Alone in a Cabin

by Leanne W. Smith

  Canon pointed. “That’s Ed and June’s farm there.” Acres of Ed’s young corn lined the road.

  After a while they turned off again, onto a dirt road this time, winding past houses of all stripes—trailers, red bricks, white cottages, a log house here and there. In the distance she saw a yellow farm house approaching and put a hand on his arm, “Oh, look at that one, Canon! That’s the loveliest one yet.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” He pulled into the long drive.

  “This is your place.” She said it as a statement, the way he typically did.

  He smiled, looking satisfied…looking happy. “This is the farm.”

  There was instantly something different about him. Watching his eyes as he looked out over his farm, Maggie sensed this was where Canon felt his greatest peace. The Canon she had come to know ran constant surveillance and kept up his guard. Even in town at the festival, Canon’s eyes had roved over the revelers non-stop, his head quick to turn at any loud sound. But here, coming up the driveway to his place, his shoulders relaxed.

  The farm was every Tennessean man’s dream…every Tennessean woman’s, too. Yellow house with white wraparound porch. Matching garage, detached. Red barn set well back and off to the side. Pond in the distance. Cows on the hillside. Two horses she could see. And a profusion of flowers around the house with more dotted along the sweeping white fence lines.

  How did he keep all those fences painted? There were the rows of buttercup stalks, a few lingering blooms on the forsythia, and groupings of peonies and oak leaf hydrangeas in side sections near the house, exactly where Maggie would have planted them. She recognized the stems for lilies popping along the fencerow, with sections of iris.

  Canon stopped the car so she could take it in. “This is not the original house, but it was built to look like it. The original house only had porches on the front and back, not all sides. That one burned in a fire that started in the chimney.”

  And killed your grandfather, Thomas Buchanan Dale, the second, who went by “Tom.” But your grandmother, Martha, survived, because she was visiting a sick friend. Tom was the only one home at the time.

  Maggie had read about the fire in the special section of Brad Bybee’s paper but she didn’t mention this to Canon.

  “My father rebuilt it as an anniversary gift to my mother…”

  Whose name was Sadie.

  “…but when her folks died, Mom and Dad moved into their house in town and I moved out here. After Dad died she came back out here and lived with me for a while, but when her health started failing, we moved her to Shirley’s.”

  Canon looked at Maggie. “You do know Shirley’s my sister.”

  “Took me a while, but yes.” They’d seen Shirley and her husband, Bob, at the festival, too, and their youngest son, Keith, a stocky boy who played on Steve Renco’s football team.

  Canon grinned. “It’s a family business. Shirley and Bob’s oldest son, Kyle, is a senior at UT Knoxville. Studying criminal justice. Anyway, Mom died a couple of years ago. Stroke.”

  “My mother has dementia.”

  Canon frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. What about your father?”

  “He died eight years ago. Heart attack.”

  Maggie and Canon still hadn’t talked about Canon’s wife’s death. He knew she knew, they’d been to the festival, after all. He had looked at Maggie and smiled before he dug the hole during the tree dedication. Maggie stood by Shirley, who didn’t say much other than, “Turned out to be a nice day.” To which Maggie replied, “Yes, it did.”

  Canon drove onto a concrete patio in front of the garage and parked. The door to his workshop at the side of the garage stood open. He waved her over to see it. Maggie could smell the sawdust long before she stuck her head inside. Pieces of wood…table saws…a few paint and varnish cans lining one wall.

  Next, Canon walked her through the yard, pointing out a small fruit orchard, the pond, then showed her the flower gardens. The remains of last year’s vegetable garden, not yet tilled for this year, sat past a white gazebo. “That’s my next project,” said Canon.

  The side porches held cushioned wicker furniture, the front and back porches white rockers and swings. Canon took her in the back door, into the kitchen, after they’d made a circle of the house. The inside was as lovely and manicured as the grounds. Maggie wondered if it always looked this nice, or if he cut the grass and mopped the floors because he wanted to impress her. The kitchen floor was tile the color of clay pots, the rest of the flooring lightly finished wood.

  Maggie followed him in, marveling that a man who lived alone so long could have such an inviting home. The house was square, not overly large. “May I?” she asked, longing to see the layout.

  “Of course!” Canon waved her on.

  Coming in the back door, the kitchen was on the right—white cabinets, some with glass doors—with a large wooden butcher block island in the middle. There was nowhere to sit down and eat in the kitchen, but as Maggie walked through it, she saw there was a door that went out to a side porch with a table. An open area behind the staircase led to the formal dining room, then back around to the living room on the front. The windows were lovely. The fireplace sat across from the end of the staircase and was viewable from the kitchen.

  That seemed a smart design, heat could roll right up the staircase. The wooden stairs had polished rails on both sides. That was it: laundry, kitchen, dining and living rooms on the main floor, open, simple, clean, and homey. It was quite a contrast to the house Maggie walked out of last August, but exactly the feeling she had wanted.

  She made a circle of the downstairs and came back to him as he leaned against the butcher block island, arm crossed, watching her with amusement.

  He looked down at her dress. “That okay for fishing?”

  “Are you kidding? I fish in this dress all the time!”

  “Alright,” he laughed, “but you might want to borrow better shoes.” He reached into the laundry room.

  Maggie was enthralled by the kitchen. When he came out of the laundry holding a navy pair of rubber boots Maggie said, “You never told me you lost a wife, Canon.” She felt it strongest here, standing in the kitchen.

  He set the boots on the floor beside her. “That was a long time ago.”

  “You do all the cooking in a kitchen like this?”

  He nodded. “I kept it updated for my mom, she liked to cook. And Shirley’s real bossy. We have Thanksgiving dinner here every year. It’s good for that. She lets me know when she thinks I need improvements.” He smirked. “To the house, or otherwise.”

  A convection oven of Maggie’s dreams was built into a brick section in the corner, with a warmer oven below it. If this was Maggie’s kitchen the only thing she’d change would be to add a sink to the island and install granite countertops. The ones here now were getting dated. And it could have used a larger refrigerator for those Thanksgiving dinners.

  Maggie stopped herself. What was she doing picturing herself in this kitchen, making updates, cooking holiday meals? But she couldn’t stop herself from running a hand along one of the countertops, admiring the glass doors of the cabinets above it. Lights were needed under the cabinets, too. A kitchen could never have too many lights.

  Canon went to the refrigerator and pulled out carrots, squash, and peppers. “There’s potatoes and onions in the pantry, and pecans and breadcrumbs to coat the trout. I’ll heat up the grill when we get back from fishing.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again,” Maggie confessed.

  “It’s a hike to the pond. You’ll work up an appetite.”

  Maggie slipped off the cute flats she’d worn to the festival and looked down inside the rubber boots. “Do you have a pair of socks I could borrow?”

  He went upstairs to get them—men’s white sports socks.

  “Sorry.” He handed them to her, eyeing her lips again. “Best I can do.”

  Maggie couldn’t help but think of Zeke as she pul
led them on and stepped into the boots.

  “Where’s my pole?”

  “We’ll cut you a pole. There’s a stand of bamboo out there. It makes the best poles.”

  He pulled a tackle box from the laundry room that rattled with line and lures, and threw a quilt over his arm.

  They walked out the back door, off the porch, and out to the pond. Canon laid the quilt on the grass for her to sit on and readied her pole. An hour later, Maggie had two good-sized trout.

  Clouds began to roll in.

  On the way back to the house they agreed Maggie would prepare the food inside while Canon fired up the grill out by the gazebo. She made an olive oil dressing, let the vegetables marinate in it while she coated the fish, then they grilled them on wire racks.

  Night was just before falling when the food was ready. They carried it inside, fixed their plates, then took them back out to the table under the gazebo. Canon lit candles. The first drops of rain held off until they finished.

  Maybe it was the way the wind picked up, stirring Maggie’s senses. Or maybe it was the glow of the candles during dinner…the last of the cherry wine Canon poured…or Maggie’s bare feet running through the grass after she pulled her boots and socks off. Whatever it was, Maggie felt alive as the rain caught her on her run back to the porch and the wet droplets drummed her body.

  Then she was inside the house and Canon burst through the door behind her, his laughter welling up from deep down inside his chest, then he was behind her, his left hand brushing the waist of the teal dress, circling it, his right hand pushing wets strands of fallen hair off her shoulder and neck to make room for his mouth.

  Maggie stood paralyzed at the butcher block counter, Canon’s lips pressing against her damp skin, his tongue licking raindrops off the backs of her ears. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe with both his hands sliding around her waistline now, turning her until her lips met his.

  Maggie’s hands ran over his rain-slick arms, her body so grateful for his interest, responding despite the more sensible voices in her head. She hardly knew this man! No…she’d wanted this for weeks…months now…since staring at his forearms sitting in his office, the room so stark and bare compared to the warmth of his home…his body…his lips.

  The wildness of the wind! The way the rain caressed her skin as she ran for the house—the way the moistness of it still trilled on the surface of her limbs. Now Canon was lifting her, setting her up on the island, shoving the vegetable shavings to the side, his hands pulling her knees forward, closing the distance between them.

  As she ran her fingers through his dampened hair, she felt his thumbs grazing over her hip bones. Her body grew hopeful, her lips on fire kissing his, then his were traveling the open neckline of her blouse, and God help her, she wanted them to.

  A radio buzzed.

  Canon stilled, his breath hot on her collarbone.

  He took a slow step backward and reached for the radio. Maggie hadn’t realized there was a scanner in the room. It sat on a narrow built-in desk under the staircase where mail collected.

  She straightened the hem of her dress and wondered if she should hop off the island, her heart still pounding against the teal fabric. What had become of Maggie’s sweater?

  Canon put his back to her. “What have you got?”

  “Domestic. Drexlers’ place. You’re the closest. Shots fired. Call came in from a neighbor instead of Tina this time.”

  “I’ll get over there.”

  Canon set the speaker down and turned to Maggie.

  “I’m sorry about this.” His sheepish look was more pronounced than normal. “Hope I didn’t take liberties.”

  “Don’t apologize, Canon. It means the world to me to think that you…” Maggie was going to say “want me.”

  Canon was back to the butcher block island in two strides, kissing her again, confirming without words that he did, in fact, want her.

  It felt so good to be wanted.

  “Will you wait for me?” he whispered.

  “I don’t have a car.”

  He smiled. “Smart thinking on my part. Make yourself at home.”

  Then he was pulling a bullet-proof vest from a hook in the laundry, strapping it on, looping a holster through his belt for a gun.

  And he was gone.

  30

  We spend a lot of time with our oars in the water. Every now and then—exquisite and brief—we find our rhythm. And for that moment we are perfectly in tune with all that’s shining in the universe.

  Maggie’s heart was as stirred by the image of Canon strapping on his gun as she had been moments prior with his lips traveling the edge of her neckline. Fear bled into her heightened emotions as quickly as pleasure departed.

  She didn’t know how long she sat on the butcher block island—long enough to become aware of her own breathing—long past the wail his siren made as his squad car sped down the gravel drive out onto the road, trailing into the wet night.

  Finally, she eased herself off and put her feet on the cold tile floor. Maggie was still barefoot.

  Canon might have left the house, but she could still feel his presence, the spirit of his late wife, and the spirits of generations of his family that had seeped into the walls of the farmhouse. They had bled into the very land. Maggie felt it the moment she’d gotten out of Canon’s car when they first arrived.

  Slowly, Maggie circled the downstairs again inspecting furniture, pictures, wondering who picked out this wallpaper, that paint color. Maggie could tell which knife Canon used most by how worn the slit was in the block on the counter. Did the old-fashioned dishes in the corner cabinet belong to Canon’s mother? Grandmother? Had any items survived the fire? Or had Rita picked these dishes in her registry? Who first decided to place the green pillows on the sofa? Did Rita crochet the cream-colored throw on the back of the blue-checked couch? Who had worn the navy boots Canon kept in the laundry?

  The laundry was covered in white bead board and well placed for coming in from the yard. It had a shower, toilet, nice counter that matched the ones in the kitchen, with a deep sink at one end.

  Maggie padded upstairs, but didn’t closely inspect his bedroom or bath that opened off it. That seemed too personal. But she could tell which one of the three rooms was his and did step inside to look at the red-haired woman dressed in eighties clothing hanging on one of the walls—same woman who smiled with a younger Canon on a side table in the hallway alongside several pictures of Shirley and her family over the years. Maggie looked closer. Shirley had given birth to twins, a boy and a girl. But by the time Keith had come along, only Kyle as a toddler was in the photos. Kyle graduating from high school. A younger Keith sporting a youth league football jersey, standing with a younger Bob and Shirley.

  A man and woman Maggie recognized as Canon’s parents from the news story hung on the wall in the upstairs hallway. Another frame featured only his father wearing a deep brown jacket pinned with stars and medals.

  As she turned to leave with a final glance inside the bedroom, she noticed a picture without a frame lying loose on his nightstand. She stepped over to look. It was her, standing in the ravine behind the cabin bundled in her hat and jacket.

  A warm wash traveled down Maggie’s neck toward her naked feet on the hardwood floor. This must be the picture Becky Renco was talking about that day in the sheriff’s office. Canon brought it home with him. Left it lying on his nightstand.

  Maggie’s warm wash turned suddenly cold.

  Seeing Canon pull on a bullet-proof vest had been sobering. Maggie didn’t like that sight at all, or knowing he was headed where shots were fired. Visions of the fight he’d broken up in the parking lot on New Year’s Eve came back to her.

  Maggie told herself Canon had a thirty-two-year tenure dealing with bad behavior. He knew what he was doing. But she couldn’t seem to stop the cold finger of fear twining itself through her chest cavity, thickening, especially when she went back out into the hall and her eye landed on
the picture of his father in his uniform again.

  She kept moving, kept inspecting the house, reading the story of Canon Dale from the material items that surrounded him. Nearly an hour passed before Maggie went back outside. The rain had stopped. She gathered the dishes, brought them in, and washed them. She found her white sweater, damp and cold, and hung it in the laundry room.

  Another hour went by. Still no Canon. How long did it take to resolve a domestic dispute?

  Maggie didn’t know what to do, didn’t know who to call. The police radio in the kitchen was silent. Canon must have turned it off. She reached for the knob to turn it back on, then stopped. If something had happened to him, she didn’t want to learn about it from eavesdropping on the radio.

  So she waited.

  Maggie curled herself on the checked couch in the living room, pulling the cream throw over her, feeling lonely, cold, scared. Then the ringing of the house phone was waking her—an old rotary dial on the kitchen wall.

  She lifted the receiver with one hand, covering her mouth with the other, to stifle the moans she knew would come if the news was bad.

  “Mrs. Raines?” Shirley drawled into the phone, “Canon’s at the hospital.”

  What was Shirley saying?

  “Just a graze, but it’s protocol. Paul gave him somethin’ and he’s not supposed to drive. He said tell you there’s a set of truck keys hanging on a hook in the far left kitchen cabinet. You’re welcome to use ’em to get yourself back to your own car. He’ll come pick the truck up later.”

  Silence on the line. Shirley was waiting for her to say something.

  “Is Canon okay?”

  “He will be. Lord knows, he’s been nicked plenty of times before.”

  “What happened?”

  “Tim claims it was an accident, that the gun just went off.”

  The clock on the microwave said it was 3:05.

  Maggie couldn’t drive back to the cabin without checking on Canon, even though that’s what it sounded like Shirley was suggesting. “He’s at the hospital in town? He’ll be there the rest of the night?”