He looked down at her, his eyes twinkling. “You have money?”
“Mom and I both do. We’re partners in this venture.” She rubbed her hands together. “What’s the first step?”
“Making sure you have money.” His chuckle was deep. “Then we need to get plumbing out here. Good news is that you already have electricity.” He rubbed snow off his hair. “You’ll need an architect. Carl and I can definitely help with the labor, but you’re going to need a licensed architect to sign off on the plan I know you have. Tell me about it.”
She felt eight years old again and full of excitement. Carl was Blake and Deidre’s older brother, her “odd” uncle, and she adored him as well. “Okay. Double-door entrance into a vestibule with the kitchen on the left and a circular staircase to the right. Great room with fireplace and wide windows straight ahead. Beyond the kitchen, a guest room with bath and a powder room. To the right, past the entrance to the garage, a knitting room next to a small workout and yoga room.” She knitted little outfits for premature babies and had started a nonprofit that was doing well across the country. “I figure the knitting room would work for any artist or author who might rent the space if that’s what we do here.”
He looked at the dirt floor and weathered boards on the walls. “Exposed beams?”
“Everywhere. For the second floor, a large master bedroom, bathroom, and closet next to an office.” She could visualize it so clearly. “I’d like to keep the character of the barn with weathered wood, a stone fireplace, and the exposed beams. What do you think?” She held her breath.
He grinned. “I think it sounds awesome.”
“Good.” Relief calmed her nerves. “What architect do you like?”
He frowned. “Harvey Brewerston, but he had a heart attack and died a while back. The kid who took over for him changed the business name to something green sounding, and I doubt he has the experience to take on a job like this. Let me ask around and see who my friends are using these days.” He kicked at the hard dirt beneath his boot. “We’ll need to pour cement to start. I have a couple of old barns on the northern side I’ve been meaning to bring down. I can reclaim the wood from those for you. I assume you’ll want barn boards on the walls. What kind of floor are you thinking?”
“Either limestone or a different wood,” she mused. “Maybe use the wood for the floor, structure, and beams and something lighter for the walls to brighten the place.” She could feel herself building something that would last. With her job, she was always arriving places after somebody had been killed. While seeking justice for the harmed was her passion, so far she hadn’t built much that would last should she disappear. Well, except for the nonprofit she’d started, which might last beyond her life.
“Sure. Hopefully this means you’ll stick around.” He slung a heavy arm over her shoulders and tugged her close in a half hug. “I heard there was a murder out by Witch Creek. You on that?”
“Yes.” She slid an arm around his thick waist. Blake was the closest thing she’d ever had to a father, and she would like to spend more time with him and her aunt Betty. “With my job, I’m never certain where I’ll be working, but I agree that this is a good investment regardless.” The wind scattered ice against the door, whistling sharply through the trees. “I don’t suppose we can start right now?”
“Let’s get an architect first.” He drew her through the doorway and out into the blistering cold. “For now, let’s go see what your aunt Betty has on for Friday night supper. I think she was planning on cooking her cheesy chicken casserole. We can call your mom and pick her up on the way. I’ll shoot Carl a text, but he’s probably lost his phone again.”
She staggered as the wind assaulted her. “I’ll follow you to Mom’s and pick her up.” She had the oddest urge to invite Huck to dinner, but that would seem more like a date and not like a friend situation. Probably. She wasn’t certain.
If she did stick around, as Uncle Blake put it, did she want to just be friends with Huck?
* * *
Huck fetched the microwave mac and cheese out of the microwave, singeing his fingers. “Damn it.” Grabbing a kitchen towel, he secured the side of the carton and dumped the contents onto a plate. A fire crackled cozily across the living room, and he snagged a fork before heading to his well-worn sofa. Aeneas snored softly by the fire, content to be inside, where the wind couldn’t pierce the secured windows. It was well after midnight, but it had taken Huck so long to plow out his long driveway and shop area, and then shovel the walkway, that he’d missed dinner. He’d also shoveled the back deck and around the hot tub, knowing his aching muscles would need it in the morning.
Sitting, he extended his legs to the coffee table, noting his left sock had two holes. Shrugging, he stirred his dinner around to cool it, wondering about Dr. Rox and how she’d survived by herself for three weeks out in that freezing cabin. The woman must’ve been absolutely terrified to have lived that way.
His phone buzzed and he reached for it on the sofa table, setting his plate on the cushion. “Rivers.” He eyed the still-cooling dinner.
“Hi, Huck. I hope it’s okay I called.” A female voice came clearly over the line.
He looked up at the ceiling. Why hadn’t he glanced to see who was calling? “What do you want at midnight?” He and Rachel Raprenzi had stopped dating a long time ago.
“I knew you’d probably be up, as am I. Besides, is that any way to talk to your ex-fiancée?” she asked, both humor and charm in her voice.
He pulled the plate onto his lap and set his phone on speaker, putting it on the cold leather. “Not gonna ask again.” Then he dug into his dinner, instantly burning his tongue. Only pure stubbornness kept him from swearing out loud.
“I’m in Washington State and thought maybe we could get together for dinner or even just a drink. You know. Like friends.”
Friends. What was up with everyone wanting to be his friend lately? “No.”
“It’s Friday night and we’re both home alone. That’s sad.” Rachel sighed. “Come on. I said I was sorry. You were drifting away, and I knew it was probably over, and I was just trying to . . .”
“Exploit my downward spiral for your own gain?” He took another bite and once again wondered if he should learn how to actually cook.
“No. Trying to figure out what was happening, and I may have used the wrong approach.”
The wrong approach? He’d lost a kid in a case, and she’d used that failure to propel her journalism career and write articles and do podcasts about him and the case. She had even guest hosted the nightly news in Portland. “To find out what was happening, all you had to do was ask. Me. Not other experts.” He continued eating his gooey dinner. It was pretty good. Who needed to cook?
“I asked you,” she exploded. “You wouldn’t talk to me.”
