Meryl stumbled sideways, caught her balance against the porch post, and stood there holding a length of railing like some kind of weapon.
“Oh, wonderful.”
She set the broken length of railing carefully against the cottage wall and eyed the rest of the porch with deep suspicion. Then, choosing her way with care, she made it to the front door.
The key from the solicitor’s envelope fit the lock, but the door refused to open.
She tried again. Then once more with her shoulder.
Nothing.
“Come on,” she muttered, bracing herself for another shove.
That was when she heard footsteps on the path behind her.
She turned, already preparing the polite but firm sentence she’d use to send whoever it was on their way, and found a man standing at the bottom of the broken steps.
He was tall. That was the first thing she noticed. Tall and broad-shouldered in a way that made the porch feel even more precarious by comparison. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Work boots that looked as though they’d actually done some work.
More than that, he looked as though he belonged here. Not to the cottage exactly, but to everything around it. The trees. The mountains. The quiet.
“Need a hand with that?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Meryl said automatically.
He looked at the door, then at the railing propped against the wall, then at the step she’d skipped. His expression barely changed, but she could almost see him taking stock.
“The door’s probably swollen from the damp,” he said. “The frame’s likely shifted too. If you lift and push at the same time, it’ll give.”
Meryl looked at him. He hadn’t moved from the bottom of the steps. Hadn’t tried to come up. Hadn’t crowded her. He was just standing there, being annoyingly calm and, apparently, useful.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Spencer Thornberg.” He said it like that ought to mean something, then seemed to realize it probably didn’t. A beat later, he added, “Sorry. I live nearby.”
“That explains the dramatic entrance.”
His gaze flickered briefly to the broken railing. “I’m not sure dramatic is the word.”
“No?” Meryl shifted the piece of wood with her foot. “I thought it had a certain flair.”
That brought the smallest change to his expression. Not quite a smile, but close.
“I was just passing and saw the car,” he said.
The lane she’d driven in on led to Pine Cottage and, as far as she could tell, nowhere else. Just passing was optimistic at best. But he didn’t elaborate, and his face gave nothing away.
Meryl weighed her options. She could keep shoving at the door alone and end up with a bruised shoulder and a worse temper than she already had. Or she could accept help from a stranger who seemed to know exactly why old doors got stuck and had appeared at the precise moment she needed somebody who did.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’d appreciate the help.”
He nodded once and came up the steps, avoiding the second one without being told. The porch groaned under his weight in a way that made her tighten her grip on the notebook, but he didn’t seem bothered.
Up close, he smelled faintly of sawdust and clean air, as if he’d come straight from work.
He moved to the door, set one hand flat against the upper panel, lifted slightly on the latch with the other, and pushed.
Nothing happened.
