Cotton Grass Lodge
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Cotton Grass Lodge
by
DeNise Woodbury
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cotton Grass Lodge
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by DeNise Woodbury
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-283-7
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-284-4
Published in the United States of America
Praise for
COTTON GRASS LODGE
Winner of Third Place
in 2013 Southern Heat contest
Dedication
The support of the amazing women of AKRWA
made this work possible.
In particular, Maxine Mansfield,
who forbade me to change the first line.
Tam Lindsey, Lizbeth Selvig, Morgan Q. O'Riley,
Jennifer Bernard, Boone Brux and Jackie Ivie.
And yes, Cherry Adair, I finished the damn book.
A forever thank you
to Mr. Wonderful for being my hero.
Chapter 1
“Don’t you dare puke in my plane,” the pilot shouted over the high-pitched engine noise in the Cessna 185. “I’m not kidding.” She scowled and fumbled in the pocket attached to the rear of his seat, a harsh annoyance in the small of his back that sent pins poking along his arms.
“We’ve usually got one of those zipper bags in here someplace, damn it. If you get sick—” She pulled out a grungy stocking cap and threw it into his lap. “Use this.”
When she’d introduced herself, Hanna Reed had seemed attractive in a competent and no-nonsense way. Now, the attraction was gone. She looked like a demonic bug. Bulbous black headphones with short antenna covered her ears, tethering her to the electronics of the small plane, and iridescent sunglasses covered her eyes.
A head-pounding swell of sickness washed over Duncan. His sunglasses were no help against the brilliant snow-covered landscape. The din from the engine tumbled over him as if he were in a dryer full of drywall screws.
Last night’s celebration, with Carl, his partner in this hare-brained business venture, had filled him with more optimism than he’d had since John’s funeral. Now, with remorse battling the pain of his hangover, he was more uncertain. Duncan raised his voice, “Do you have a soda or sparkling water or something to help settle my stomach?”
“Nope,” she said. “Hang on. We’ll be there soon.” Her businesslike demeanor shut down further conversation as she concentrated on the airplane.
Duncan dropped the stocking cap between the seats. He’d rather die than be sick in front of this woman. There’d been paper bags for this purpose in every small airplane he’d ever flown in. What kind of business handed clients a stocking cap? Or a plastic bag for that matter?
Charlie’s Air Service went beyond unprofessional. The door into the hanger was marked by a four foot graffitied scrawl of black spray paint proclaiming it the office. Once inside, the room had smelled of machine oil, wet dog, and a burned coffee pot. He was sure the tattered broom hadn’t moved from its corner since Christmas, and this was one cold-ass day in April.
When Duncan left San Francisco three days ago, there’d been blooming cherry trees, a little morning fog, and fifty-eight balmy degrees.
Carl had said charter flights were the accepted transportation to the lodge. Given the number of airplanes he’d seen since he got to Alaska, finding another flight service wouldn’t be difficult. If Charlie wanted a new lodge owner to renew this contract, his customer service needed serious work.
The pilot shot a sideways glance at him, no doubt concerned only for the condition of her airplane, and Duncan concentrated on the face of his watch to distract his roiling stomach. Two o’clock. He’d been trapped in this flying can since noon.
Hanna moved her hands on the yoke, thumbed on the microphone, and started talking. He couldn’t hear what she said mainly because of the noise roaring in the cabin of the plane—or it could have been the blood thrashing around in his head. Nausea came in green waves, and he concentrated on not being sick. Adding to his misery, he was cold, and his soggy loafers even colder.
This morning when they left Anchorage, it had been overcast and thirty-six degrees. The dirty snow, piled around the faded yellow metal-sided hanger, had melted into unavoidable ice-skimmed puddles.
They flew over a seemingly endless expanse of frozen landscape. The snow-covered tundra ponds stood out from the muted brown and sharp black accents revealed by the melting snow. The lake they dipped toward now was larger than it looked on the map and surrounded by tall spruce and stark, leafless trees. A gray overcast sky reflected uncomfortably bright off the lake.
A stomach-lurching drop turned the airplane toward a strip of gravel scratched lengthways on the edge of the lake. Hanna touched his arm and pointed out the window of the plane. “That’s the lodge,” she shouted.
They flew over several structures strung along the shore. It wasn’t laid out as he had expected. Instead, a hodge-podge of buildings trailed off behind the imposing log house. Duncan tried to memorize the lay of the land. His land. His lodge. This project was a good investment with great profit potential. It was also the first impulsive, unplanned thing he’d done in sixteen years, and the reality of what he’d given up pushed bile to the top of his throat.
I will
not be sick. I will not be sick. It wouldn’t look good in front of the help.
They dropped toward the lake, and Duncan focused on the mottled colors of shadow-filled tracks meandering over the snow-covered ice. Animal tracks or people he couldn’t tell. A well-traveled trail across the lake was scalloped along the edges by parallel snow mobile rails winding around and through the path.
The trees and the scattered buildings rushed toward him. As the plane came closer to land, everything seemed to go faster and faster instead of slower. He grasped the seat on either side of his knees, bracing for another bone-jarring landing.
They’d stopped two times already. A freight run—why hadn’t he realized exactly what Carl meant? Each time they landed, people dressed in oversized boots and odd assorted combinations of cold weather gear met the plane. He’d had to endure waiting as what little warmth inside the plane leaked out onto the gravel while Hanna unloaded bags and boxes and collected handshakes and hugs.
The tires of the plane hit the ground, and Duncan felt like he got a full body-slam. An angry spray of rocks and frozen slush reverberated against the belly of the plane. They coasted toward the end of the incredibly short gravel strip and did a tight turn around.
“Bail out, last stop.” Hanna started taking off the headphones and wires tangled about her head and replaced them with a tattered lavender ball cap. She patted his arm and flashed a reassuring smile. “The fresh air will have you back to normal in no time.” She pulled her shiny black braid out of the bunched up folds of her hooded sweatshirt and released an unexpected smell of flowers and vanilla into the tight space between them.
Duncan groped to unhook the seat harness. His headache pounded. A resounding bass drum echoed throughout his body. He reached awkwardly under his right arm for the door handle and without warning it jerked open.
“Ahaa.” His surprised intake of breath brought with it the air outside the plane, cold ozone flavored with aviation gas.
A rough-hewn woman, her tanned face deeply lined, held the door. Gray-streaked hair escaped from a long braid looking as if it had been plaited sometime last week. The oversized, quilted flannel jacket she had on was stained several colors, torn at the elbow, and sprinkled with sawdust.
“I have to get out.” Duncan pushed past the woman and smacked his head on the wing strut as he misjudged the step and fell unceremoniously onto the slushy gravel.
“Hanna Reed, are you terrorizing the tourists again?” asked the gray-haired woman.
“So he thinks,” Hanna spoke from her seat on the other side of the plane. “And the stewardess didn’t have sparkling water.”
Duncan held his tongue. Retaliation seemed pointless.
“It wasn’t a bad trip in, but we had to stop a place or two.” She gave Duncan a one-sided smile. “Come on, you’re going to be fine.”
“The medusa speaks,” Duncan mumbled. “You fly like I drove when I was sixteen.”
“That coming from the guy on his knees.” Hanna jumped sure-footedly onto the ground, walked around to the passenger side of the plane, and threw an arm around the tall old woman. “Nell, you got a cup of coffee for me, sweetie?”
“Of course, but be nice. This guy is gonna buy the place.”
“Buy?” Hanna took a step back. “What? When did you sell?”
Nell waved a hand dismissively. “I told Carl I was thinking about selling the last time he came out to visit. Do you remember Carl?”
“Yes, of course I remember him.”
“He worked here couple’a years ago, nice fella.” The older woman pointed to Duncan, trying to climb to his feet. “Him and this guy called and bought the lodge.”
“Nell?” Disbelief washed over Hanna’s face. “He isn’t from Alaska. He—how could someone that’s not from here run your lodge? Is Carl coming back?”
“Hello? I’m standing right here?” Duncan brushed his hands over his wet, muddy knees trying to dislodge the gravel imbedded in his slacks. “Carl is my partner; he isn’t coming back. I’m here because we signed the papers yesterday. And yes, I can run this lodge.” He straightened up and promptly cracked his head on the wing strut, again.
Hanna sucked a sharp breath at the loud bonk to his head. “You’re too tall to stand up there. I’d stoop over until I got away from the plane—if it was me.”
Her deadpan remark goaded him. She obviously had no empathy. “Now, look here, I don’t usually lose my patience, but—”
“Stop it, both of you.” Nell bent over, slid her arm through Duncan’s and led him out from under the wing of the plane. “Mr. Mahoney, I’m Nell Janovich. Welcome to Cotton Grass Lodge. Come on, I’ll walk you up to the lodge, and we can talk. Hanna, you’re being mean. Get the four-wheeler and bring up the groceries.”
Duncan was gratified to see Hanna start to speak and stop, turning instead to work on unloading the plane.
Standing now, his head cleared in the fresh air. Its crispness stung his cheeks and rudely poured under his collar.
He and Nell walked up the rough beach to a path. Her arm rested on his, and she leaned on him as they climbed the slight incline away from the lake along the rutted four-wheeler track. Muddy water trickled and pooled, and Duncan took the low road to allow Nell to walk on the more even path.
“I haven’t ever been airsick before, and she wasn’t very understanding,” Duncan said.
Nell slowed. “She’s one of the best.” Her barbed gaze traced him from head to toe. “You weren’t airsick; you’re hung over. Nobody in his right mind wears an unlined leather jacket up here in April. It shows you’re from someplace Outside.”
Duncan’s shoulders shuddered under his dress shirt as if it were woven of steel wool. Were all Alaskans so sanctimonious?
Nell looked down at his feet. “Did you bring any other shoes?”
Duncan glared at his sodden loafers. “This is the second time today someone’s given me grief about my shoes. I was trying to make a good impression.”
Nell pulled forward again, and he winced as the slimy sensation of egg whites coated his toes. “Huh,” she said, “except your version of a good impression is dangerous. You ever hear of frostbite?”
