“Send Eric with a small party of men. I prefer your attention directed toward our houseguest, at least for the time being.”
Just in case.
Again Patrick nodded, a small quirk of his eyebrow the closest he came to questioning Malcolm’s decision. “As you wish, my laird. ’Tis a task well within the abilities of the captain of yer guard. I will see it done.”
Malcolm leaned back in his chair, the sound of Patrick’s retreating steps in his ears. Lifting a hand to his face, he massaged one finger across the bridge of his nose, giving thanks for his brother. If only everything else in his life could be as predictable and steady as Patrick.
Immediately, he sat forward, his eyes opened wide.
“I dinna mean it!” he offered to the empty room.
Best not give the old gods of Asgard any more targets this day.
Three
COMFORT,WYOMING
PRESENTDAY
WHERE THE HELLis she anyway? Hiding? She knows damn well I meant pumpkin, not pecan!”
“Now, Charlie, think of your blood pressure, darlin’. She’ll be right back.”
Dani Dearmon pulled the collar of her old sweater up against the wind and made her way through the early shower of snow crystals out to the ancient cottonwood tree, ignoring the upraised voices coming through the back door of the truck stop where she worked. She squinted against the biting sting of ice hitting her face and poured a capful of milk into the little bowl she’d fitted into the crook of the lowest branch.
“I certainly hope you appreciate this, Faeries,” she muttered, turning from the tree and making her way back toward the sprawling building and the argument she knew awaited her.
Not an argument, really, she corrected herself. More of a mini confrontation. But she was used to those now. Though they were old Charlie’s stock and trade, she’d learned long ago that he must have been the original inspiration for the saying about someone’s bark being worse than his bite.
“What’s this I hear ’bout you having an oven full of pecan pies?” The old man stood in the center of her kitchen, his short stature and scraggly beard making him appear more like an out-of-place gnome than the owner of the biggest truck stop on this side of the state. “You lost what little sense you had? Halloween means pumpkin! Pumpkin is what you have for holidays, gal.”
Dani turned from hanging her sweater on a peg by the door and smiled at the old man, taking time to pat his shoulder as she passed by him on her way to wash her hands.
“Not holidays at my house.”
“He’s talkin’ regular Christian holidays. The ones decent folks celebrate,” Verna, the oldest of the morning shift waitresses, added with a huff, her graying topknot shivering like a bowl of Jell-O as she spoke. “Not them evil Pagan things of yours. Don’t think we don’t see you sticking food out in that tree for your false gods.”
Dani breathed in the calming smells of her kitchen and smiled, doing her best to ignore her fellow worker. “My Aunt Jean made pecan pies for every holiday. And you know for yourself, Charlie, my pecan pies will draw in every cowboy and trucker for a hundred miles.”
As for Verna’s comment, she planned to ignore the woman. No point in arguing with her. How could she expect her coworker to understand something her own family never had? She knew from experience that she should just let it go. Still, she couldn’t stop herself. “And they’re not gods of any sort. They’re Faeries. Big difference.”
“Get yourself back out front to your customers, Verna, and leave Dani be. She can believe in whatever she wants to.” Charlie turned his scowl from one to the other of them. “No matter how crazy it is.”
The woman pursed her lips in irritation and snatched up one of the fresh pans of cinnamon rolls Dani had finished icing before she’d gone outside. With aharrumphobviously meant to include everyone, Verna disappeared through the swinging door into the front of the diner.
“Guess we don’t have any choice but to make do with what you got baking since you already did it,” Charlie grumbled, scrunching his face into a scowl. “Don’t know why I put up with your sass lip.”
“Because she’s the best baker in three counties and for some reason she likes us enough to stay on here and put up with you,” Charlie’s daughter answered. Evelyn, past fifty herself, grinned at Dani as she prodded her father’s back, urging him forward. “Come on, Daddy. Get out of Dani’s kitchen and let her do her thing.”
“I’ll do pumpkin next batch,” Dani offered as a consolation to the old man’s retreating back. “I promise.”
“Damn straight you will,” he asserted, snagging one of the fresh cinnamon rolls as he passed and stuffing it in his mouth. Dani shook her head, measuring out the ingredients for another batch of rolls, determined not to let any of this ruin her mood. This was the part of her day she liked best, early in the morning, when the kitchen was mostly all hers. Surrounded by the aroma of those things she’d made with her own two hands, she felt the closest she ever had to being where she belonged.
For a time she’d dreamed of going off to some fancy cooking school to become a real chef, but Aunt Jean’s death five years ago had put an end to that. Probably just as well. Being a real chef would likely have meant working in a huge restaurant in a big city, and she knew for a fact she wouldn’t have been happy in that environment. It simply wasn’t where she was supposed to be.
“Damn Faeries,” she muttered to herself, squishing the sticky mixture in the bowl between her fingers. Some days she honestly wished she’d never read that first book about them.
But she had, and from that moment on, she’d known in her heart they were real. More important, she’d known they had a purpose for her. A purpose and a place.
