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“By the way, I signed your carvings for you!” I call out after him.
He pauses. “You put my name on those things?” I can’t tell if he’s angry.
“Not exactly. See you in the morning.”
After a long moment, he shuffles inside and shuts his door softly.
On instinct, I hang back a few beats, holding my breath as I watch through the tiny window that gives a view of his kitchen. Roy fishes one of the two remaining pieces from the wooden crate, flips it over, and squints at the writing on the base.
His bearded cheeks lift with a smile and a moment later, a low chuckle carries through the quiet night.
I’m disappointed when Jonah starts the truck’s engine and drowns out the sound.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
August
The shower is running when I arrive home. I head upstairs.
“Hey!” I holler, stepping into our cramped bathroom. I push the toilet lid down and take a seat, eying Jonah’s shampoo-laden head rinsing off beneath the stream of water. “You’re home early.” It’s only three and, while Jonah has been working less these last few weeks, this is an unusually short day for him.
“I went north today. There’s a fire burnin’ up near Mile 91.”
“I heard they closed down the highway.” It seems like fires are sparking all around us. “How bad is it?” We’re only about twenty miles south of there.
“They’ve got it about 70 percent contained.”
I sigh with relief. “Good.”
“We’re supposed to get rain tonight and into tomorrow.”
“Oh! So that means you’ll be grounded?”
“Can you try not to sound so excited about that?” His wry tone makes me laugh.
The truth is, mention of rain does get me excited, not just to keep Jonah to myself but also for the garden. We haven’t gotten nearly enough. I spend a good hour watering every day. It’s therapeutic when I don’t have things to do. When I do, it’s a pain in the ass.
“How was your day?”
“Good.” I examine my fingernails. They’re short and naked, but healthier after having months without tips. “I took those pieces of Roy’s to that art shop in Anchorage.” The more elaborate carvings were too nice to sell at the Trapper’s Crossing Farmers’ Market, where I have successfully offloaded dozens of pieces for Roy over the last month. I’ve come to enjoy the surprise in his eyes every time I show up with an envelope of cash, as if he can’t believe people would appreciate his woodwork. He’s even offered to cover the cost of the table fee, now that I’m out of strawberries to sell. “She’s putting them up on consignment. She thinks she can get a good price for each one.”
The water shuts off. Jonah yanks the curtain open wide and grabs the towel from the hook.
My mouth goes dry as I watch him wipe down his body.
He steps out, stopping long enough to stoop and kiss my lips, before he tosses the towel back on the bar and strolls into our bedroom. “Does that asshole have any idea how much you’re doing for him?”
I trail him, enjoying a sublime glimpse of his backside as he roots around in his dresser drawer for underwear. Things with Roy have become more than tolerable. I go there in the morning and the evening. We work around each other, completing chores. Our conversations are sparse, but that perpetual air of annoyance that used to swirl around him seems to have evaporated. It could be because he’s feeling better—the gash and bruising on his face have faded, his ribs and collarbone seem to have mended—but I’d like to think it’s something else.
I’d like to think it’s because Roy Donovan enjoys my company.
I look up to find Jonah smirking—he caught me with my admiring gaze trained low. “He doesn’t need to know.”
Jonah chuckles, drawing his boxer briefs up his muscular legs. “Mark Sheppard asked me if I could fly him and his buddy up to their cabin near Murder Lake.”
“Fill out an itinerary,” I warn him.
He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. It’s not far. Actually, I was gonna see if you wanted to come.”
