Roy must have made these.

Just as he likely made the countless wooden figurines that fill them. Deer, bears, wolves, fish, pigs, whales … My amazed eyes graze the shelves, struggling with where to focus. There are people, too. Intricately carved pirates and gnomes, old men with canes, pregnant women cradling their bellies, children running. There’s an entire shelf dedicated to a little girl with pigtails—laughing, skipping, sleeping. One has her arms wrapped around the neck of a dog—or maybe a wolf—that’s twice her size. There are wooden bowls, wooden spoons with long, narrow decorative handles …

My mouth hangs open in amazement. There are hundreds of them. Maybe thousands, and the detail in each is astonishing. Some have even been touched by a paintbrush.

That miserable old man out there is an artist.

In fact, every detail in this cabin that involves wood seems immaculate. The trim that frames the windows is cut with precision, the wide-plank floorboards are evenly stained, the kitchen shelves that hold dishes for one and several weeks’ worth of canned goods look sturdy and secure, mounted to the wall. There are no sloppy, uneven cuts anywhere in here.

“She’s not doing anythin’ to your damn stuff!” Muriel’s scolding voice carries through an open window, reminding me that I have a purpose here and I’m invading Roy’s private space against his wishes. I grab the navy wool blanket that sits folded on the armchair, and then head for the door.

A framed picture sitting atop an old trunk beneath the window stops me in my tracks. It’s a studio portrait of a man in a cowboy hat with his arm draped over a pretty blonde woman’s shoulders. A child sits between them. A doll-like girl of two or three years old, with cherub cheeks and expressive blue eyes. She’s been dressed much like a doll, too, in a blue gingham dress, frilly socks, and white Mary Janes, her sable-brown locks secured by a matching blue ribbon. In her chubby grip is a wooden animal like the ones on these shelves.

It’s a moment before I realize the man in the picture is Roy.

He’s much younger—his face clean-shaven and marred by only a few wrinkles—and a few pounds lighter, but what’s the most jarring is the crooked grin he’s wearing.

There’s no indication of when it was taken, but it has a department store $9.99 sitting fee vibe to it—textured gray background, poor lighting, stiff posing. Roy is in an outfit much like the one he wore to the Ale House—a button-down shirt, jeans, and his broad cowboy hat. He’s also wearing a red-white-and-blue tie with a star on it that reminds me of the logo for a restaurant chain back home called the Lone Star. Based on the woman’s feathered hair and acid-washed jeans, I’m guessing this was taken some time in the ’80s, maybe early ’90s.

This must be Roy’s wife.

But I don’t remember Toby ever mentioning a daughter.

I glance around. It’s the only picture in the cabin from what I can see. That he has it on display decades later, and sitting within view of his chair, says these people must be important to him—and that he probably hasn’t seen them in a long time.

What happened to them?

“You find the blanket on the chair, Calla?” Muriel’s holler pulls me from my snooping.

I rush outside and to the barn to find her still looming over Roy, a stern scowl furrowing her brow. “You don’t even know what all needs to be fixed inside you yet. You could be in the hospital for weeks! And how are you gonna milk those goats with one arm, huh? Or fire your gun if you need to?” I wonder if it even fazes her that she’s scolding a man as he lies on the ground, injured.

“Carefully,” Roy grumbles.

“Yeah, I can see it now.” Muriel snorts. “You’re liable to shoot yourself in the foot while you’re at it.”

“It’d be less painful than this conversation.”

“You don’t want my help? That’s fine.” She throws her hands up in the air, stepping out of the way to make room for me to stretch the blanket over him. “I wasn’t gonna offer, anyway. I don’t have time for your chores. Got enough of my own. But don’t be an idiot. You got all these chickens and goats and those wild dogs of yours that need carin’ for.” She pauses a beat. “Calla, here, will come and help you until you’re back on your feet.”

My head snaps back and I shoot her a wide-eyed “what the hell?” glare.

She smiles encouragingly. “She’s a good girl. Smart, and a hard worker.”

“I have no idea how to milk a goat,” I stammer, broadsided by this sudden turn of events.

“You didn’t know how to garden either, did ya? You two will be good for each other. You have stuff in common.”

Roy and I have literally nothing in common, I want to scream, but I can’t seem to find my tongue.

“And we help our neighbors. That’s what we do.” Muriel nods to herself as if passing her verdict.

Even when our neighbor is an angry, mean old man?

I hold my breath, waiting for Roy to spit on the idea of my aid, so I can bow out gracefully.

But for once, he isn’t arguing with Muriel, his shrewd gaze watching me intently.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jonah strolls in just after seven p.m. as I’m shoveling the last piece of chicken into my mouth.

“Couldn’t wait for me?” He tosses his baseball cap on the hook.

“No. I was hungry.” And irritated that he landed forty minutes ago but took this long to make his way home, despite my two texts to tell him dinner was ready.

He leans in to kiss me. “Good day?”

My nose catches a hint of campfire smoke. “Horrible day. Possibly the worst day I’ve had since moving here.”

Jonah scrubs his hands in the sink and listens as I give him details.

“How bad is it? Have you heard anything?”

“Muriel called about an hour ago.” After all their bickering and posturing, she practically chased the ambulance to the hospital in Palmer. “They’re keeping him overnight, but he’s doing better than expected. I mean, he has three cracked ribs, a fractured collarbone, his arm is broken in two places, plus he has a mild concussion and bruising all over his body. But it could have been way worse. You wouldn’t believe the pile of wood that fell on top of him.”

“Barely a scrape, then. When shit like that happens, people die.” Jonah settles onto the bar stool beside me. He frowns at the TV where the news broadcasts footage of the wildfire he’s been fighting daily down in the Kenai Peninsula. They’re already claiming it could become one of the most expensive forest fires in the entire country this year, if they don’t contain it.

“So, what’s goin’ on with his livestock, then? They gonna fend for themselves until he’s home?” He picks a piece of chicken off his plate with his fingers and shoves it into his mouth, as if too starved for basic table manners.

“That’s the best part! Guess who Muriel tasked with the responsibility of taking care of his twelve goats and flock of chickens, beginning at six p.m. sharp tomorrow night? While Roy supervises, of course,” I add bitterly. Toby and Teddy are covering until then, at least.

Jonah’s face twists with disbelief. “Why didn’t you say no?” I catch the accusation in his tone, as if it’s somehow my fault I’ve gotten myself into his predicament.