“You intend to get married at some point, I hope?”
Mac set his boots aside and wiggled his toes inside his wool socks. “Maybe. I suppose. I’m in no rush, but someday, when I meet the right woman.”
“And how do you intend to do that? You’re either working or camping alone in the woods.”
“That’s not true. I have dates.”
“With who?”
“Like with…Kathy.”
His mother made a dismissive sound. “That was months ago, and you were never serious about her. I could tell.”
“Mom, I love you, but you have to stop pushing.”
There was a pause on the other end. “I can’t uninvite her.”
“I suppose not.” His phone beeped. “Listen, I have another call.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yes, you’ll see me tomorrow. Bye, Mom.” He disconnected and picked up the new call, which turned out to be Jillian Vickers, one of his favorite people. He wished her a happy Thanksgiving.
“Same to you, Mac,” she said. “Hey, have you heard anything from our weekend renter, Beth Tierney?”
“No, I haven’t.” He frowned. “Why, is there a problem?”
“I’m not sure, but I would really appreciate it if you’d go over and check on her.” Noise in the background indicated Ken was mumbling something. “Last time we were there, we thought we heard a leak in the kitchen, maybe under the sink.”
“Really?” Mac sat up straighter. “You should have called me. You don’t want water damage on those oak cabinets.”
“I know, but I…I sort of forgot about it. I’m sure it’s nothing, but could you take a quick run over there and check?”
“Sure.” Mac reached for his boots. Something about this situation wasn’t adding up. Ken was a stickler for details. Jillian might have forgotten about a leak, but Ken wouldn’t have. He’d either have made sure he’d fixed it himself or phoned Mac. Still, Mac wasn’t about to refuse a request from such great customers.
“I realize I’m sending you out in the snow,” Jillian added. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Gives me a chance to try out my new snow tires.” He pulled on one boot. “I’ll give you a call after I go over there.”
“Thanks, Mac. You’re the best. Talk to you soon. Oh, and her name is Beth Tierney.” She hung up.
I know, Mac thought. You already told me that. He was halfway over to the Vickers’ cabin before he figured out what was bothering him about this errand. Instead of calling him, Jillian could have called the renter. No doubt the woman had a cell phone with her, and the rental agreement would have that listed.
Oh, well. Maybe Jillian hadn’t thought of that. No doubt she was cooking and cleaning in preparation for the big Thanksgiving dinner with her family and she was distracted. He was nearly at the cabin, anyway, and he was pleased with the way his new tires gripped the road. This really did give him the chance to test them out, so it wasn’t a wasted trip.
Anyway, if it turned out there was actually a leak, he needed to fix it before those beautiful cabinets suffered. He’d refinished them just last summer, and the image of water dripping on them made him wince.
Parking the truck in front of the cabin, he turned up his coat collar and grabbed his toolbox out of the camper shell in the back before going to the door. He smelled wood smoke, which meant she’d built a fire.
He pictured the roaring fire he would enjoy once he finished this chore. The temperature had dropped significantly in the past hour, and he was ready to go home and settle in for the night. He knocked briskly.
When the door opened, he blinked in surprise. He hadn’t thought much about who was renting the cabin, but in the back of his mind he’d wondered what sort of woman would deliberately spend Thanksgiving weekend alone in a mountain cabin. He might have expected some eccentric old lady who’d had it with the Thanksgiving Day hype and wanted an escape. He certainly hadn’t expected Beth Tierney to be young and beautiful.
Not that she was trying to be beautiful. She wore a faded UNR sweatshirt, baggy sweats, and—he couldn’t help smiling when he saw them—sock-monkey slippers. Her dark brown hair was caught up in a haphazard ponytail, and her face was bare of makeup, which only emphasized the soft green of her eyes. Any woman who could look that appealing without trying captured Mac’s attention.
“I’m Mac McFarland, the handyman,” he said. “Ken and Jillian called me about a potential leak.”
“Oh!” She glanced at the toolbox in his hand. “I’m sorry you’ve made the trip, especially in this weather. I fixed it.”
“So there was a leak?” He didn’t want to insult her by implying that she hadn’t fixed it, but he loved this cabin and he was crazy about those oak cabinets. A leak that could threaten the finish he’d painstakingly applied had to be investigated. By him.
“Yes, but I handled it. Thank you for coming by, but everything’s under control. Happy Thanksgiving.” She started to close the door.
He put his hand on the door. “I believe you…” Although he didn’t, not really. “But would you mind if I double-check the situation to see if it’s dripping again? Leaks can be tricky.”
“You don’t think I fixed it, do you?”
She seemed pretty confident, but he still wanted to look for himself. “I’m sure you did, but I promised to report back to Ken and Jillian after I checked on things.” He smiled. “It’s what they pay me for.”
She hesitated and finally shrugged. “I suppose you wouldn’t want to jeopardize your work relationship with them.”
“I’d rather not. They’re good customers.” He gave her points for being understanding.
“Okay, then.” She stepped away from the door with obvious reluctance. “I’m sure the pipes are fine, though, and I’m kind of busy right now.”
He glanced at the cozy fire, the glass of wine, the cheese and crackers, and a yellow legal pad with some things scribbled on it. “Are you a writer?”
“No.”
So much for that attempt at conversation. Damn, now he was curious. Maybe she’d recently broken up with someone and this was how she was dealing with it. He couldn’t imagine anyone giving up on a woman who looked like her, but she could have a boatload of bad habits.
As he walked into the kitchen area he noticed a toolbox sitting on the floor beside the row of cabinets. He gave her more points; no women he knew traveled with a toolbox.
And it was definitely hers, because Ken and Jillian kept whatever tools they needed hanging inside a locked closet by the back door. Ken had made the decision not to give renters access to the tool closet, which Mac thought was a wise move—not so much for fear of theft as for incompetence.
Mac took off his heavy parka and draped it over a kitchen chair. Then he crouched in front of the sink and opened the cabinet doors. They moved smoothly on their hinges, exactly as he’d intended when he’d put in all-new hardware last summer.
Nothing was dripping now. He rolled onto his back and scooted under the sink to examine the pipes and fittings. All was well. “Would you turn on the faucet for me, please?”
She walked over, her monkey slippers whispering against the wooden floor, the scent of