North Country Man

“I met him last night,” Claire said, uncomfortable with the other woman’s scrutiny. She’d dressed casually this morning, in pants, a sweater and the trim suede jacket, but she was still bandbox perfect in comparison to Wild Rose’s disheveled hair, loose plaid shirt and scruffy, threadbare jeans. Rose’s boots were like Noah’s, built for rugged use, whereas Claire had on a pair of expensive black leather ankle boots with stacked high heels. You wouldn’t know to look at her that she’d grown up in T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. In her years away from Florence, she’d forgotten—purposely, she supposed—how to dress for the country.

Wild Rose hadn’t responded.

“He helped me get my car out of the ditch,” Claire prompted.

“Mmm.”

“I, uh, thought maybe you’d seen him this morning. He might have mentioned me? It seems I lost my purse, and I was hoping….” Claire let her voice trail off. She didn’t know what she was hoping. That Noah had found her purse and dropped it off at the Buck Stop, or that he’d been so awed by their meeting that he’d emerged from his lengthy hibernation to seek her out?

“Noah doesn’t come by that often.”

“But he was here last night.” Claire remembered the small brown paper parcel tucked inside his belt.

Wild Rose’s mouth pursed. “He had a craving.”

Thoughtful, Claire drew her teeth across her bottom lip. She really did not need to get involved in that. Her father hadn’t been a drunk or anything, but he’d tippled frequently enough that it had contributed toward his all-around laziness. Sam Levander’s name had been on the sign, but it was his no-nonsense wife who’d run the family’s thriving gas station and repair shop, leaving Claire to manage domestic duties.

“Does he live close by?”

Wild Rose folded her arms, one hand cupped around the cigarette butt. “Why’re you asking?”

“I’m Claire Levander, from Chicago. Here on…business. I’m staying at Bay House. I ask because I lost my purse, as I said, and I thought possibly Noah had found it.”

“He’ll return it if he did.”

“He doesn’t know who I am.”

“Does now.”

“Oh.” Claire blinked. “All right. Thank you.” She didn’t move.

“Anything else?” Wild Rose prompted.

“I’m—no.” She could hardly ask this taciturn woman about Noah’s past. Or his scars. “Thank you,” she repeated. “I’ll be on my way.”

Wild Rose nodded. She walked away, tossing the butt into a rusty trash can beside the door, then turning to look as another car pulled into the parking lot, spitting gravel as it braked hard. Wild Rose’s expression twisted and she fled inside, letting the screen door bang shut behind her.

Claire watched as the fair-complected man she recognized as the Whitakers’ next-door neighbor emerged from the black BMW. Lindstrom was the name. He glanced at her and she smiled, almost reflexively, feeling wary. He looked presentable enough, expensively dressed and good-looking in a conventional, slightly flabby way. Home in Chicago, her friends would have probably voted that this one was more her type than Noah Saari. But there was a sour air about the man that made her uneasy. As if he’d gone soft and rotten at the core.

Lindstrom stopped, leaning casually against his car while he evaluated Claire. She sat up a little straighter. “Hi.”

He nodded.

She was determined not to make another overture.

“You’re a guest at Bay House?” he finally said.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Terry Lindstrom.” Not boasting, but smug.

She wanted to say, “So?” Not a good idea. “Claire Levander.”

“Staying long?”

“About a week.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement behind the screen door. Wild Rose was watching.

Lindstrom slouched, both he and the gleaming auto looking out of place outside the Buck Stop. “If you want to escape the Whitakers to have a good time, give me a call.”

Hmph. Claire started her car. “Thank you, but I’m looking forward to staying in with the Whitakers. I hear they’re big on Scrabble.” She drove away with her head high, hoping that would be the last of Terry Lindstrom. Wild Rose was probably quite capable of dealing with his sullen attitude, although it was hard to imagine why the man would be slumming at the dilapidated store.

Claire cruised slowly along the road. There was no reason she couldn’t find her purse—or Noah—on her own. It couldn’t be that difficult. If she had to, she’d prowl through the underbrush until she found the path into the woods.

Minutes later, that’s what she’d come to. Either the trees had grown leafier since last night or she was hopelessly unobservant, but she wasn’t able to distinguish the right location until she’d parked and walked along the roadside. Eventually she discovered the log she’d run into, spotting the fresh yellow gash in the trunk through a gap of broken branches. From there, she was able to retrace her steps—more like a panicked zigzag if she remembered correctly—until she stumbled onto the overgrown trail.

Still no purse. She waded through the grass, looking for it, then stopped, setting her hands on her hips as she squinted into the woods. What now? If Noah had picked up the purse, he obviously hadn’t brought it to Wild Rose’s store. And she wasn’t sure, but hadn’t he made a comment about not owning a car? Or was that her assumption, because of his remote living quarters and simple lifestyle? She wasn’t accustomed to men who took nighttime strolls through the forest with a bear cub at their heels. It didn’t fit that such an anachronism would own a car.

What would it hurt to take a short walk into the woods, as long as she stuck to the trail, such as it was? Possibly she’d been getting her leg pulled, and Noah’s house was just beyond the trees, fully furnished, with all conveniences and a four-wheel-drive SUV parked in the garage.

Claire started off. She relaxed by degrees, slowing her stride to enjoy the twitter of birds in the sun-flecked trees. It was so pleasant, in fact, she walked farther than she’d intended, not ready to stop.