Читать книгу North Country Man - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 9

“HIS SCARS?” Claire barely heard her echo. She was thinking about Noah Saari’s face. Did he have scars? She couldn’t say; there’d been too much beard. A little chill gripped her. Scars. The poor guy. Was that why he’d grown so much hair?

“Facial scars,” Cassia said. “That’s the rumor. I don’t know if anyone has actually seen them.”

“Myron has,” Toivo said.

Cassia rolled her eyes. “Oh, Myron! You can’t believe a word he says.”

“Sure you can.” Toivo hitched up his pants. “Myron was visiting the Saaris the day Noah came home after the fire. The boy hadn’t grown a beard yet. Myron seen his face. Seen it clearly.” Toivo nodded emphatically, rocking on his heels, all the motion making his round belly jiggle. “Myron says the scars were red. Infamed. Up the side of Noah’s face, down into his collar. Mebbe they go right to his toes. They say his clothes got burnt right off him in the big blaze.”

“You don’t know that,” Cassia protested. She shook her head at Claire. “He does not know. Myron Mykkanen is the biggest gossip in town. He tells a good story, but he exaggerates like crazy.”

“Scars from head to toe,” Toivo said. “That’s what Myron says.”

“Toivo’s partner in crime,” Cassia stage-whispered.

Claire swallowed. “Well, I didn’t see any scars.” Even to her own ears, she sounded unsure.

“What did you see?” Both Cassia and Toivo looked highly interested.

“Very little.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Cassia rubbed her delicate hands together. “How often do we hear of an honest-to-goodness Noah Saari sighting? He’s been hiding away in that cabin ever since he came back to Alouette. The only person who sees him regularly is Wild Rose, who works at the Buck Stop, where Noah buys groceries. And she’s not very talkative.” Cassia sighed. “Won’t give away a single fun detail, even when I beg and cajole.”

Toivo joined in. “Noah’s parents don’t see him much, neither, not since he fixed up the cabin. Back when, the mayor and Sheriff Bob wanted to give Noah a medal, but he flat-out refused. Always was the quiet type.”

“There was only mention of a medal, Toivo. Don’t you remember the fuss that that Terry Lindstrom kicked up? The mayor wouldn’t go against the Lindstroms,” she advised Claire. “They’re one of the founding families who live on the hill. That’s their house, right next door.”

“I can’t see anything from my window but water and trees,” Claire said, then remembered her glimpse of the neighboring house from the Bay House parking area. And the unfriendly man.

“Trust me,” Cassia muttered darkly, “they’re there. It’s the big white house. The Lindstroms live there with their oldest son, Terry.”

Toivo chuckled. “You’re just holding a grudge because of the way the youngest boy used to tease you—”

“I’m not listening,” Cassia sang, pressing the toggle on the controls of her chair and moving smoothly into the jungle of the foyer. “I’ll talk to you later, Claire,” she called over her shoulder. “I want the inside scoop!”

Claire gave a small wave. There was no inside scoop. She was, however, even more intrigued than before. This Noah fellow was a character, apparently. They didn’t seem to think he was dangerous, though. She remembered her instinctive retreat when he’d loomed over her, seven intimidating feet—or so it had seemed—of muscle and hair and animal magnetism. She could picture white teeth and the way his hard eyes had softened with whimsy, but the rest was a blur. She’d been worried about being ravaged by a bear. Who knew she should have been looking for scars?

Claire slipped on the light jacket she’d brought downstairs. Even though it was a sunny spring day, she didn’t intend to be caught underdressed again. At the front door, she stopped and looked at Toivo, who was watching her with interest. Gossip, she thought.

“I’m going to look for my purse.” It wasn’t that she was scared. The wise thing was to tell someone where she was going. Just in case. “On the road leading into town—I forget—”

“County road 525.”

“Right. That one.” She fixed her collar as she stepped onto the porch. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Toivo came to the door. “You won’t see him. Not ’less he wants ya to.”

Claire hurried away without looking back. No use explaining herself, even though the innkeeper’s words followed her as she drove down the hill. Between Toivo and Cassia, the entire household would soon be thinking she’d gone looking for Noah Saari, mysterious man of the wilderness, when all she wanted was to retrieve her purse. Really. If Noah was a recluse, she wouldn’t dream of barging in on him. He’d been kind to her, but they weren’t friends. His life—and scars—was none of her business. She couldn’t interfere.

Just because she was fascinated…

Just because she was cursed…

Claire made a scoffing sound as she reached the bottom of the hill and slowed to make her turn. The story of Valentina was no more than a colorful fable to tell the guests. The Bel Vista publicity department would eat it up. They might even market it. Valentina soaps, candles, sachets. Valentina postcards. Cliff-side tours. Maybe even a Valentina reenactment every year on the fateful wedding date.

It would be awful. But they’d make money. And so would the town. Emmie and Toivo would be well paid for the marketing rights to their family name, if they had the foresight not to sell them along with the house.

Would they? The question gnawed at Claire, a good sign that she was already too involved in these people’s lives. She was supposed to swoop in, gather information, make a report and then leave the negotiations to the corporation. No need to start worrying about the aftermath.

Her gut cramped. Oh, dear. Some executive she made.

Deliberately, she focused her thoughts on the town. It was much as she’d envisioned last night—quaint and picturesque, the old brick buildings softened by spring flowers and the bursting foliage of mature trees. A number of businesses had opened their doors, but the downtown area wasn’t very busy aside from the occasional pedestrian and a few cars and other vehicles crisscrossing the intersection. Alouette businesspeople would likely welcome the increased tourist traffic of an aggressively marketed B and B inn. It wasn’t only the Whitakers she should think about. If she recommended that Bel Vista buy Bay House, it could turn out to be a boon to the town as a whole.

Uh-huh. So why did that feel like a justification?

She didn’t relax until she reached the desolate county road. The soothing quiet and the fresh green promise of spring spoke to her. In the dark, the forest had seemed foreboding. Now it was bright and alive…but all the same.

She drove slowly, looking for familiar landmarks. A tree was a tree was a tree. Coming from the opposite direction made it even more difficult to tell them apart.

She continued on to the Buck Stop, planning to turn and retrace her route. When she pulled into the sparse gravel parking lot, bumping across ruts worn into the dirt, she saw a woman lounging beside the crooked screen door, smoking a cigarette beneath a Live Bait sign. Would that be Wild Rose Robbin? The one Noah saw regularly? She was about medium height, a lighter weight than Claire but built sturdily. A strong woman. Or maybe that was the attitude she projected, even though half her face was hidden behind an unruly mop of dark hair.

Claire parked. She shut off the engine, then hesitated, wondering how she should approach the stranger, who was looking at her unfamiliar car with some suspicion.

The woman took a deep drag, dropped her cigarette and snubbed it out beneath her heel. Instead of leaving it, she stooped and picked up the crushed butt, exhaling twin plumes of smoke through her nostrils. She ambled toward the car. “Can I help you?”

Claire rolled down her window. “Maybe. Are you, um, Rose?”

The woman cocked her head to one side. “Wild Rose, yup.” She scraped back her tousled jet-black hair, revealing a face that was not as old and ravaged as Claire had expected. As if an employee had to be as run-down as the business—Claire scolded herself.

Wild Rose had a hard face, though. Her expression was sober and reserved, and her narrowed dark eyes had the weariness of one who’d seen it all. And maybe done it all, too.

Claire gulped. “I was wondering…do you know Noah Saari?”

Wild Rose’s shrug was neither a confirmation nor a denial.

“I met him last night,” Claire said, uncomfortable with the other woman’s scrutiny. She’d dressed casually this morning, in pants, a sweater and the trim suede jacket, but she was still bandbox perfect in comparison to Wild Rose’s disheveled hair, loose plaid shirt and scruffy, threadbare jeans. Rose’s boots were like Noah’s, built for rugged use, whereas Claire had on a pair of expensive black leather ankle boots with stacked high heels. You wouldn’t know to look at her that she’d grown up in T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. In her years away from Florence, she’d forgotten—purposely, she supposed—how to dress for the country.

Wild Rose hadn’t responded.

“He helped me get my car out of the ditch,” Claire prompted.

“Mmm.”

“I, uh, thought maybe you’d seen him this morning. He might have mentioned me? It seems I lost my purse, and I was hoping….” Claire let her voice trail off. She didn’t know what she was hoping. That Noah had found her purse and dropped it off at the Buck Stop, or that he’d been so awed by their meeting that he’d emerged from his lengthy hibernation to seek her out?

“Noah doesn’t come by that often.”

“But he was here last night.” Claire remembered the small brown paper parcel tucked inside his belt.

Wild Rose’s mouth pursed. “He had a craving.”

Thoughtful, Claire drew her teeth across her bottom lip. She really did not need to get involved in that. Her father hadn’t been a drunk or anything, but he’d tippled frequently enough that it had contributed toward his all-around laziness. Sam Levander’s name had been on the sign, but it was his no-nonsense wife who’d run the family’s thriving gas station and repair shop, leaving Claire to manage domestic duties.

“Does he live close by?”

Wild Rose folded her arms, one hand cupped around the cigarette butt. “Why’re you asking?”

“I’m Claire Levander, from Chicago. Here on…business. I’m staying at Bay House. I ask because I lost my purse, as I said, and I thought possibly Noah had found it.”

“He’ll return it if he did.”

“He doesn’t know who I am.”

“Does now.”

“Oh.” Claire blinked. “All right. Thank you.” She didn’t move.

“Anything else?” Wild Rose prompted.

“I’m—no.” She could hardly ask this taciturn woman about Noah’s past. Or his scars. “Thank you,” she repeated. “I’ll be on my way.”

Wild Rose nodded. She walked away, tossing the butt into a rusty trash can beside the door, then turning to look as another car pulled into the parking lot, spitting gravel as it braked hard. Wild Rose’s expression twisted and she fled inside, letting the screen door bang shut behind her.

Claire watched as the fair-complected man she recognized as the Whitakers’ next-door neighbor emerged from the black BMW. Lindstrom was the name. He glanced at her and she smiled, almost reflexively, feeling wary. He looked presentable enough, expensively dressed and good-looking in a conventional, slightly flabby way. Home in Chicago, her friends would have probably voted that this one was more her type than Noah Saari. But there was a sour air about the man that made her uneasy. As if he’d gone soft and rotten at the core.

Lindstrom stopped, leaning casually against his car while he evaluated Claire. She sat up a little straighter. “Hi.”

He nodded.

She was determined not to make another overture.

“You’re a guest at Bay House?” he finally said.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Terry Lindstrom.” Not boasting, but smug.

She wanted to say, “So?” Not a good idea. “Claire Levander.”

“Staying long?”

“About a week.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement behind the screen door. Wild Rose was watching.

Lindstrom slouched, both he and the gleaming auto looking out of place outside the Buck Stop. “If you want to escape the Whitakers to have a good time, give me a call.”

Hmph. Claire started her car. “Thank you, but I’m looking forward to staying in with the Whitakers. I hear they’re big on Scrabble.” She drove away with her head high, hoping that would be the last of Terry Lindstrom. Wild Rose was probably quite capable of dealing with his sullen attitude, although it was hard to imagine why the man would be slumming at the dilapidated store.

Claire cruised slowly along the road. There was no reason she couldn’t find her purse—or Noah—on her own. It couldn’t be that difficult. If she had to, she’d prowl through the underbrush until she found the path into the woods.

Minutes later, that’s what she’d come to. Either the trees had grown leafier since last night or she was hopelessly unobservant, but she wasn’t able to distinguish the right location until she’d parked and walked along the roadside. Eventually she discovered the log she’d run into, spotting the fresh yellow gash in the trunk through a gap of broken branches. From there, she was able to retrace her steps—more like a panicked zigzag if she remembered correctly—until she stumbled onto the overgrown trail.

Still no purse. She waded through the grass, looking for it, then stopped, setting her hands on her hips as she squinted into the woods. What now? If Noah had picked up the purse, he obviously hadn’t brought it to Wild Rose’s store. And she wasn’t sure, but hadn’t he made a comment about not owning a car? Or was that her assumption, because of his remote living quarters and simple lifestyle? She wasn’t accustomed to men who took nighttime strolls through the forest with a bear cub at their heels. It didn’t fit that such an anachronism would own a car.

What would it hurt to take a short walk into the woods, as long as she stuck to the trail, such as it was? Possibly she’d been getting her leg pulled, and Noah’s house was just beyond the trees, fully furnished, with all conveniences and a four-wheel-drive SUV parked in the garage.

Claire started off. She relaxed by degrees, slowing her stride to enjoy the twitter of birds in the sun-flecked trees. It was so pleasant, in fact, she walked farther than she’d intended, not ready to stop.