Alaska Home. Debbie Macomber

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СКАЧАТЬ married Dotty Harlow, the health clinic nurse. Then Mitch Harris, the public safety officer, and Bethany Ross, the new schoolteacher, had fallen in love. Some women had come to Hard Luck and stayed; others had quickly moved on. Those who did stay became so integrated in the community it was sometimes difficult to remember who was new to this rugged, beautiful place and who wasn’t.

      Mariah liked writing long, detailed letters about the happenings in Hard Luck as much as Tracy liked reading them. She appreciated Tracy’s friendship and support more than ever.

      Mariah’s family had been convinced she wouldn’t last six months. But her parents had underestimated her tenacity; Tracy hadn’t.

      Mariah continued walking toward her small cabin. As she strolled past Hard Luck Lodge, Karen Caldwell stepped out onto the porch. Karen was four months pregnant, and radiantly happy.

      “Mariah,” she called. “I hear you’re going on vacation. That’s great. Where are you headed?”

      This was one thing about living in a small community that still astonished Mariah. There were few secrets, although people did seem to respect each other’s privacy. It wasn’t as though they were eager to spread gossip; it was more a matter of genuine interest and concern. News was passed along in a friendly sort of way, often at Ben Hamilton’s place. Almost everyone in town stopped in at the Hard Luck Café at least once during the week, and some more often.

      Mariah joined her friend on the front porch of the renovated lodge, which had once belonged to the O’Hallorans and was now owned by Karen’s husband, Matt.

      “Who told you about my vacation?” she asked, curious to learn how the news had made the rounds.

      “Matt. He had coffee with Ben after John Henderson was in this morning.”

      That explained it. John Henderson was Duke Porter’s best friend. Duke had obviously mentioned he was flying her into Fairbanks, then John had told Ben and Ben had told Matt.

      “I’m meeting Tracy Santiago in Anchorage,” Mariah said. “I’ve been in Alaska over a year now, and I thought it was time I played tourist.”

      “Have a great trip,” Karen said. “But don’t let the bright lights of the big city dazzle you.”

      “Not to worry. This is my home.” And it was. Mariah had no desire to stay in Anchorage—or return to Seattle. Her commitment had been for one year, but she fully expected to settle in Hard Luck permanently. The cabin, for whatever it was worth, and the twenty acres of land promised her in the contract had been deeded to her. Mariah had achieved what she wanted. Nothing held her in Hard Luck now except her love of the community and those in it.

      Especially Christian.

      * * *

      Christian walked into the Hard Luck Café and slid onto a stool at the counter. Ben Hamilton was busy writing the dinner special on the blackboard. Moose pot roast in cranberry sauce with mashed potatoes and gravy. Christian studied the board intently.

      “A little early to be eating, isn’t it?” Ben asked.

      “Of course it is.” It was only four-thirty, and he generally didn’t have dinner until six or later.

      “You just ate lunch three hours ago,” Ben reminded him.

      Christian knew exactly when he’d had lunch. He hadn’t come into the café for food. He wanted to complain. Sawyer had barely left, and already Christian felt at the end of his rope. Between dealing with Mariah and the increased workload, he’d completely lost his composure. He sure hoped Sawyer didn’t stay in Fairbanks longer than a couple of days.

      “You got something on your mind?” Ben asked, leaning against the counter.

      “Yeah.”

      “Well, I’ll tell you what I said to young Matt not so long ago. If you want advice, it doesn’t come free. Not anymore.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Did you come in here to eat or to talk?” Ben asked curtly.

      Christian had noticed a difference in Ben’s temperament ever since he’d started his frequent-eater program. Apparently he’d decided that from now on, nothing was free. Not even speech. Christian was almost surprised Ben wasn’t charging him for sitting on the stool.

      “How about some coffee?” Christian muttered.

      Ben’s mouth formed a slow grin. “Coming up.”

      Christian righted the mug and Ben promptly filled it. Staring at it reminded him that Mariah had made coffee for him nearly every morning for a year. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d told her he liked his coffee black. Some days she added sugar, some days cream, some days both. But he could count on one hand the days she’d gotten it right.

      “So what’s bugging you?” Ben asked.

      Christian shook his head. Now that he was here, he didn’t feel inclined to share his woes. More than likely, Ben would side with Mariah the way his brothers had.

      “If you’ve got a problem, spit it out,” Ben said.

      “You going to charge me?” Christian asked jokingly.

      “Nah, I’m just trying to sell a little coffee.”

      Ben probably sold more coffee than some of those all-night diners in Anchorage, but Christian didn’t say so.

      “If you’ve got something on your mind,” Ben pressed, “best thing to do is get it out.”

      “It’s nothing.”

      Ben’s laugh was skeptical. “My guess is it involves Mariah.”

      Christian glared at the older man. “What makes you say that?”

      The cook lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Whenever I see you frown, it usually has to do with her. After all, you’ve been complaining about Mariah for over a year.”

      “Not that it does me any good,” Christian said with ill grace. “According to everyone else, the woman walks on water. Is there something wrong with me?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

      “She’s a sweetheart, Chris.”

      “Not to me, she isn’t.” She might be as wonderful as everyone said, but Christian doubted it. “We can’t seem to get along,” he mumbled.

      “Have you ever stopped to consider why?”

      “I have, as a matter of fact,” Christian said. “I read an article in one of those airline magazines—oh, it must’ve been three or four years ago. It was about a man who walked from one end of the continental United States to the other. Took him months. People from all over asked him what he’d found the hardest.”

      Ben frowned. “Are we still talking about Mariah?”

      “Yes,” Christian insisted. “The writer who was doing the interview suggested the hardest part must’ve been the heat of the desert or the cold of the mountains.”

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