| |
“Surprise!” Chase waved a hand at a small house a few miles outside of Van Zandt. Clumps of moss spangled the buckled shingles of the roof, and the place sorely needed paint, but the location was lovely, down a wooded road, backed up to the steep forested hills of the Chuckanuts. A tall maple dominated the front yard, its glorious scarlet leaves dancing in the autumn sun.
He’d refused to tell her why he had insisted on driving twenty miles east from Bellingham to show her this. The front door, made up of solid vertical planks of what looked like cedar, creaked as he pushed it open.
“What’s going on, Chase? Who lives here?” She stepped in, eyeing a dilapidated couch with a threadbare quilt thrown over it, an easy chair with stuffing sprouting from its back, and a sagging bookshelf full of moldering books. “Correction: who lived here?”
It was clear nobody had inhabited the little house for quite a while.
Off the small living room was a compact kitchen and dining area. The table and chairs filling that space were handmade; she could see the fine craftsmanship even under the thick layer of dust that coated them.
Turning to him, she put her arms around his waist. “Tell me! Does this have something to do with a case you’re working on? Did you find a mummified corpse in here?”
“The old lady who owned the place,” he said enigmatically, then, “I never met her.” His clear brown eyes were twinkling. He gestured toward the couch. “Have a seat. Back in a second.” Leaving the door open, he went out.
She perched carefully on the old sofa. The cushion sagged beneath her weight. A spring poked her in the left butt cheek, she shifted over a few inches. Not much better, but at least she wouldn’t have holes in the seat of her jeans.
Dust motes danced in the low afternoon sunlight that streamed in through the open front door. What she could see of the house was dirty and uncared for, but beautifully built. The walls were polished wood paneling of some kind, old-fashioned but handsome, and the ceiling was supported with thick wooden beams. Even the windows were framed in wood, their sills now stained by years of moisture. Stairs off the kitchen area led to a second floor, which she presumed contained bedrooms.
“Ta da!” Chase reappeared with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. He popped the cork on the champagne, and then plopped down beside her on the couch to pour. A cloud of dust rose into the air.
Sam sneezed. Then sneezed again. Wiping her nose with her hand, she took the glass of champagne he offered. Suddenly an unnerving idea streaked through her brain: Was Chase about to propose? Oh jeez, was he going to ask her to marry him? She’d just started a new job with the Bellingham Herald writing outdoor features for the Sunday paper. She wasn’t ready for marriage. He wasn’t ready, they couldn’t possibly—
“You’re looking at the new owner of this chateau.” He clinked his glass against hers.
She sneezed again. “What?”
He grinned at her, his teeth white against his olive skin and whisker-shadowed chin and cheeks. Where most Native Americans had difficulty growing beards, Chase’s face showed the Hispanic genes he’d inherited from his Mexican father. He’d have to shave and suit up before he went back to work, but she liked this easy-going flannel-shirt-clad man sitting beside her right now.
He took a sip of his champagne. “I bought this place.”
She gulped from her glass. Was it coming now? The proposal? “It’s beautiful, Chase, but it clearly needs a lot of work. When would you work on it?”
“I hoped we would work on it. It comes with twenty acres, and there’s an old barn out back. We could have horses if we want.” He drained his glass.
She drained hers. “Chase, did you quit the FBI? I never asked you to do that.”
“I know, Summer. And I appreciate that.” He stood up. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her up from the couch, then collected the champagne bottle and glasses. “Come see the upstairs.”
Following him up the steps, she stewed on the possibilities. He had quit his job for her because she was too stubborn to move to Salt Lake City to be with him, and eventually that would come back to bite her because he loved the FBI. He was waiting to spring the proposal on her until they were upstairs for some reason. Would there be rose petals strewn across a bedspread or some other grand romantic gesture?
Nope. A double bed with a hand-crafted headboard filled most of the bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs. Ordinary pillows and a modern comforter covered the mattress. Chase placed the champagne bottle and glasses on a bedside table.
“The bed is conveniently made up.” He flopped down onto the mattress and patted the space beside him. “I slept here last night.”
“Chase!” Kicking off her shoes, she climbed up and sat next to him, her back against the headboard. “Spill it! What’s up?”
He poured another glass of champagne and handed it to her. “I didn’t quit the FBI. But I’m moving here.”
She leaned in to give him a quick kiss. “That’s wonderful! But the commute to Seattle will be a killer, won’t it?”
“No, I mean I’m moving here.” He pointed to the bed beneath them, but she knew he meant this house.
“You quit the FBI?” As far as she knew, there was no Bureau office north of Seattle.
“You’re looking at the new head of the Northwestern Washington Safe Trails Task Force, headquartered in Bellingham.”
“Safe Trails, like hiking trails?” Her thoughts immediately flashed to Kim and Kyla.
“Don’t ask me why they call it that hokey name. It’s a program to work with local Indian tribes to combat drugs and gangs and casino violations on reservations. Turns out it can be useful to be an urban Indian after all. Or at least an FBI Indian.”
“Don’t you mean Native American?”
“Whatever.” He clinked his glass against hers. “Despite the grandiose name, I am the whole task force, the FBI side of it, anyway. The rest is the various tribal police heads.”
Her face hurt, she was smiling so hard. “So you’re going to be here all the time.”
“Actually, I have to drive to Quinault tomorrow.”
She rolled her eyes. The Quinault reservation was all the way over on the Olympic Peninsula; it would take most of a day just to get there.
“But when I’m not working, I’ll be here, querida.” He kissed her.
“Halleluiah!” She clinked her glass with his and then took a sip.
“One last time,” he said solemnly, raising his glass again. “To Kim and Kyla.”
Her throat tightened. “To Kim and Kyla, may they rest in peace.”
After taking another gulp of champagne, she kissed him again. “Thank you for that, Chase.” She sat back to study the small bedroom. “What’s this about us working on this place?”
“Well, I know you have skills, and—”
Something clomped across the ceiling above them, rolling noisily from one side to the other. They both looked up at the beams and planking overhead. The sound repeated.
“There’s a bowling alley in your attic?” she asked.
He raised an ebony eyebrow. “I heard that same sound several times last night. Squirrels?”
Sam snorted. “I’d say thirty pounders, with masked faces and bushy, striped tails.”
Chase tipped the champagne bottle toward her glass. “To new adventures in our lives.”
“With hammers and raccoons.”
“And love,” he answered.
Love and adventure and wildlife. Kim and Kyla would approve.
––––––––
~ END ~
