More Than Magic

Chapter Two-2

“Great.”

“He’s writing a book or something and I think he wants to keep a low profile—get off the beaten path,” Trish added.

“Well, mission accomplished.”

There was a snort on the other end. “And I suspect he’s late because he got lost and wandered around trying to find you.”

“If they get lost that easy, the—”

“—mountain don’t want ’em,” Trish finished. “But your Pops never turned anyone away who eventually found their way to the gate, as I recall.”

“True,” Grace conceded.

“So, are you really all by yourself up there in the back of beyond?”

Grace managed a grim smile. Trish was, despite her mountain-savvy, a city gal herself. Asheville was nestled in the mountains, but it was still quite the cosmopolitan place. “I’ll be fine. Assuming your guy really is an upstanding citizen. Besides, I have Pooka and my trusty 12-gauge security system.”

“Well, I’d prefer that you had a nice hunk of human security system up there. But don’t worry, he checked out. He may be an unwelcome guest, but he’s certainly not a dangerous one.” She paused. “And he’s quite a hunk himself.”

“Uh huh.” Grace was skeptical. Trish thought pretty much any guest with a Y-chromosome was a hunk. “I thought you said he’d been sick.”

“Well, he’s a bit pale and thin for my taste, but definitely a charmer. Too bad Ouida’s not up there. She’d have him bulked back up in no time.”

“So, he doesn’t look like he’s still ill?” Grace probed.

“No. I mean— Well, he was only here for a bit. He looked a little jetlagged, is all.”

Grace relaxed, but only slightly. “Well, thanks, Trish. Sorry about the confusion and interrupting your sleep.”

“It’s okay. I have some of your ‘night-night’ herbs around here somewhere.”

“Glad to hear it,” Grace replied. “I’ll be sure to send you some more.”

“Thanks. Take care, Grace.”

“You too.”

She ended the call and signaled Pooka to stay on the porch as she continued on up the stairs and through the front door. It was a shame the mountain hadn’t discouraged their unexpected guest. But, seeing that he was apparently the bookish sort, perhaps she could persuade him that this was not really the best place for his writing pursuits.

“Welcome to Woodruff Herb Farm, Mr.—” What did Trish say his name was? She sighed and shook her head. “‘Mr. City Man’ as Jamie would say. Welcome to Woodruff Herb Farm, Mr. City Man. We have black bears, coyotes, foxes, wild boar, and the occasional mountain lion up here.”

Grace went into the farm office, retrieving her shotgun from the gun safe and slinging it over her shoulder. Then she went down the back stairs into the cabin storage to retrieve a cloth-lined basket full of linens, towels, and sundries as well as the cabin keys, which dangled on the peg under the Jewelweed label. The Mayapple was the furthest from the main house, which was where she would’ve preferred to put him, but its refrigerator had given up the ghost at some point this week and, although she wanted Mr. City Man to leave, she didn’t want to ruin the farm’s reputation to accomplish it.

They would reopen the cabins soon. And they would start up production again. And then, as Daniel had said, she would get back to her life—her future plans. Everything would get back to normal around here and one unexpected guest was not going to derail her efforts to get there.

No. She would simply be a very gracious and solicitous hostess, secretly hoping to scare off her guest. When she emerged from the mud room door, Pooka ran over and trotted beside her to the graveled parking area.

“Yes, boy, we have a guest. And your job is to make sure he stays up in his cabin or leaves in his car. I don’t want him wandering all over the place and getting underfoot. Or hiking off into the Pisgah and getting himself lost. Okay?”

The dog c****d his head, then turned his attention back to the east. Grace waited for the confirming bleat of the proximity sensor at the entrance to cabin parking. Had the guy gotten lost on the farm road? If so, it didn’t bode well for the rest of his stay.

She sat the basket down at the end of the cabin walkway and Pooka followed her up the hill into the trees. The road went through a huge meadow her grandfather had long ago christened Star Crossing. Pops had told her the new name was much more descriptive than the old Woodruff Meadow, since he often had to stop on the road to the house to let a few stars cross.

Grace’s smile faded as a wisp of fog curled through the trees and around her feet. The smoky tendrils glided over the damp leaves with a sigh of sound.

“There’s something wrong with our mountain, Gracie-girl. You’re the only one who’ll hear it too.”

Grace’s breath caught in her throat as she emerged onto the edge of the silvery meadow and saw the lanky figure standing there in the grass, unmoving, gazing raptly up at the stars. He seemed barely tethered to the earth—poised to launch himself into the sky. She had the strangest feeling that if he opened those tightly clenched fists, he would fall upward.

Apparently this was their unwanted guest—standing in the damp grass next to his SUV. It was surprising that he would stop to watch the stars cross. Most of their city visitors were so utterly earthbound that they had to be told to lie down in the grass before they noticed the majestic dance above them. Yet he stood there, as unmoving as a statue.

Trish was right. It was clear even from here that he had just recovered from an illness of some kind. And it had left its mark—sculpting hollows on his face and leaving his clothes hanging a bit loose on his tall frame. His hair looked dull even under all that luminescence.

She reviewed all the viruses, cuts and scrapes, and near-broken bones that she had dealt with up here over the last few months. She could manage something bigger. Especially since he had recovered from it. Whatever it was. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Control. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.

Putting on her gloves, she slipped back into the trees and made her way gingerly down the hill. She certainly didn’t want their guest to spot her spying on him.

By the time the dark SUV crested the hill and drove into the graveled lot, she was standing next to the basket at the end of the path up to the cabins.

When he got out, the solar lights in the parking area and up the walkway didn’t reveal much more than she had already seen—tall, pale skin, short dark hair, slim build. He was almost gaunt, if what she could see of his face in the shadows was any indication.

He lifted his hands in the air, eyeing the shotgun slung over her shoulder, but smiling in spite of it. “My receipt for a week’s cabin rental is in my back pocket,” he said. “Your agent can verify—”

“She did. Don’t worry,” she cut in. “The gun’s for other dangerous critters that might wander in, not you. Can’t be too careful up here.”

He looked around and lowered his hands. “I see. Well, sorry for the late hour. The trip up here took a bit longer than I expected.”

His smile broadened as he spied Pooka. The hound looked up at Grace for permission, and she nodded. She watched Pooka advance, tail wagging slowly. Instead of sticking his hand into Pooka’s face as most people would, their guest stood still, inviting Pooka to approach. Well, he got some points for knowing how to greet a strange dog, anyway.

“What breed’s this fellow?” he asked as he stooped to greet the dog.

“Plott hound.”

“Plott hound?”

“The state dog of North Carolina. Bred to hunt bear and wild boar,” she replied. “Which still wander by now and again.”

“Bear and wild boar, huh boy?”

Pooka grinned as only Pooka could and nearly wagged off his tail as Mr. City Man ruffled first the fur on his shoulder and then his back.

Mr. City Man’s smile was bright and genuine. And there was at least one dimple too, hidden in a slight shadow of stubble. Coal black hair, now that she saw him a bit closer.

“And what do they call you, boy?”

It was a nice voice, Midwestern, or perhaps further north than that. Cultured and metropolitan, for all that he was trying not to sound citified. But a nice voice nonetheless. Pooka liked him too, butting his head against the man’s hand for more stroking.

“Oh, he gets called all kinds of names, some of them not repeatable in decent company, but he goes by Pooka most of the time,” she said. “Although some of our youngest guests insist on calling him Poo.”

There was a stifled snort of a laugh and she realized she was failing miserably at scaring him off.

“Can’t say I know him well enough to lay that on him. And since he hasn’t sniffed me properly yet, he doesn’t know me well enough either. We have to do all the rituals, don’t we, boy?”

Grace watched with admiration as he earned Pooka’s total adoration with a quick rake of fingers down his back and a thorough butt scratch, allowing the dog to sniff his trouser leg and the arm of his jacket. Pooka knew better than to sniff anywhere else.

“You’re better trained and more polite than most city dogs. But then, I understand completely, seeing who likely trained you.” The last was a husky whisper right in Pooka’s ear, but Grace felt it tingle in her own.

His eyes slid up to hers. Soft gray, like unpolished pewter. She stepped back as he stood, extending his hand.

“Nick. Nick Crowe.”

“Y-yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Crowe.” She held out her hand.

He grasped the leather-covered hand firmly in his own. “Please, call me Nick.” His smile quirked sideways and that dimple appeared once more. “Unless there’s some ritual involved before we can use our given names?”

She pulled her hand away, nearly losing the glove when she did.

“Quite a hunk”, Trish had said. Quite a hunk indeed.

“I’m Grace. Grace Woodruff.”

“Woodruff. So you’re—”

“The owner. Yes. As Ms. Moore probably told you, we’re on a skeleton staff right now.” A skeleton consisting of one bone. Oh yes, and Jamie, and Pooka. Two bones then.

“Trish explained all that. I’m afraid I twisted her arm a bit to get up here, but— Well, this place is perfect for my purposes. Did she tell you I was writing a book?”

“Yes she did.” And I bet you charmed the socks right off of our Trish, Mr. City Man. Grace pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “She also said you had recently been ill. I hope you’re feeling better.” There, that was circumspect.

“Yeah. Well, it’s kind of obvious, I guess.” He gestured to himself apologetically. “I picked up this nasty parasite in Colombia while I was down there working on the book. It took a lot out of me, but we beat it down. I figured staying up here a while could only do me some good and the docs agreed.”

Parasite. Columbia. What the hell kind of book are you writing, Mr. City Man? “A parasite. How interesting. Do you happen—”

He grinned, waving his hand. “Trish warned me you might give me the third degree, but to be honest, I have no idea. Can’t pronounce it. Don’t want to. I’m just glad to be rid of the thing.” The gray eyes seemed to dance a bit. “But if you want to try some of your famous herbal medicine on me, I’d be glad for any help putting on some pounds.”

Grace assessed the man before her. He did look like someone debilitated by an exotic fever of some kind—nearly burned out and left a husk. There was evidence the man took good care of his body, or had before something nearly killed him. His eyes seemed clear though.

“So, any remedies to recommend?” His voice was teasing and Grace realized she had been staring a little too long.

“I hesitate to recommend anything without the details,” she said, looking away. She gestured to Pooka who trotted obediently to her side. “But your doctors were right. Simple food, good clean air and water, mild exercise, and sound sleep should speed things along. If you remember the name of the parasite and any details of your treatment, I’d be glad to make some suggestions.”

“Well, since I’m doing a good job of forgetting the whole experience, I may have to stick with the simple food, clean water, and sound sleep approach.” Nick looked around at the trees. “But I should’ve brought a white noise machine, I think.”

She frowned. “For what? We don’t have any loud machinery here. And there are certainly no traffic noises.” She waved toward the house. “Our chickens are quite a ways downslope beyond the solar array and the greenhouses, and the rooster—”