I gape. “You called him on purpose?”
“Damn straight, I did.” As she leans forward, her braid follows. “Mr. Side-Eye doesn’t do anything for anyone. But he drove to get you in that storm before he knew your name. You saw him on Main Street, but he saw you, too.”
As her words sink in, I wrap my hands around the coffee mug. “I had no idea.”
“He’s lost his way, but he’s in there.”
“I know.”
She pats my cheek. Her hand smells like flour and cinnamon. She slides a paper bag across the counter. Extra cinnamon rolls. A bag of her good coffee beans. “For the cabin. He drinks that cheap stuff like water. Too stubborn to buy the good kind for himself.”
“Thank you. I’ve been getting to know him, but?—”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
I nod, even though time doesn’t matter when it comes to Jace. I take a bite of the cinnamon roll and almost moan.
“Want to know something else about him?” Mae asks.
“Please.”
“Eager, are we?”
“A little.” I try to downplay my curiosity.
Mae laughs. “Jace built my display shelf after the old one collapsed. He refused payment, even though he returned the next day tofixa rough spot on the corner.”
I remember everything around the cabin that needs repair. He must have the skill but not the drive. “He must be handy.”
“Oh, he was eager to help or build whatever someone needed. But that was before the accident,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “After that, he decided the world was done with him.”
I look at the cinnamon roll on my plate. My appetite is gone. “Let me pay you?—”
“Don’t even think about it, sweetheart.”
Mae has known me for a few days, yet she’s fed me twice and is sending me up the mountain with cinnamon rolls and a bag of good coffee for a man neither of us has any official claim to.Small townmust be a synonym forwe feed each other.“Thanks.”
“No, thank you. I have a feeling you’re just what Jace needs.”
I hope she’s right.
My next stop is the Timberline Tavern. Antler chandeliers throw warm light on the wooden booths. It smells like burgers and bourbon. I’m here to drop off the lending program flyers for Evelyn.
The bartender points me toward a back booth where a man is eating a late lunch.
He sits alone, shoulders broad under a worn denim shirt, sandy hair a bit rumpled. Mason Hale, I think, running through Evelyn’s description. The volunteer firefighter with the freckles. He certainly looks “built for physical work.”
I head over with my binder and Mae’s bag. “Mason Hale?”
“You must be Evelyn’s book consultant,” he says with a warm smile. “Heard you’re staying up at Jace’s place.”
“He’s been generous.” I pick my words carefully, remove the flyers from my binder, and set them on the table.
“He used to be. Generous, I mean. Not just with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jace used to come into the Timberline every Friday night. Sat at the bar, drank two beers, talked to whoever was next to him.”
