Chapter Four
Denver
Denver slowed for a turn, careful to give Sherlock ample time to dig his paws into the seat to steady himself. Sometimes the older dog napped for the duration of his delivery route. Other times, like today, he remained glued to the window, no doubt searching for yesterday’s rabbit that got away.
“Guess I’m leaving you in the truck,” he said to his dog when he stopped in Marianne Baxter’s driveway. Though most residents of Sunset Ridge knew each other, Denver knew very little about Marianne except she was a widow a few years older than his mom and belonged to the local book club. She lived several miles outside of town in a cozy cabin, and though she was a pleasant enough woman, she kept mostly to herself.
Three days a week, Denver made deliveries for Crackle Pop Firewood. Outside of a monthly disability check from the VA and book royalties that increased a little each month, working for his uncle’s firewood business brought in the steady income Denver’s mom insisted he needed.
On a normal workday, he kept within five miles of Sunset Ridge. On occasion, like today, he delivered out farther.
Denver never minded the drive time for these deliveries. After a year in Afghanistan with constant noise keeping him on alert at all times, he found he rather enjoyed the quiet. Optimal time to think about his books. He finally decided the identity of the second victim after hours of pacing his house last night, but it still left a lot of looming questions a little too close to his deadline.
The pacing hadnothingto do with Sophie.
Sherlock let out a groan that suggested he could not only read Denver’s mind but definitely didn’t agree. The pacing hadn’t been ideal for evening naps, and Sherlock hadn’t been shy about sharing his disdain in the form of dramatic sighs and grumbles.
Denver rolled the passenger window halfway down because Marianne would likely give in to Sherlock’s pitiful, demanding eyes and come over to say hi. Everyone did. “Don’t get greedy with treats, got it?” Sherlock tilted his head, probably at the mention of his favorite thing—besides rabbits. “I mean it. You only need one.” Sherlock had a tendency to take a given treat, drop it on the seat for later consumption, and dart back to the window to beg for another.
Half the time, it worked.
Denver adopted Sherlock last fall, a couple months after he moved into his new home. He’d been procrastinating the book he was working on, browsing a nearby shelter’s website when he saw him. Any dog named Sherlock wearing such an intriguing expression in his photo warranted meeting.
It was a done deal the moment they laid eyes on each other.
That the pup bonded so well with Caroline was the best bonus Denver could’ve hoped for.
“You must be Barry’s nephew.” Marianne closed the cabin door behind her and made her way down the steps. Because Denver tended to notice the details—hazard of being a writer—he spotted the faded jeans and the work gloves sticking out of her flannel coat pocket. She meant to help unload, no doubt. Silver dusted her roots, more prominent with her hair pulled back into a low ponytail.
“I’m Denver Grant. Nice to meet you.”
“Marianne Baxter.” They shook hands once she made it over to the truck. Much to Sherlock’s dismay, Marianne didnotcome bearing treats. But she did give him a quick scratch behind the ears. He had a goofy, curious smile that lured everyone in some way.
“Got one cord of wood for you today. That right?” Ordinarily, he made a little small talk. Though Denver wasn’t sociable by nature, his uncle insisted it was imperative to make the customers feel as though they cared. So he pushed through the awkwardness and gave it his best. But Marianne was a bit of a mystery, so he wasn’t really sure where to start.
“Yep. Shed’s around back, but I’d prefer you don’t drive on the lawn.” She pulled up her flannel sleeves by the elbows and waited for him at the tailgate. “Don’t have a cart either.”
“Not a problem.” Because Uncle Barry only reserved the Bobcat with a forklift for orders two cord or greater, Denver didn’t need a gym. He ended up doing plenty of manual labor during his three days of runs. Enough to crank his heartrate up and work muscles that grew stiff sitting at a desk.
Denver hopped up onto the bed of the truck and loosened the straps. “I can unload this.”
Marianne smirked at him, letting him know exactly how she felt in that simple gesture. “I’ve been on my own for two decades. I can carry some firewood.”
Sometimes Denver remembered to grab a hand cart before he left the office, but today he’d been preoccupied. He was ready to be with Sophie, and as more than her friend. He’d always known this day would come, and despite every scenario that played out in his head as to how that would happen, being a secret admirer had not been one of them. It had his mind turning like a new book plot.
“How many do you want?”
“As many as’ll fit.” She offered her outstretched arms for loading. “I usually cut my own, you know. Firewood, that is.”
That’s impressive. But he didn’t dare say that out loud. He sensed Marianne was not the type of person who’d consider that a compliment. Denver knew several tough Alaskan women who could more than take care of themselves when it came down to it, and they weren’t looking for praise.
“You’re the writer?” Marianne asked as they dropped off the first armloads of firewood and came back for more.
“That’s me.”
“I’ve quite enjoyed your mysteries.”
“Glad to hear it.” Denver couldn’t have stopped his smile if he tried. It never got old hearing he had a fan. Someone who enjoyed the words he slaved over for hours and days and weeks. “I’ll be at the book club next week.”
