Angel of Smoky Hollow. Barbara McMahon

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      Reaching the log cabin built as if it grew directly from the forest floor, Kirk went straight to his phone. In a moment he was connected to Webb Francis at the hospital.

      “You expecting an Angelica Cannon?” Kirk asked after ascertaining his friend was improving.

      “Who?”

      “Some woman with a fiddle in a case, backpack, faded jeans and a secretive attitude.”

      “Doesn’t sound like anyone I know. Far as I can remember, no one’s going to show up to see me.”

      “Claims she was expecting to see you. I figure she’s going to try to talk you into giving her some lessons or something.”

      Webb Francis coughed for a long moment. Then said, “Not up to it. Send her on her way.”

      “I’m bringing her in to see you tomorrow.”

      “I’m not up to taking on a student. The doctors here can’t even tell me when I’m going home.”

      “Rest up. We’ll sort this out tomorrow. She’s staying at Sally Ann’s tonight. If you’re not up to seeing her, she can come back after you get well. Need anything?”

      Webb Francis coughed again. “Naw, I’m good. It’ll be good to see you, Kirk. Don’t know about some stranger.”

      “Take it easy. I’ll handle things.”

      “You always do. Good thing for me and your granddad you came home when you did.”

      Kirk stared out the window at the bank of trees. Good and bad. If he had not returned, he could believe Alice was waiting for him. Still—his grandfather needed him. He’d seen the sights he’d wanted to see. It had been time to return home.

      “See you tomorrow,” he said and slowly hung up the phone.

      Action kept memories at bay. He rose and went to the studio behind his house. He could get in some serious work this afternoon. And evening. And maybe think a bit more about the stranger who looked sad and lost and a bit scared. She presented a puzzle. Strangers didn’t come to Smoky Hollow often. Faded jeans and cotton top could be clothes of anyone. But her porcelain complexion and wide, tired blue eyes spoke of something different. Who had such creamy white skin these days? Her blond hair had been pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, sleek and shiny. What would it look like loose in a bank of waves framing her face?

      He shook his head. He didn’t need interest rising at this juncture. He knew enough to know whatever her story, she wouldn’t be long in Smoky Hollow. And he’d had enough trouble with women in the past. Something had always been missing. He didn’t think about it any more. He liked his life just the way it was now. No complications, no drama.

      And a tad lonely.

      He pushed away the thought when he entered the structure a short distance behind his house. He’d built both buildings himself, using the knowledge and skill he’d picked up from many construction projects over the years. From the outside, both the house and shed merely looked like log cabins. Inside he had utilized the finer aspects of carpentry that enabled the house to be comfortable and stylish. The studio was a different matter. With strongly insulated walls, it was cool in summer, warm in winter, and totally utilitarian.

      Standing in the doorway, he flipped on the switch. The daylight fixtures bathed the entire space in plenty of light. The tall windows added natural daylight. In the center of the building stood the sculptured piece of wood he was currently working. Five feet tall, it was not quite life-size. A mother with a baby in her arms and a child clinging to her knee, the semi-abstract rendition gave the illusion of motherhood everywhere without details to features and age.

      The carving part was finished. He walked around it, studying it from every angle. Next was the final stage—sanding until it was as smooth as glass. Then applying the stain that would bring out the natural luster of the wood. Bring the statue to life. He reached for the first sandpaper and began long even strokes down the length of the back.

      Caught up in his work, he didn’t realize the passage of time until he felt the pangs of hunger. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was after midnight. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. Time to take a break. He placed the staining cloth in an airtight container, put the used sandpaper in the trash.

      Studying the figure once more, he was pleased. The deep stain had highlighted the grain of the wood. The smooth finish was pleasing to touch. He knew Bianca would snap it up for her gallery. He’d take photos tomorrow to send to her. Once they agreed on price, he’d load it up and deliver. She was always asking for more work. But he did the pieces as the mood struck.

      It was cooler than expected when he stepped outside. He walked the familiar path from his studio to home with out light. He knew every inch of his property—and most of the surrounding properties as well. Another way to keep the memories at bay, walk in the dark where he could become attuned with nature, and forget the curve balls life some times threw.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ANGELICA ARRIVED at the store several minutes before ten the next morning. The two older men she’d seen yesterday were both in the same spot. Had they spent the night there?

      “Good mornin’,” one said.

      “Morning, miss,” the other echoed.

      She greeted them both and then turned to look down the road. She hadn’t a clue in which direction Kirk would come from. Probably not from the B&B as he had walked back toward the store when he left yesterday. She hoped he’d meant it when he offered her a ride. She hadn’t a clue how to get to Bryceville on her own.

      “Nice day,” one of the men said.

      “Beautiful,” she agreed. Then took a moment to really appreciate the morning. It was already warm, but not as hot as it had been yesterday. The tall trees were widespread, shading a good portion of the store and parking lot. She could hear birds trilling in the branches. She tried to remember the last time she’d noticed birds singing in the morning. She rarely opened the windows in her high-rise apartment. And when she did, it was traffic noise she heard, not birds. Her parents’ home in Boston had huge elm trees in the yard, yet she couldn’t remember ever listening to birds. How odd. Was she so oblivious to what was going on around her?

      A low rumble sounded to her left and she looked that way. In only a moment a motorcycle roared into view, stopping when it reached the porch. The throaty purr of the engine filled the morning air. Taking off his helmet, the driver grinned at her.

      “Ready to go to Bryceville?” Kirk asked.

      She stared at him and at the big black-and-chrome motorcycle, fear and fascination warring. “On that?” she almost squeaked. She’d never ridden a motorcycle in her life! What if it crashed? She flexed her fingers. What if she spilled onto the pavement and damaged her hands?

      “I have an extra helmet,” he said, unstrapping it from the back and holding it out to her.

      Angelica stared at it for a moment. She looked into his eyes which seemed to challenge her. The seconds ticked by. No one spoke. Only the trilling of the birds filled the silence. Almost fatalistically she stepped off the porch. She had come into СКАЧАТЬ