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“Hoodoo is prettier than Aurora.” After a sidelong glance, Mark placed one foot on the bottom rail and his elbows on the top rail in exact imitation of the neighbor. “Do you think she minds?”
“I doubt horses think in terms of pretty. And Hoodoo is actually her son. I did have her bred the once.”
“Will you again? That would be amazing.” Her son swiveled enough to look over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t it be amazing, Mom?”
“I’m sure it would. Now, say thank you, Mark. We need to get those groceries home.”
“Do we have to?” His shoulders slumped when he saw her face. “Okay. Now they know me, I’ll bet they’ll come when they see me with a carrot.”
She mouthed the words “thank you” at Mark.
“Thank you, mister,” he said obediently. “You didn’t tell us what your name is, did you?”
“Didn’t I? That was rude. I’m Gabe Tennert.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ciara said, holding out a hand.
He looked at it for longer than was polite before gently engulfing it in his much larger hand. The rough texture of his calluses sent a tingle through her and, she suspected, warmed her cheeks.
“Thank you for stopping by,” he said, leaving her in no doubt whatsoever that he wasn’t at all glad for their visit.
“We’re going to get a dog,” Mark told him as they walked back to the van. “Mom said we could as soon as we moved.”
“If you do, please make sure it’s one that won’t chase horses or cattle.” There was no flexibility whatsoever in that deep voice now.
That was reasonable, Ciara supposed.
Mark got in, and she circled to her side.
“Do you have other children?” Gabe Tennert asked.
She paused. Somehow, she didn’t think he was hoping she’d say yes. “No, only Mark.”
He nodded brusquely. “Good day.”
Before she had so much as gotten the key in the ignition, he had hopped into his pickup truck and began maneuvering to back the trailer into an empty slot inside one of the barns. He didn’t even glance their way as she turned in a circle and started down the driveway.
Ciara surprised herself by wondering whether he had a wife.
CHAPTER TWO (#u72b72bd7-b2f7-5cf9-b331-4e5111cfad16)
ALWAYS AN EARLY RISER, Gabe was outside forking hay into the manger when the school bus passed the next morning. Without thinking about it, he’d known it was coming; the brakes squealed at every stop, and the Ohlers a couple of properties past the old Walker place had two kids that rode the bus.
Now he turned, thoughtful, when the bus lumbered on past without stopping next door. Would have made sense, when Ms. Malloy and her boy were in town yesterday, for her to have registered him for school, wouldn’t it? Today was Wednesday, though; maybe she meant to give him the rest of the week to settle in before he started.
April was a funny time of year to move, when it meant pulling a kid out of school and him having to start in a new one at the tail end of the year, Gabe reflected. Usually people with kids tried to move during the summer. Maybe this was following a divorce?
He shook his head as he unlocked the big double doors and let himself into his workshop. Why was he bothering to wonder about the new neighbors? All he cared was that they stayed on their side of the property line.
He always had several projects going at various stages. Today he settled down immediately to measure and mark what would be the pins and tails of dovetail joints, these particular panels to be sides and backs of drawers. He almost never used any other kind of joint but dovetail for drawers, liking the solidity and elegant appearance. Although they could be cut with router and jig, he preferred to use traditional hand tools.
Securing a solid board of alder with a vise, he reached for a dovetail square and pencil. Despite the care required, long practice meant he was able to let his mind wander as he worked to mark where cuts would be made.
That boy—Mark—was an odd duck. The mother hadn’t said how old he was, but he had to be almost a teenager. Middle school, at a guess. What had he been? Five foot nine or ten, Gabe thought. Clumsy, but a lot of boys were at that age. Gabe’s mouth twitched. God knew he’d been a walking disaster for several years in there, when he was outgrowing pants and shirts so fast, his mother despaired. Sometimes he’d felt as if those gigantic feet had been transplanted onto his legs during the night. He had to stare at his feet when he was walking to make sure he was setting them down where they belonged. Unfortunately, that didn’t work when he wanted to run or climb a ladder or even race up the bleachers in the gymnasium.
It wasn’t the clumsiness that suggested the boy was a little off. And maybe Gabe was wrong—but he didn’t think so. Mark’s excitement was more like a younger kid’s than a near-teenager’s. The way his mother seemed to be coaching him, too, as if he were a kindergartener who hadn’t yet learned to say please or thank you.
Grudgingly, Gabe conceded the kid had been nice enough, though. And he had known a surprising amount about horses and the breed of quarter horse in particular for someone who obviously had done his learning from books or on the computer rather than real-life exposure. Was the mother thinking of buying a horse for her son? Gabe hoped she wouldn’t rush to do so without seeing that he get some lessons first. And making sure the enthusiasm wouldn’t wear out three months down the line.
He continued to work methodically, out of habit marking the “waste” sections—the parts he’d be cutting out and discarding—with Xs, then, finally, reached for a dovetail saw as his thoughts reverted to yesterday’s two visitors.
The mom had an unusual name. Ciara. Irish? Probably. She was exceptionally pretty, he had to admit. Eyes so blue, a man more susceptible than he might liken them to the sky just before twilight or the vivid gleam of sapphire. Hair darker and not quite as bright as Hoodoo’s sleek sorrel coat. Envisioning it, he thought, bubinga. Bubinga was an exotic hardwood he liked and used on occasion. Harvested in West Africa, it was a reddish-brown with fine, dark lines that created interesting patterns, as if the coloration was made up of distinct strands. Yeah, that was it, he thought, pleased with the comparison.
She had the complexion of a redhead even if her hair wasn’t quite the classic red or auburn. Creamy pale, with a scattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks. A pretty mouth—not too thin, not too plump. She was a couple inches shorter than her son, five foot six or so, at a guess, and willowy. Long legs and long fingers, too. Gabe wasn’t sure why he’d noticed that, but he had, when she laid her hand briefly on her son’s shoulder in a sort of gentle caution. Seeing her do that had sent an odd little shiver through him, as though—
He frowned, discovering that his own hands had gone still, and he was staring into space, his attention no longer split. Ciara Malloy had filled his head, and he didn’t like it.
—as though she’d been touching him. The sensation had been eerily real. Her hand could have been resting on him. He’d liked her touch.
Too long without a woman, he thought irritably, while knowing he wasn’t going to do anything about it. He missed sex—damn, but he missed it. The idea of bar pickups and one-night stands held no appeal, though, and his couple attempts since Ginny’s death at having an ongoing lover hadn’t ended so well. Maybe in the big city there were women who only wanted a casual lover, but here in Goodwater, anyone he hooked up with started envisioning diamond rings and moving in. Since he couldn’t imagine wanting that again, well, he’d decided he could survive living celibate, as long as he avoided temptation.
Which meant it would be safest all around if he had as little to do with these new neighbors as possible.
Comfortable with his conclusion, Gabe reached for the saw. No reason the pretty mom and boy would be interested in him. They’d make friends soon enough, and he’d be nothing but the reclusive man next door, whose horses they happened to see out their kitchen window.
There might be a whisper of sadness when he thought of himself that way, knowing he’d end up like Ephraim Walker, a man who, toward the end, had had to depend on the distant kindness of people who didn’t even much like him. And Ephraim, at least he’d had a son.
But Gabe knew himself well enough to be sure he didn’t want to risk again the kind of devastation he’d barely survived once. He let the brief sadness go and concentrated on something that did give him pleasure—the texture and smell of fine woods, the miracles his hard work and skill wrought from plain-looking beginnings.
He was like the most ordinary of boards, he decided, solid, reliable, but nothing astonishing likely to spring out at the touch of stain or linseed oil, and that was fine by him.
* * *
CIARA REACHED THE end of a seam and grabbed her small scissors to snip the threads. Without the whir of the machine going, the silence of the house struck her.
If Mark had finished the reading she’d assigned him, he was capable of concentrating by the hour on drawing or looking up something that interested him on the internet. Still...it was awfully quiet.
“Mark?”
No answer, which meant he wasn’t in his room. She left the pillow cover she was working on sitting in a small heap on her worktable and went to check Mark’s bedroom anyway. Empty. So neat, it belonged in a model home, but that was just Mark. One argument she’d never have to have with him was over cleaning his room.
She headed downstairs, calling his name but receiving no response. The social-studies book lay closed on the kitchen table, neatly aligned with the square corners of the table. The worksheet beside it appeared to be filled out. She flipped it over to be sure he really had finished. Yep. Ciara felt a twinge of worry that it had been way too easy for him. And boring. If she found some reading on local Indian tribes, or early white settlement in Eastern Washington, maybe that would be more gripping than standard stuff about the executive branch of the federal government. But he did have to learn the basic stuff, she reminded herself, and she had to be sure he’d pass end-of-the-grade-level tests, which meant sticking to the standard curriculum, didn’t it?
A worry for later. All she had to do right now was get him through the last couple months of the year. Then she could plan better for eighth grade.
There was no reason to be concerned because he’d gone outside. It was a nice day, and he was mostly sensible. She could guess just fine where he was. Those damn horses fascinated him, despite the fact that they were refusing to come to the fence no matter how he waved carrots at them or tried to whistle like their owner did.
But when she stepped out onto the porch, she saw them peacefully grazing down the slope toward their own barn, and no sign whatsoever of her son.
“Mark?” she called again.
She gave brief thought to returning to work. What kind of trouble could he get in? Even if he’d wandered as far as the road—and why would he?—no more than a vehicle or two an hour went by. More likely he’d wanted to explore the back section of their land, including the creek, which should be safe enough. Yesterday she’d looked up the distribution of rattlesnakes in Eastern Washington and been relieved to find they were rare to nonexistent in this upper corner of the state.
Ciara went back into the kitchen, grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and popped it open. Maybe she’d walk toward the creek herself, just to be sure. She’d feel better to definitely know that he hadn’t left their property.
* * *
“HI. ARE YOU BUSY?”
Gabe straightened from the bin of boards he’d been sorting through and saw Mark Malloy standing at the entrance to his timber store. This corner of the barn, walled off from the rest but for a wide doorway, held his supply of solid boards, veneers and smaller pieces of exotic woods. This space had a ceiling, unlike the rest of the barn with its high rafters and loft that hung over what had been stalls. A dehumidifier protected his stock of wood.
“This barn is my workshop,” he said. “Yes, I’m working.”
“You don’t look like you’re working.”
“I’m choosing some pieces of maple for a particular job.” He didn’t know why he was explaining, but did.
“Oh.” The boy came to his side and gazed into the bin. Right away, he asked why Gabe didn’t just grab a bunch of boards.
Gabe found himself explaining his criteria for this and other jobs, again without entirely understanding himself. He didn’t want to hurt the kid’s feelings, he told himself, but wasn’t sure that was exactly it.
Mark helped him carry half a dozen boards to his Felder saw.
“Your mom know where you are?”
“She was working.”
Lucky Mom.
“But she wouldn’t mind. She said I couldn’t go into the pasture, but she didn’t say I couldn’t visit you,” Mark confided with a winning smile.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Gabe asked, leaning one hip against a workbench. Or had school already let out? It occurred to him belatedly that Ciara might have driven her son today.
“I’m homeschooling.” The kid’s tone was odd, maybe stilted. “I went to school back where we used to live—you know, near Seattle—but Mom got mad at the school so she said she could be my teacher.”
Gabe knew he shouldn’t raise questions; all that would do was encourage the boy. But he was curious enough to risk it. “What grade are you in?”
“Seventh.”
“I see.” No, he didn’t. Did the mom want to give Mark an education steeped in religion? Or did she just not think it was fair for him to have to start at a new school so late in the year? “If you’re not going to school, you’ll have to find a way to make friends around here,” he commented. “It’s probably too late to sign up for Little League.”
Mark grimaced horribly. “I’m not very good at baseball.”
“Basketball? You’re tall for your age, aren’t you?”
“I guess, but I’m not very good at that, either. I hated PE.”
“You’ll grow into your feet,” Gabe said, nodding at them.
“How do you grow into feet?” Mark laughed nervously. “That sounds weird.”
“It’s a saying.” Gabe did some more explaining, this time about how bodies grow in fits and starts, and not always in a well-coordinated fashion. His own feet had reached their final size—a twelve—long before he’d attained his current height.
“Is that why baby horses—I mean, foals—look so different?”
“That’s right. They have to have long enough legs to reach their mother’s teats to nurse and to keep up with her when she runs. In the wild, they wouldn’t survive if they couldn’t run as fast as the herd. But it takes time for the rest of their bodies to mature so they’re in proportion.”
“Oh.” The boy shuffled his feet and hung his head. “I don’t think Hoodoo and Aurora like me. They won’t even take a carrot from me.”
Gabe knew why; he’d seen the kid a couple of times at the fence, jumping up and down and waving his arms and yelling to get the horses’ attention. God knows what kind of strange creature they thought he was, but it was unlikely to be a flattering conclusion on their parts.
“Did you remember what I said about staying quiet and moving slowly?”
His expression became mulish. “But if I just stand there, they ignore me!”
Smart horses. Gabe wished he could ignore the kid, too.
* * *
CIARA WENT OUT the kitchen door and made her way toward the creek that ran at the back of the property. In front, the land was all pasture, but sloping down behind the house was the beginning of a kind of open, dry woods that continued as far as she could see. The trees were evergreen, but there was no understory like there’d be in Western Washington, with ferns and salal and salmonberries, all encouraged by the generous rainfall. Instead there was thin grass and otherwise bare ground that she imagined would be really dusty once summer came.
Were there fish in the creek? She speculated about whether Mark would enjoy fishing. After a moment she made a face. She couldn’t picture him being willing to knock a wriggling trout he’d caught on the head to kill it. Or doing something as gruesome as cutting off the head. And Lord knows she didn’t want to do that part.
She ought to let him wander in peace. That was part of the beauty of owning a good-size piece of land, wasn’t it? If there was a raging river back here, that would be different, but he couldn’t drown in the creek, not unless he slipped, cracked his head on a rock and ended up unconscious and facedown in the water.
Her steps quickened. He did trip an awful lot. Still— Mostly, she just wanted him to let her know when he went outside and when he came back in the house. Plus, she didn’t know the dangers here. This was so different from any place she’d ever lived.
The day felt pleasantly like spring, blue sky arching overhead. Trees she thought might be cottonwoods clustered along the creek. Even so, it didn’t take her long to determine that Mark wasn’t here, either.
She cupped her hands and yelled, “Mark!”
There wasn’t any answer this time, either. Mild concern morphed into the beginnings of apprehension. She was running by the time she reached the house again. After bounding up the steps, she called his name one more time, but the same quiet met her. Damn it, where could he be?
Had somebody come by that she hadn’t heard? Would Mark have gone with anyone without having told her?
She grabbed her purse and car keys then raced back out. She’d go from neighbor’s to neighbor’s, driving slowly in between. She wouldn’t panic yet. A boy Mark’s age had no reason to feel a need to check in constantly with his mother. He wasn’t inconsiderate, exactly, but the idea of her worrying wouldn’t cross his mind.
Gabe Tennert’s first, she decided. Mark had been intrigued by him. Neither of them had yet met the people on the other side or the ones across the road. Although there were obviously some kids at the house a little ways down. Maybe—
She drove down her long driveway faster than she should have, dust pluming behind, turned right on the two-lane road then right without even signaling into Mr. Tennert’s driveway. As cool as he’d been, she was trying not to think of him as Gabe. That was too...friendly.
And friendly was the last emotion she’d feel if she found out he’d been letting Mark hang out without insisting her son call home first.
* * *
GABE KNEW MAD when he saw it, and there it was, vibrating in front of him, in the person of Ciara Malloy.
Mark didn’t seem to have noticed. “Mom! Look at all these cool tools Mr. Tennert has. And he’s like me. See? He has a place for everything, and he says he never quits work without putting every single tool away and cleaning up every scrap of wood and even sawdust.” He sounded pleased and awed. He hadn’t been as impressed by the huge band resaw or the pillar drill, grinder and sanding machines as he’d been by Gabe’s regimented ranks of clamps and the rolling chest with multiple drawers that held his tools, each placed as precisely in a slot designed just for it as a surgeon’s tools might be in the operating room.
