Sharing Spaces (4 page)

Jack's headache was getting worse with every beat of his heart, as was the day in general, or what was left of it. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a silent groan. “That sounds like a personal
problem to me. Tell you what. If you're that hard up for a quick buck, I'll pay you a dollar if you make a pot of coffee for me,” he said. She was still brandishing the frying pan as though she'd like to whale him with it, and her nervous movements were making him dizzy and more than a little nauseous.

“This is not a joking matter,” she said.

“I'm not joking. I'll pay you up front if you don't believe me.” And then, as she began to erupt, he raised his hand. “Look, lady, like it or not, I own half of this house, half of the smaller cabin, half of a very mangy pack of sled dogs, half of the plane, half of the fishing lodge, and one half of each of those rusted-out trucks. Get used to it.” He gave her as challenging a stare as he could, given the circumstances. “The admiral and I were full business partners. I sank everything I had into it, and have no regrets except two. Your grandfather up and died on me, and he left his half of the business to you.”

Jack stood cautiously, holding onto the headboard. The room remained still. Good. If he could just get some fresh air, he'd be able to keep his stomach down. He reached for a clean undershirt. Rummaged in the bureau for a clean pair of socks, donned his favorite flannel shirt, and pulled on his boots. All the while she stood in the doorway, holding that big, greasy frying pan and watching him with the wary expression of a prison guard getting ready to move a dangerous prisoner into a maximum security cell.

“I'm sensing a streak of voyeurism in you, Ms. McCallum,” he observed as he picked his wallet off the bureau and removed a dollar. He held the coin out to her enticingly, but she clearly had no intentions of playing along. He sighed, stuffed it into his pocket, and looked
around for Chilkat. “C'mon, dog,” he said. “She isn't about to let you lick the pan.” Chilkat stood. “Chilkat can stay with me, at least for tonight. That'll give you some time to settle in and take a reality check, but don't think I'm hauling anchor permanently. I'll be back tomorrow.” He glanced around, wincing. “Hope you'll have the place cleaned up by then. Feel free to start with my room.”

“Where are you going?” Still frowning, still suspicious.

“I have a sweet-natured friend in Goose Bay. She's always glad to see me, and she makes a great pot of coffee. I'll save myself a buck and get a smile for a change.”

She had to turn sideways to let him out of the room, and he heard her footsteps following him down the stairs and out onto the porch. At the bottom of the porch steps he glanced back. She was watching him with that same wary stare and still gripping that damn frying pan. “Oh, and by the way,” he said. “The sled dogs'll need to be fed pretty soon. We feed them twice a day, meat stew or frozen fish in the morning and a soupy kibble mix at night. Water morning and night. The feed's kept in the small cabin out back, along with everything else you'll need. There's a list of the dogs' names pinned to the door, and their names are on their dog houses, too. Follow the path behind the cabin. The dog yard's just beyond the treeline, no more than a hundred yards from here. If you get lost, just listen. They howl like a pack of wolves.” He gave her legs one final appreciative stare. “I suggest you change your clothes before tackling that job.”

He turned and started for his truck, Chilkat trotting at his heels.

“Wait!” he heard her cry out as he reached for the door handle. Jack paused then turned. “You can't leave without showing me how to take care of the dogs.” She was looking and sounding a tad distraught.

“Right now, I need a gallon of strong coffee and a sympathetic friend. The dogs probably won't bite you as long as you put the frying pan down before you go into the dog yard. They don't like being threatened any more than I do.”

The color in her cheeks deepened as she looked at the skillet, then back at him. “I'm sorry, but when I first arrived, I didn't know who you were.” She waved her free hand about her head to drive off the mosquitoes. “I'll make you a pot of coffee, Mr. Hanson, if you'll just show me how to feed the dogs before you go. Please.”

Jack stood for a moment, considering her offer. “I dunno,” he said, rubbing his jaw. He thought for a few seconds just to make her suffer a bit more. “I'll stay, but only if you promise to serve that joe with a pretty smile.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hanson. I'll put the pot on.” She spun on her heel, still wearing that disapproving scowl and carrying the greasy frying pan. The screen door banged shut behind her.

He shook his head and glanced down at Chilkat, who never did get to lick the pan and so understood completely when he said, “No sense of humor.”

 

“T
HIS IS
B
ANE
,” Hanson said, speaking over the collective howls of twenty impressive-looking huskies less than thirty minutes later, having consumed an entire eight-cup pot of black coffee and looking marginally improved. “He's an Inuit husky, like the others, only he's considerably smarter than the rest. He was your
grandfather's lead dog. The admiral ran him up front with Belle, the dog next to him. Just remember, you can't run Bane next to another male. He'll kill him.”

“I believe it,” Senna said, keeping her distance from the thick-coated, yellow-eyed and very muscular sled dog. “And I have no intention of running any of them.” All of the huskies were behaving as if they would cheerfully tear each other apart if their stout chains didn't keep them from doing so. “Are they always this aggressive?”

“Only when they're awake. Here, I'll show you how to scoop the food, and in what order the dogs should be fed,” he said, taking the heavy five-gallon bucket out of her hand. He held a one-quart ladle in the other, and he made a rapid circuit of the dog yard, emptying two buckets before he was done and making frequent asides as he bent over each food dish. “This is Tiny. A real hard worker for her size and a sweetheart, too, aren't you, girl?” The small slender husky's ears flattened back at his voice, her eyes gleaming with pleasure. “And this is the mighty Quinn. My lead dog. The best of the best, better than Bane, and he knows it, too. Look at him. He thinks the world's his dog bone.”

Senna laughed in spite of herself as Jack filled Quinn's dish and the sled dog dove in. “They sure like to eat.”

“These dogs likes to eat almost as much as they likes to fight,” he said with a touch of Granville's rough Celtic brogue. He grinned at her for the first time and Senna felt an immediate whole-body response. “So. Think you can feed them by yourself tomorrow morning?” he asked as she struggled with an erratic heartbeat.

Senna shook her head, feeling the heat rush to her
face. “No. I mean, tomorrow's different. Mornings, the dogs get meat, right? I haven't seen that yet. You'll have to show me at least once, so I can get the hang of it.”

He picked up the empty buckets. “Okay. My friendly friend in Goose Bay awaits, but I'll plan on being back here by 7:00 a.m.”

Senna followed him through the gate. The dog yard was completely enclosed by a seven-foot-tall wire fence to keep the dogs safe from the wolves, or so Jack had informed her. She closed and latched the gate behind her and had to practically trot to keep pace as he strode back down the path toward the lake and the house. “Look, it's getting late,” she blurted, swatting at clouds of mosquitoes as they emerged into the open and lake water sparkled through the black spruce. “I'll fix you another pot of coffee, if you like. We have lots to discuss. Business-related things. You could tell me something about my grandfather's life here, all the things he did, and give me an idea of all the affairs I'll need to straighten out before I leave. Maybe you should just stay….”

He acted as if she hadn't spoken, kicking open the cabin door and setting the buckets on the floor by a deep laundry sink. The cabin brimmed with all the paraphernalia of an arctic expedition. Several dogsleds were suspended from the purlins, except for one which was on a work bench apparently having some maintenance done. Snowshoes, pack baskets, fly rods, two large canvas canoes, sacks of dry dog food, two big chest freezers, countless five-gallon buckets, shelves filled with tools and paint cans… Senna gazed about her in awe as Jack washed his hands at the laundry sink, wondering at this secret life of her grandfather's.

“I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe we
should start over,” Senna began again as he reached for a towel. “I'm a very good cook….”

He leaned his rump against the sink as he dried his hands. That grin of his kick-started her heart again. “Is that so?” he said, his gaze holding hers a little too closely for comfort.

“I'll fix supper for you,” she said, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. “You'll feel much better with some food in your stomach.”

His grin broadened. He turned and hung the towel back up then went to one of the chest freezers and lifted the lid. “How are you with wild beasts?”

She moved to stand beside him and peer into the dim recesses. Half of the freezer seemed to be allocated to blocks of dog meat, the other to packages wrapped in freezer paper. She picked one up. “What kind of wild beasts?”

“The smaller packages are caribou. The larger are moose. Your choice. The cuts are written on the package.”

“I've never had caribou.”

“Have you ever tried moose?”

“I'm from Maine, Mr. Hanson. Of course I have.”

“If you liked moose, you'll like caribou even better. And please don't call me Mr. Hanson. Jack works just fine for me.”

Senna lowered her eyes. “How many packages?”

“Two if by caribou, one if by moose.”

Senna chose two of the caribou steaks. “Caribou it is, then, and whatever else might be in the kitchen.”

“No promises. Your grandfather was particular about his fare, but he didn't eat much in his final weeks, and I haven't paid much attention to the larder since he
died. My guess is that the wake cleaned the cupboards out.” He gave her a quizzical look. “What day is it, anyway?”

“Tuesday,” Senna said, and then, wondering, asked, “What day did you have the wake?”

“It began Saturday afternoon, right after the service,” Jack said.

“Did many people attend?” Senna asked, curious as to what kind of friendships her grandfather had made in this faraway place.

“The church was packed. There were some hymns and singing, and the preacher said all the necessary words. Then John Snow Boy spoke. Too bad no one could understand what he was saying because I'm sure it was better than the preacher's spiel.”

“Was he drunk, too?”

Jack uttered a short laugh. “John Snow Boy doesn't drink, but he speaks English, Inuit and Innu fluently. Trouble is, he mixes them all up into his own language. We call it Innisht. Very colorful but way beyond interpretation. Afterward, there was a pot latch, that's traditional in this neck of the woods, and then we all came here for the wake. Goody made sure all the kids were herded back home by midnight, and to tell the truth, I don't remember much after that.”

Senna held the two icy packages of caribou and followed Jack as he left the cabin and headed toward the lake house. “Mr. Granville mentioned he had a sister named Goody.”

“Goody Stewart. Kindest soul that ever walked this earth. She lost her husband eight years ago, and then fell in love with your grandfather. Would've married him, if he'd only asked.” Jack never slowed as he spoke, just
strode along in that big way of his that Senna was beginning to learn.

“Why didn't he?” she asked, struggling to keep up as he climbed the porch stairs and opened the door.

“He said she deserved to be happy,” Jack replied, giving her the briefest of glances as he passed through the doorway and headed for the kitchen. He gave the room a quick three-sixty and shook his head. “By God, if Goody ever saw the place like this, she'd skin me alive. Those steaks should thaw quick enough if we put them in cold water. Meanwhile, I'll take you out to the lake where we can begin discussing our new partnership.”

He held out his hand for the packages of caribou, sealed them up tightly in a plastic bag, then placed them in a large kettle of water on the countertop. Chilkat watched all of this with his intense wolfish expression but remained plastered to Jack's side.

“There's no partnership to discuss,” Senna said. “I'm selling my grandfather's half of the business, and I have two weeks to get everything in order.”

“Two weeks,” Jack said. “That's not much time, considering what you have to see and do. You'll change your mind about selling the business when you see it. Bug juice.” He handed her a can of mosquito repellent as he headed for the door. “Be liberal with it.”

“What exactly
is
there to see?” Senna hurried after him, aware that her heart rate was way above normal. Undoubtedly she was stressed about this executor stuff, but she guessed that Jack Hanson's insufferable arrogance might have a little bit to do with it, as well.

“You've met the dogs,” Jack narrated over his shoulder as he strode toward the dock, “you've seen the gear, the supplies, the houses. I'll show you the plane, and
maybe tomorrow, first thing, I'll fly you out to the river to see the lodge. It's accessible only by float plane or boat.” He was stepping onto the weather-bleached boards of the dock, and she was right on his heels.

“You're a licensed pilot?”

“I'm legal, and I have the paperwork to prove it.”

“How far away are these places you want to show me?”

“Far enough so's you'll know you're away from it all.” His eyes glinted with something akin to daring as he came to a halt and gestured to the plane tethered to the end of the dock. “The plane's good to go, if you are.”