter what the circumstances may be, those people should call the pertinent state’s fish and game offices before anything is done. If a black bear cub is alone, that doesn’t necessarily mean its mother has abandoned it. She may be trying to find her baby, or she may have gone hunting for food. Baby bears can also be much like toddlers in shopping malls, wandering away from their mothers to become temporarily lost. Removing a baby from an area where the sow may be searching for it is normally a mistake and often ends up being a tragic story for the baby.

  Also, in order to pen a novel with a happy resolution for Four Toes, I’ve exercised poetic license in creating a lovely ending for this bear. In many instances, black bears who are fed by humans, accidentally or purposefully, meet with sad endings. Please don’t feed black bears! Also make sure that you store your kitchen trash in bear-proof bins if you live in an area that black bears frequent.

  It sounds fun to raise a black bear cub, but after reading Strawberry Hill, please keep in mind that rescuing a black bear may end with the death of the bear—or with you being seriously injured or killed. We should respect their habitat and try to keep them where they belong.

  When I was a child and my father picked me up for visitation, we always stopped at a little diner for lunch where a roadside zoo existed. For a small fee, I could walk around and look at the wild animals while my meal was prepared. As I grew older, I realized that the animals, though fairly well cared for, existed in tiny pens and weren’t happy. It made me very sad.

  I was about eleven when we stopped at the diner, as we always did, and the building looked as if it had been attacked during a battle. The black bear at the zoo had gotten loose. Always a friendly and seemingly harmless creature, it had gone on a rampage, seriously injuring a man (I can’t recall if he died) and wreaking havoc on the building. Shutters and screens had been ripped off. There were claw marks gouged into the siding. It was as if that poor, imprisoned bear had tried to seek revenge on the people who had used its presence there for financial gain.

  Never forget that black bears are wild creatures and
shouldn’t, in most instances, be adopted as pets. You can never completely train them to be harmless. They are strong beyond our comprehension, and any little thing can set them off. They have even been known to open unlocked doors, so they are clever as well. Let’s all endeavor to do the kind thing and keep them in their natural environment where they, too, can be reasonably safe and happy.

  All best,

  Catherine Anderson

  facebook.com/catherineandersonbooks

  catherineanderson.com

  Don’t miss the previous book in the Mystic Creek series by Catherine Anderson

  SPRING FORWARD

  Available now!

  Wind whistled into the big black van, whipping Tanner Richards’ hair across his forehead as he drove. Squinting at the gravel road through the brown strands drifting over his eyes, he hauled in a deep breath of pine-scented air. Five years ago he’d agonized over his decision to sell his accounting firm and move to Crystal Falls, Oregon. He’d given up a six-figure annual income with no assurance that he could even find a job in this area. Crazy, really. Looking back on it now, though, he was glad that he’d come. Being a deliveryman wasn’t as prestigious as working in his former chosen profession, but he made enough money to provide a good life for his kids, and he truly enjoyed the occupation. Having a rural route suited him. He was required to make fewer stops than he would have been in town, which equated to shorter workdays and more time in the evening to be with his children. And he’d made a lot of friends. Folks around here were more congenial than they were in larger towns.

  As he rounded a curve in the country road, Tanner saw Tuck Malloy’s house. Sadness punched into him. For three years running, he’d often stopped there to visit at the end of his workday, and he’d enjoyed a lot of cold ones on the porch with his elderly friend. Now the windows reflected the darkness of an empty structure. A For Sale sign rode high on the front gate. It had appeared nearly a month ago.

  Tanner had considered calling the Realtor to learn what had happened to the property owner after his calls to Tuck went unanswered, but he really didn’t want to know. Tuck had been a crusty old codger and eighty years young, as he’d been fond of saying. Unexpected things could happen to people that age. A heart attack, maybe, or a stroke. Tuck liked that piece of ground, and he would never have left voluntarily. He’d said so more than once. Tanner figured the old fellow was dead. Otherwise why would his place be up for sale?

  Tanner pulled over and stopped outside the hurricane fence for a moment, a habit he had developed since the home had been vacated. He trailed his gaze over the front porch, now devoid of the comfortable Adirondack chairs where he had once sat with Tuck to chat. Recalling the old man’s recalcitrant dog, he smiled. Rip. Tanner hoped the blue heeler had found a good home. He’d been a handful and was probably difficult to place.

  Damn, he missed them both. With a sigh Tanner eased the van back onto the road. He had only one more delivery before he could call it a day. Maybe he could mow the lawn and do some weeding before his kids got home. Tori, now eight, had dance class after school today, and Michael, eleven and getting gangly, had baseball practice. Since his wife’s death, Tanner had been a single dad, and not a day went by that he wasn’t grateful for his mom’s help. She got his kids off to the bus stop each morning and chauffeured them to most of their activities, which took a huge load of responsibility off his shoulders.

  Tanner delivered the last parcel of the day. After he dropped the van off at Courier Express, he needed to pick up some groceries. Milk, for one thing. Tori wouldn’t eat breakfast without it. And if he didn’t get bread, he’d have no fixings for his lunch tomorrow.

  His cell phone, which rode atop a sticky mat on the dash, chimed with a message notification. Tanner grabbed the device and glanced at the screen to make sure the text wasn’t from his mother. She never contacted him during work hours unless it was urgent. When he read the name of the sender, his hand froze on the steering wheel. Tuck Malloy? He almost went off the road into a ditch. How could that be? The old coot was dead. Wasn’t he?

  Tanner pulled over onto a wide spot, shifted into PARK, and stared at his phone. The message was definitely from Tuck. They had exchanged cell numbers months ago, and Tuck had occasionally texted to ask Tanner to pick up items he needed from the store. It hadn’t been a bother for Tanner. There was a mom-and-pop grocery not that far away, and Tuck’s house was on the road he always took back to town.

  He swiped the screen. A smile curved his lips as he read the message. “I fell off the damned porch. Busted my arm, some ribs, and had to get a hip replacement. Now I’m doing time in assisted living, and the bitch that runs the place won’t let me have my beer or chew. Can you buy me some of both and sneak it in to me? I’ll pay you back.”

  Tanner had been picturing the old fart in heaven, sitting on an Adirondack chair with a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a spittoon within easy reach. It was unsettling to think someone was dead and then receive a text from him.

  He tapped out a response. “I don’t mind bringing you things. My kids have activities this afternoon, so I’m not pressed for time. But I don’t want to get in trouble for delivering forbidden substances. My job could be on the line.”

  Tuck replied, “No trouble. Just put it inside a box and pretend it’s something I ordered. If I get caught, I’ll never tell who brought me the stuff. Sorry I can’t just call, but these nurses have sharp ears and I got no privacy.”

  Tanner grinned. He trusted the old man not to reveal his name if it came down to that. And he truly did sympathize with Tuck’s feelings of deprivation. Just because a man was eighty shouldn’t mean he no longer had a right to indulge his habits. Staying at an assisted living facility was costly, and in Tanner’s estimation, the residents should be able to do whatever they liked in their apartments as long as their physicians didn’t object.

  He texted, “Do you have your doctor’s permission to drink and chew?”

  Tuck replied, “Well, he ain’t said I shouldn’t. I been drinking and chewing my whole life. I’m eighty. What can he say, that my pleasures might kill me?”

  Tanner chuckled. He agreed to deliver the requested items and asked Tuck for the address. He was surprised to learn the facility was in Mystic Creek. Tanner didn’t cover that area, and it was a thirty-minute drive to get there. He mulled over the fact that he would be driving for more than an hour round-trip in a Courier Express van to run a personal errand. He’d also be using company fuel, which didn’t seem right, but he supposed he could top off the tank to make up for that. He could also adjust his time sheet so he wouldn’t be paid for an hour he hadn’t actually worked.

  Whistling tunelessly, Tanner made the drive to Mystic Creek. He hadn’t yet gotten over this way. The curvy two-lane highway offered beautiful scenery, tree-covered mountain peaks, craggy buttes, and silvery flashes of a river beyond the stands of ponderosa pine. To his surprise, he saw a turnoff to Crystal Falls—the actual waterfall, not the town—and he made a mental note to bring the kids up sometime to see it. They’d get a kick out of that. Maybe they could spread a blanket on the riverbank and have a picnic.

  Once in Mystic Creek, a quaint and well-kept little town, he found a grocery store on East Main called Flagg’s Market, where he purchased two six-packs of beer and a whole roll of Copenhagen for his elderly friend. In the van he always carried extra box flats. He assembled a medium-size one, stuck what he now thought of as the contraband into it, and taped the flaps closed. With a ballpoint pen, he wrote Tuck’s full name, the address, and the apartment number on a Courier Express mailing slip, which he affixed to the cardboard. Done. Now he’d just drive to the facility and make the delivery. The rest would be up to Tuck.

  Mystic Creek Retirement Living was in a large brick building with two wings that angled out toward the front parking lot. The back of the facility bordered Mystic Creek, which bubbled and chattered cheerfu
lly between banks lined with greenery, weeping willows, and pines. He suspected the residents spent a lot of time on the rear lawns, enjoying the sounds of rushing water and birdsong. If he were living there, that’s what he would do.

  Striding across the parking area with the box in his arms, Tanner began to feel nervous. What if someone questioned him? Pausing outside the double glass doors, he took a calming breath and then pushed inside. A middle-aged woman with red hair sat at the front desk. She fixed her friendly-looking blue gaze on Tanner’s face and smiled.

  “You’re new,” she observed. “Brian usually delivers our Courier Express packages.”

  Tanner nodded. “Uh, yeah. Just helping out today. I’ve got a package for Tucker Malloy, apartment twenty-three.”

  She pointed to a wide hallway to the left of the counter. “About halfway down on the right.”

  Tanner circled her workstation and moved past her. When he reached Tuck’s room, he knocked on the door and called, “Delivery. Courier Express.”

  He heard a shuffling sound, and seconds later, Tuck opened the door, flashing a broad grin. “Come in, come in,” he said in a booming voice. “Must be those shoes and pants I ordered.”

  Tanner winked at his old friend as he made his way through the doorway. As he set the box on the living room floor, he noticed that Tuck held a walking cane in his left hand. After closing the door, he walked with a limp as he crossed the tiny kitchen. Tanner guessed the old fellow’s hip still pained him. Otherwise he looked the same, tall and lean with slightly stooped shoulders. His blue eyes held the same merry twinkle. Deep smile creases bracketed his mouth. His hair, still thick, was mostly silver, but a few streaks of brown remained to indicate its original color.

  “It’s good to see you,” Tanner told him. “When your place went up for sale, I tried to call you several times and left you voice mails. Then I couldn’t get through anymore. I figured you’d passed away and your phone had been retired to a drawer.”