Northern Fires

He enjoyed staying in the cabin overlooking the tranquil lake ringed by towering spruce, snowcapped mountains visible in the distance. “Have you been out here before?”

Without discussing it, of one accord, they both walked toward the lake.

“Once for dinner,” Juliette said as they skirted a thatch of fireweed in the clearing between the cabins and the water, the purple-pink spires standing thigh high. “It was after Dalton and Skye moved into the new house, which, by the way, is lovely. Your work is quite nice.”

They stopped at the lake’s edge, the gentle lapping of water against the shore soothing and rhythmic. Dalton and Skye’s new home was situated farther down the shore. After dark, the lights would glimmer among the trees.

“Thanks. It was great working on it. Dalton and Skye dig functional, clean design that works with the surroundings.” They turned, heading back to the cabins.

“It feels spacious and cozy at the same time.”

Her comments pleased him. It felt good to have his work appreciated. “That’s exactly what we were aiming for.” They walked up onto the porch. “Want to come in or we can sit out here?” He’d opt for the outside any time.

“Out here is nice,” she said.

“Take the chair.” He motioned to the only seat on the porch. “I’ll hold up the railing.” He propped on the railing, resting his back against the post. Juliette settled on the kitchen chair he kept on the porch. “Skye didn’t cook when you came over, did she?” he asked.

It was common knowledge Skye, while she was a helluva doctor, was a lousy cook. Actually, it was something of an ongoing debate throughout town as to who was worse in the kitchen, Skye or Jenna.

Juliette laughed and Sven realized that in the months he’d known her it was the first time he’d heard her laugh. Her amusement had a musical quality. “No, Dalton cooked. I understand it’s best that way. Skye’s the first to say she’d starve left to her own devices and no takeout.”

He was curious about Juliette. In a town where everyone knew everyone else’s business, all he knew of her was that she flew a bush plane and kept to herself. He knew she had short, wavy hair that made his fingers itch to run through it and a mouth that directed his thoughts to long, slow kisses on an Alaskan spring evening. Other than that, she was a mystery. “What about you? Do you cook?”

She shrugged and offered another one of her quiet smiles. “Nothing gourmet, but I manage.” She sniffed. Even with the cabin door closed, the faint aroma of roasted meat and vegetables mingled with the scent of evergreen and fresh air. “You obviously know your way around a kitchen … or at least a Crock-Pot.”

Ah, a dry sense of humor lurked beneath that serious, faintly mysterious exterior. “The Crock-Pot is a beautiful thing. My parents were adamant my brother and I know how to take care of ourselves.”

“There’s a lot to be said for self-sufficiency.” A hint of melancholy tinged her smile and shadowed her eyes, and it was as if she retreated a bit into her shell. What had he said wrong?

It was just as he’d known from the get-go—the woman would be a boatload of trouble to figure out, and who needed that?

“Yeah, there is. What do you say we eat out here? I do most evenings. Even if I eat at Gus’s I usually wind up out here at some point before I go to bed. Of course, that’s since it’s warmed up.”

“The porch would be fine. I like being outdoors and it’s a nice view of the lake and the sky.”

“I’ll grab dinner.”

“Need any help?” She shifted forward as if to get up.

“Nope. I’ve got it covered.” He stopped at the door. “What can I get you to drink? Beer? Milk? Water? I’m not a wine drinker.”

“Water sounds good. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

The place was kind of a mess. He wasn’t the neatest guy and he almost never had guests. “No. I think I can manage two plates and drinks. Mind if I have a beer?”

“Of course not.” There was a hint of searching in her regard, as if she was looking for some deeper meaning.

“I’ll be right back then.” Sven stepped into the cabin, closing the door behind him. He picked up yesterday’s shirt and jeans and tossed them into the bedroom just in case she decided to come in. He did a quick bathroom reconnaissance. Not too bad.

The cabin was essentially one big room with a separate bedroom and bathroom. From the kitchen, where he filled two plates with roast, potatoes and carrots, he could see Juliette through the front window. Even though she looked peaceful enough on the porch, there was a tension in the line of her shoulders.

A loon, with its distinct cry, called from the lake. Dalton had told him the pair returned year after year to spend the summer. Interesting creatures those loons—they mated for life.

He left the plates on the table and carried another chair outside, Juliette’s water glass in his other hand. “Dinner’s coming right up.”

She took the glass, her fingers brushing his, sending a jolt through him. “Thanks.”

He went back in, picked up the plates and utensils and brought them out to the porch. She took her plate and he settled in the empty kitchen chair.

“Hope you enjoy it,” Sven said as he automatically tipped his chair back until it rested against the cabin wall.

“It smells delicious,” she said, fork in hand.

“Dig in.” He loaded his fork with a piece of meat and a potato chunk, suddenly ravenous.

She took a bite and a slow smile lit her brown eyes. “Delicious,” she said when she finished chewing and swallowing. “You do know your way around a Crock-Pot.”

Inordinately pleased with her compliment, he found he was glad he’d been the one to put that smile on her face. “Glad you like it.”

She gestured with her fork, at the vista before them. “I understand why you sit out here most evenings.”

The sun slanted onto the covered porch. Sven always thought of this as “the golden hour.” Now he stared at Juliette, transfixed by her radiance as the light burnished her hair and skin. Something inside him shifted and fell into place, like when he was notching logs and got the fit just right.

She glanced at him. “Sven?”

He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? It had to be that crazy conversation with Jenna. “Uh, yeah. It is a pretty awesome view, isn’t it?”

For what could’ve been one second or minutes, their gazes locked, ensnared. Gold flecked her smoky-brown eyes. His gut tightened and he had the most incredible urge to bridge the space between them and test the smoothness of her skin with his fingertips. Her eyes darkened as if she’d read his desire and wanted the same. Juliette finally looked away.

“So,” she prompted, a husky note flavoring her voice that held a Southern undertone. “You had some ideas about the set?” She speared a carrot with her fork, looking at her plate as if the contents fascinated her.

Sven shifted on the hard chair and checked out his own plate rather than the wash of light over her. Meat and potatoes would curb at least one appetite.

Over the meal, he outlined his suggestions and was pleased with her thoughtful comments and questions. Before he knew it, their plates were clean and they’d finished discussing the set.

Juliette stood, her empty plate in hand, “Well, thanks so much for dinner. It was delicious.”

The idea that he didn’t want her to go flashed through him and instinctively he said, “There’s a nice trail down by the lake that leads to a rise with an even better view if you’re up for an after-dinner walk.”

Surprise registered on her face and she hesitated. Finally she nodded. “That’d be nice.”

THE BREEZE BLEW ACROSS the water, cooling Juliette’s heated skin and teasing her hair against her neck and temple. She’d been torn. Did she want to soak up more of the tranquillity of Shadow Lake, and the rush of heat and awareness brought on by Sven—feelings she hadn’t known in a long time, possibly ever? Or did she want to safely retreat to her own cabin in the woods? She wasn’t sure it was the smartest move on her part, but she’d opted to stay.

The path skirted the shore, worn and obviously used by both man and wildlife. She focused on the nuances of the setting rather than the energy radiating from the man beside her—the soothing lapping of water against the shore, the sigh of the wind through the spruce boughs, the muted rhythm of their booted feet against the dirt trail. Mosquitoes, jokingly referred to as Alaska’s national bird, buzzed past, and a bald eagle’s distant chirping carried on the evening air.

The mosquitoes always reminded her of childhood summers when she’d spent as much time as possible outside. Bug bites had been a small price to pay for a reprieve from the chaos inevitably found indoors.

“So,” Sven said, breaking the silence and pulling her back from her brief foray into the past, “how’d you wind up flying a bush plane in Alaska?”