But King skidded to a halt just inches from Margery, dropped his head, and wagged his tail with such enthusiasm that his entire body wiggled, and Margery just laughed. She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by his size, even though his head came up to her chest.
“Hello, you big, beautiful thing,” she cooed and gave a delighted grin when he nuzzled against her hand. She scratched behind his ears, and the dog melted against her, drool pooling by her foot on the porch boards. “You look like a lion, you know that?”
“Sorry about that,” Bear said, climbing the steps. “He thinks he’s a lap dog.”
She straightened and waved away his apology. “Don’t apologize. I’ve had dogs my whole life. This one’s a sweetheart.”
Yeah, sometimes. Other times, he was a mammoth, furry pain in the ass.
Margery straightened up and fixed him with a look that seemed to take his measure in one glance. “So you’re Dane McKenna. Walker’s told me all about you.”
“Everyone calls me Bear, ma’am.” He extended his hand, and she clasped it with surprising strength. “Thank you for renting to us.”
“Pfft. None of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense. I’m Marge to everyone.” She sized him up again. “Walker didn’t mention you were mountain-sized.”
Bear shrugged. “I get that a lot.”
She frowned. “The shower is going to be a squeeze for you.”
He was used to it. The world wasn’t made for 6-foot-7 men. “I’ll make do.”
Margery’s attention shifted to the truck, where Logan sat motionless. “That your boy?”
“Yeah. That’s Logan.” Bear raised his voice. “Logan! Come meet Marge.”
Logan didn’t move.
“Logan!”
The kid finally yanked out his earbuds and glared. “What?”
“Come say hello.”
Logan dragged himself out of the truck like he was being led to execution. His hoodie was pulled up over his dark hair, and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets as he shuffled across the gravel driveway.
“This is Margery Pendry,” Bear said. “She owns the house.”
Logan nodded once. “Hey.”
Marge didn’t seem bothered by his attitude. She just studied him with the same assessing look she’d given Bear. “I brought cookies.” She shoved the tin into Logan’s hands, then added. “You’ll be needing curtains for your room. The street light shines right through that window. I have curtains.”
Logan blinked, thrown by the non sequitur. “Okay?”
Marge smiled. “I’ll bring them over later. Now, be a good boy and help your dad with unpacking that truck.”
Bear expected Logan to argue, but the boy just shrugged, set the tin down on the porch rail, and headed for the back of the U-Haul.
Progress.
Maybe.
“Thanks for the cookies,” Bear said. “And for not asking a million questions.”
Marge waved her hand dismissively. “Walker told me enough, and I trust him. You’re a good man who made mistakes. Your boy needs time and a safe place to heal after losing his mama. I understand that.”
The knot of anxiety that had been choking him for days loosened a fraction. It was good to be home. Or home-ish, since he’d rather be back at the Ridge. But the bunkhouse was no place to raise a kid, and the inhabitable cabins were already taken. Therest of the cabins were either being razed or rebuilt this summer by Maggie Rowe and her team for her home improvement show.
“Still, I appreciate it, ma’am—uh, Marge.”
