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“Pretty good. He’s up and walkin’ around again.”
“Thanks to Calla.”
Roy grunts.
Toby sets the bottle of Coors in front of Roy, and a fresh Corona in front of me, winking. “You look like you’re ready for another one.”
I’m guessing I’ll need twenty more before the night is through, if this conversation goes much longer.
“Here.” Roy slaps a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter. His weathered hands are a mess—his cuticles torn, his skin wrinkled, his knuckles cracked. “For mine and hers.”
“Uh … Thanks.” I steal a quick glance at Toby, who flashes a surprised look before heading to the till. I thought Roy didn’t give or do anything out of kindness?
Roy stares hard at the bottle in his hand. “How’s that old goat doin’?”
Are we attempting small talk? “Still alive.”
Roy smirks. “Have you trimmed his hooves yet?”
“We’re supposed to do that?” I cringe as I imagine touching those dirty things.
He rolls the bottle in his grip but doesn’t take a drink. “You need to keep goats’ hooves trimmed, otherwise they could end up infected. Bacteria and all that.”
“Oh. Great. I’ll let Jonah know.” I may tolerate Zeke following me around, but I draw the line at goat grooming.
Roy’s gaze wanders over all the pictures pinned to the back wall with thumbtacks, seemingly engrossed.
Did he have a wife, as Muriel claims? I can’t imagine Roy having another softer side that could lend itself to a loving relationship. Then again, I couldn’t fathom what anyone found appealing about Jonah when I first met the angry yeti.
“Had anything sniffin’ around your pen lately?” he asks suddenly.
“You mean like your malamute?”
His eyes narrow on me, and for a second I wonder if I’ve expended any goodwill I’ve earned. “Nah. He’s chained up for the time bein’ so he can heal. Besides, he won’t do nothin’ to that old goat.” He peers over his shoulders at the people and sneers. “All these campers comin’ up here, not storin’ their food and trash properly, causin’ problems for the rest of us. You two better be keepin’ your trash indoors,” he warns.
“Jonah grew up in Alaska. He knows what to do.” And I grew up in Toronto, with Tim and Sid rooting through our garbage cans at every chance, so I’m not entirely inept when it comes to wildlife. “We keep it in the workshop.”
“Calla!” Muriel’s husky voice carries over the noise. She waves an apron in the air before her gaze veers to Roy and thins.
“Did my mom happen to mention she was gonna put you to work tonight?” Toby asks with a grin.
“Uh … no. Seriously?”
“If there’s one thing she doesn’t joke about, it’s workin’.”
I groan as I ease off my chair. Maybe Muriel’s doing this to give me an out for having to deal with my neighbor. A “kindness” as she calls it—ending the suffering of wretched creatures. “Thanks for the beer,” I offer, because, unlike Roy, I won’t be outright rude.
His head bobs slowly, his focus on the bottle within his grasp.
I assume that’s all the response I’m getting from him and so I make to turn away.
“I know I can be a real SOB,” he says. “But thank you, for what you did for Oscar.” His gaze flashes to mine briefly, long enough to show me the sincerity in his words before he turns back to his bottle.
It looks like I got the right side of the coin toss today.
“Hope you like chili,” Toby hollers after me, his laughter following me as I cut through the crowd.
Chapter Twenty-Five
