Wounded (a mystery and a sweet romance)

Wounded: Chapter 6

Two days later, Tara headed for the cabin’s front porch, clutching the mushroom binder before her like a shield. Even though she had a legitimate reason for visiting, she felt about as welcome as a door-to-door salesman singing the praises of vacuum cleaners and kitchen storage products. As she approached, she eyed the shed and trees, afraid the wolf would charge out from behind a woodpile, ready to defend its turf. She had come up the driveway this time, and the armada of no-trespassing signs had made the trail-side warnings seem like an afterthought.

She knocked tentatively on the door. Nobody answered. She risked a firmer knock. Nothing.

The jeep was in the driveway, so where was Malcolm? Inside and ignoring her summons? Or perhaps jogging shirtless on the beach again. That image distracted her for a few minutes, but she eventually sidled over to a window and peered inside. She didn’t spot anyone hiding under the bed or table to avoid answering the door.

“I am a snoop, aren’t I?” she whispered, drawing back.

“Yes,” came the unexpected reply from behind.

Tara whirled, her binder-shield held out before her. Malcolm and the wolf stood at the bottom of the porch steps, double witnesses to her prying eyes. He wasn’t topless and sweaty this time, though mud spattered his boots and jeans, and his hair was wet. Dampness about his shoulders and chest made his black T-shirt stick to his torso, nicely outlining what lay beneath. Fortunately, a curious sight at his side drew her attention away before it became overly obvious she had been staring at his chest.

“Is that... a picnic basket?” Tara asked. It looked like something Yogi Bear would stroll through Jellystone Park with, right down to the checkered cloth covering up the goods. “I wasn’t expecting you to have lunch for us, but I accept if that’s an invitation.”

“Do you,” he said, his dry, flat tone not making it a question.

Malcolm walked up the steps and she slid aside to let him pass. He walked inside and set the basket down on the table without making any move to lift the cover and reveal the contents.

“You’re done with my grandmother’s binder?” he asked.

“Yes. Ah, what’s in the basket?” Her curiosity had the best of her, and she knew she would struggle to pay attention to work until she knew what he had in there. Fried chicken seemed an unlikely guess.

“If I don’t tell you, can I assume you’ll poke in there and find out for yourself as soon as my back is turned?”

“No.” Tara lifted her chin defiantly. Under his unrelenting gaze and quirked eyebrows, she relented. “Not as soon as anyway. I would wait until you’re out of the room.”

“I see.” She couldn’t tell whether he was amused or not, but he did lift the checkered cloth.

Tara eased forward and peered inside. Oh, of course. Mushrooms. After typing up so much of the information in the journal, she could identify these by their caps, which reminded her vaguely of corrugated cardboard. Morels.

“I’m not showing you my picking spot or telling you who I sell them to,” Malcolm said, his voice still dry.

Information that was, she understood from the journal, rarely shared by pickers. “Not a problem.” She thought about telling him she was a city girl and couldn’t be tempted to tramp around in the mud for anything less than an obscene amount of money, but decided that wouldn’t impress him. “I was hoping for fried chicken, frankly.”

He carried the basket to the refrigerator. “If you’d had my grandmother’s pasta and creamy morel sauce dish, you’d change your mind.”

“I suppose I would be game to try it. Does that mean you cook?” Tara considered the open kitchen. It wasn’t filled with high-end pots and utensils, but it was well stocked.