I smile in thanks as I accept the water from him.

“Got a nice, big vegetable garden back there. About a quarter acre in size. Big enough to grow a winter’s worth of preserves and all fenced off and electrified to keep the critters away during the growin’ season. You a gardener?” He’s looking directly at me.

“No, that’s more my mother’s forte.” Though she herself admits she finds more enjoyment from her rose bushes and lilacs than carrots and corn.

“Well, anyone’s thumb can turn green if they stick it in the dirt long enough,” he dismisses with a wave. “There’re also the pens where we kept the livestock.”

“Your farm, Barbie,” Jonah murmurs, earning my subtle eye roll.

“’Course, got nothin’ left but a few hens that give me my morning eggs, and Zeke.” Phil slaps that heavy tumbler down on the counter and fills it halfway with whiskey. “That ol’ goat’s nothin’ but a pain in my ass. Doesn’t like men. Has no use for me, now that Colette’s gone. Used to follow her around everywhere.”

Jonah’s face splits with a grin. “What do ya know? Calla loves goats.”

“So, how old is this place?” I ask, spearing Jonah with a warning glare. My gaze drifts over the log cabin’s wooden interior, intentionally skirting the enormous moose head that watches us from its mounted perch between two large windows. A pair of deer heads flank the fireplace. A black fur pelt trimmed with red felt hangs opposite it—I can only assume that’s a bear, because there’s no head to go with it.

I’ll never understand why people feel the need to surround themselves with the things they’ve killed.

“Let’s see … The old owners started buildin’ about ten years before us. Fell on hard times, which is why they had to sell before it was even finished. So, I guess that makes it”—he squints in thought—“close to forty-five years old, now? We’ve updated some. And we did a lot of work to the basement. All that stone was us. Colette thought’d it’d look nice. Break up the wood.”

“She was right. It does.” The log cabin is built into a small incline, allowing for a walk-out basement level with several sizeable windows. The exterior is clad in fieldstone that matches the fireplace.

“’Course there’re small things that need doin’. Trim and closets. The bathrooms could use new faucets and paint.” He takes a swig of his drink, wincing at the first bite. “You know, things you say you’re gonna tackle when you have a free weekend and then before you know it, thirty-five years have passed, your kid is gone, your wife is dead, and you’re still staring at primed drywall.” A forlorn tone lingers in his voice.

I hope I manage to hide the pity from my expression as I say, “You have a lovely home.” In a rustic, cluttered way, where the décor is dated and cobbled together, and yet cozy. Despite all the dead animals watching me.

Phil may be the only one living here—evident by the dirty dishes and empty frozen-dinner packages littering the counter, the clothes strewn over almost every piece of furniture, the visible cobwebs dangling like tinsel from the chandelier—but there’s still evidence of his late wife. The fridge’s surface is plastered with floral magnets that secure pictures of grandchildren splashing in the lake. A calendar pinned to the wall sits on September, a tidy woman’s handwriting marking appointments, a birthday, an anniversary. A hand-painted “Bless this Alaskan home” wooden sign, adorned with purple wildflowers, hangs at the threshold of the side entrance—a long, narrow corridor lined with a dozen hooks housing everything from light sweaters to hip waders. My guess is the medley of pale blue and mauve articles hanging there were Colette’s.

“It’s all hand-hewn logs, you know,” Phil says, his eyebrows arching as if sharing a shocking secret. “Colette insisted that if I was gettin’ a hangar for my toys, she was gettin’ her log house by the lake, with a big fireplace where she could spend the cold winter days. Couldn’t argue with that.” His cloudy gaze reaches the peaked ceiling of the two-story living room where the grand, rustic fieldstone hearth reaches. Cheap, worn, moss-green carpet veils the long, plank-wood floor. “A lot of good memories in that there spot. Anyway, the hangar and the workshop didn’t come for another fifteen years.”

“They look well built,” Jonah says with that same appraising tone that’s lingered in his voice since we landed.

“Oh, they are. The hangar needs a few repairs. Regular maintenance that no one can avoid. But you won’t find a place like this anywhere around here. Those builders, I tell ya.” Phil shakes his head. “I was on those guys every day like a fly on moose shit, and it shows.”

I hide my cringing smile behind a sip from my water. “Jonah’s been admiring it ever since we landed.” I shoot him a wry glance. More like Jonah has been strolling around in sub-zero temperatures with a full-blown erection for a giant metal shed.

“Hoped you would. George swore up and down you’d appreciate this place.” Phil swallows another hearty sip of his whiskey. “That’s why I’d rather sell to you than that couple from Homer. So, when do you reckon you’ll have the money to buy me out?”

Chapter Eight

“I’ll have the bison burger and the pale ale on tap.” Jonah folds the lodge’s menu and hands it back to Chris. “And Calla will have a steak knife to drag across my jugular.”

Chris’s bushy eyebrows arch as he regards me, his eyes shining with a mixture of delight and curiosity. “I’m guessing he deserves it?”

“Does the leek soup have dairy in it? I have an allergy.” I force a polite smile. I’m angry, but I’m also starving.

“Let me double-check. Back in a minute. I’ll bring some coasters to fix the wobble in this table.” Chris collects my menu. “And a knife to fix Jonah.” He ambles away, his cheeks lifting with his grin. He’s amused. That’s nice.

I pin my steely glare back on the man sitting across from me.

Jonah leans back, his chair creaking with the weight of his considerable frame. He regards me with a calculating stare—the kind that says he’s gauging how he’s going to persuade me to go for this harebrained idea of his, living in the woods in the middle of nowhere. “You’ve gotta admit, it’s perfect for us.”

“For us? No. Not for us. For you.”

“You wanted a place with character. What’s got more character than a log cabin with a prime view of Denali out your front door?”

“In the middle of nowhere,” I remind him.

“Trapper’s Crossing is not the middle of nowhere. Wasilla’s only twenty-five minutes away. It’s got ten thousand people and everything you need. They’ve even got a Walmart.”

“A Walmart. You think that’s what I need?”

He throws his hands in the air. “Hell, I don’t know! You’re the one who keeps bringin’ up Walmart!” His gaze furtively searches the wall behind me as if there’s a convincing argument buried somewhere within the wood paneling. “Marie lives near Wasilla.”