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out tellin’ me you don’t need a cast.”
“I’ll get myself there!” Roy barks.
“How? You can’t even carry a bucket of milk inside!”
“The hell I can’t! I only let the girl do it so she’d stop buggin’ me.”
“You need a cast.” Muriel’s hands have settled on her hips. “Unless you don’t ever want full use of your arm again. And then what good are you gonna be, livin’ out here all alone? You think we’re gonna take care of your stubborn ass every day?”
Muriel may be right, but her methods of persuading Roy leave much to be desired. His face has gone from ashen to bright red. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have a heart attack every time she steps on his property.
I don’t have the patience to listen to their bickering, and I have no desire to be calling 9-1-1 again. “I will drive Roy to his appointment on Friday. He will get a cast so he can heal as fast as possible, because otherwise he knows he’s going to hear about it for the rest of his life,” I say to Muriel while glaring at Roy.
He grunts in response. “Fine.”
“Well … finally, you’re being smart.” Muriel’s lips twist. “I was just over in your garden, Calla. Looks like the strawberries are ready for pickin’. You’ll need to pull all the jars up from the cellar and …”
Roy hobbles away inside, leaving me to deal with Muriel’s grand plans for jam making.
Chapter Thirty
The sun is high in the sky when I hop out of the truck at Roy’s on Friday morning. They’re calling for temperature in the low eighties, which is only a few degrees less than in Toronto.
Roy steps out of his cabin with his mug of coffee as I’m walking toward his porch, looking slightly less rumpled than he has the last few mornings. Restless goats are bleating in the barn, waiting to be let out, and the chickens cluck. Somewhere in the distance, a chainsaw buzzes as it carves through wood.
Roy inhales deeply.
I’m sure he smells the smoke, too. I caught the faint scent when I stepped out of my house today. At first, I thought it might be a nearby bonfire, but the fire restrictions are so severe right now, no one’s burning anything. The radio confirmed that the smoke is coming from the raging fires, more than a hundred miles south of us, carried up on the wind.
Jonah was cursing on his way out this morning. Wind will wreak havoc on their firefighting efforts, fanning the flames that have already laid destruction to almost sixty thousand acres of the Swan Lake area. The only upside to it is that it should help with air quality, which has been deemed “unhealthy.”
Roy frowns at my face, my hair, my clothes—a pair of jeans and a pale pink T-shirt I haven’t worn in too long. “What are you all gussied up for?”
I assume he’s referring to the makeup I put on and the curler I ran through my hair to add some beachy waves. “Your appointment, remember?”
“What, your pilot not good enough anymore? You lookin’ to trade in for a doctor already?”
I afford him a flat look. “You know that we’re in the twenty-first century, right? Women don’t make an effort in their appearance to find a husband. They can also look good because they want to, for themselves.”
He makes a sound but says nothing.
I hold out a plate of strawberry muffins. “Here. I baked these last night. I think they actually turned out.”
Roy regards the plate a moment before accepting it. “You sound surprised.”
“Let’s say my track record for baking isn’t good. But Jonah seemed to like them.” He ate three on his way out.
“I don’t eat in the mornin’.” Roy’s steely eyes dart to mine a moment before shifting back to the plate. “But maybe I’ll try one in a bit and let you know if it’s awful.”
“I knew I could count on you. By the way, do I want to ask how that stir fry I brought last night was?” I’ve been bringing him dinner every night so far. He stopped complaining about me going into his kitchen to drop it off, and the container from the day before is always washed and waiting for me to collect.
That tiny smirk that hints at amusement touches Roy’s mouth. “Not awful.”
“Well … good.” At least I seem to be getting the knack for cooking. “So, we have about an hour to get all the morning chores finished before we leave for your appointment.” Palmer is fifty minutes away, on the other side of Wasilla. I brace myself, preparing for Roy’s stubborn refusal, ready to wave my phone in the air and threaten a call to Muriel.
“There’s half a pot of coffee. Help yourself if you want one.” With that, he ducks back in the house, leaving me smiling at the simple gesture of hospitality, something I would have assumed Roy incapable of only days ago.
* * *
