Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
The woman just wanted gossip. He couldn’t blame her. “Yes, ma’am. The troopers should be giving back my main truck any day. For now, I do have my plow truck, sans the plow right now. It’s sturdy.”
“That’s good. You haven’t lost that to the bank?”
“No, ma’am. I still own both trucks and have a full bank account.” Even after going into business with Amka, he was financially secure. He’d saved and invested well through the years, although he did miss having a steady job.
Flossy cleared her throat. “You’ll pick me up at one thirty.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And wear something decent. No grease.”
He glanced down at his T-shirt, already smudged from checking the undercarriage earlier. “I’ll shine my boots.”
“Oh, good. And since I have you…”
He ran a hand through his thick hair, sunlight flashing across the windshield as he rounded another bend. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I need some more firewood. I’m happy to pay you three dollars an hour if you don’t mind chopping some.”
“Huh?” He had to concentrate, but his body was still satiated and relaxed after a very energetic night with May. He already missed her, which was just crazy. He focused on the phone call. “Flossy, I cut wood for you last week. You have enough to last several months.”
“I may have given some to both Sally and Mrs. Robeson. That old bag didn’t have any.”
Considering Flossy was well into her seventies, if not eighties, he nearly choked. The ‘old bag’ was probably five years younger than Flossy. “That was very kind of you, and I’m happy to bring you more wood for your fire.”
“Oh, good.” She tisked her tongue. “Is three dollars an hour okay?”
She was absolutely messing with him now, wasn’t she? “Actually, I think it’s a little too much.” He barked out a laugh as the truck bounced over a shallow rut. “How about just some of your ginger snap cookies?”
“Oh, well.” Her voice warmed immediately. “I suppose that would be okay.”
He actually loved those cookies. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, you have a good day now. Maybe think about doing something productive,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and she hung up.
He chuckled and set the phone on the seat beside him. Truth be told, he’d enjoyed being called on for odd jobs during the last six months. It was definitely the town’s effort to force him back into the air, back to a job he had once loved, but it was nice being useful. And frankly, his bridge game had improved greatly this last year.
May played poker and was good at it, but now he most certainly knew her tells. He’d have to be careful not to take all her money next time they had a game in town. The thought pulled a slow grin from him. She’d try to act cool about it, all doctor calm and collected, but her left eyebrow would twitch every time she bluffed. He’d noticed it more than once.
The road narrowed as he wound farther along the mountain and hung a left onto Briar Trail Road. It was basically one lane with trees pressing in on both sides and potholes filled with rainwater. The truck dipped and rocked as he eased around the deeper ones. Sunlight filtered through the spruce in broken patches, flashing across the hood and windshield. The forest still smelled damp from the storm, rich and clean.
It was a nice day in the Alaskan wilderness, and it felt good to be home.
They really needed to pave this stretch, but getting cement and asphalt all the way out to Knife’s Edge wasn’t simple. Most of it would have to be done by hand, and there were always bigger priorities. He didn’t mind the rough roads. They kept things quiet.
He twisted around a downed tree that had been dragged halfway off the shoulder and continued up the incline. Smitty’s A-frame log cabin came into view through the trees, smoke curling lazily from the chimney now that the sky had cleared.
Smitty’s dented blue four-wheeler sat out front of the A-frame, parked crooked beside a stack of split logs. One of the rear tires sagged low, the left one nearly flat. Ace would have to fix that. The old trapper ran everything into the ground before getting repairs done.
Ace cut the engine, cleared his throat, and took a steadying breath before hopping out of his truck. Within seconds he was at the front door, knocking once with his knuckles.
The door opened to reveal Harold Smith Jr. “Hey, Ace.”
“Hey, Smitty.” Ace held out a full bottle of Crown Royal.
“Gee, thanks.” Smitty accepted the large bottle, weighing it in his hand like he was calculating ounces by feel alone. He stood at least six foot eight, broad enough to block most of the doorway. Thick gray-white hair stuck out in uneven waves. His eyebrows were legendary and bushy enough to qualify as wildlife, while his brown eyes missed nothing. He was Inuit, full-blooded as far as Ace knew, and had lived in these mountains longer than anyone could remember.