Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
However, there was also a picture of a little kid in a little kid’s basketball uniform.
A kid who could be none other than a very adorable young Hutch.
He was standing next to a tall, dark-haired, good-looking man in full police uniform. The man had his arm proudly wrapped around Hutch’s narrow (then) shoulders. Hutch had a medal hanging from his neck.
That I couldn’t ask about.
So I didn’t ask at all.
His house consisted of a good-sized living room.
A kitchen big enough to fit a six-seater kitchen table.
And five other rooms: office (scarily cluttered); romper room (very organized, blankets and towels folded neatly in a corner, huge crate already filled with new toys, line of sturdy puppy bowls, another line of fluffy dog beds); a guest bath (no nonsense); and the master (king bed with blue sheets and green comforter, no design (but soft), two nightstands, two lamps, a dresser and the fireplace) with a full bath attached.
He was a man who trained dogs, played guitar, had friends, homed pets, saved wildlife…
I could see he wasn’t a man who spent a ton of time worrying about home décor.
I liked my space nice and homey.
Weirdly, I found Hutch’s space nice and homey.
But the kitchen.
God.
It was a dream.
Whoever built this cabin poured their money into that, and it hadn’t been changed, maybe in over a hundred years, if my keen, experienced eye wasn’t deceiving me.
Ornately carved wood lower cabinets. Farmhouse sink. Glass-front upper cabinets. Butcher block counters.
And an old black iron, wood-fired stove that had extraordinary fretwork adorning its front and three different brass latch-handled sections for cooking different things at different temperatures.
It was elaborate, I knew it was worth a boatload of money, and if you wanted to try to replicate it with electric or gas, you’d be paying in the five figures.
Behind the stove there was a hammered tin backsplash and the whole thing was framed with a substantial, intricately carved wood piece that looked like it belonged in a church. Or a castle.
Sure, if you wanted to whip up a batch of cookies, it might be a pain in the ass to have to start a fire to do it.
But, dang, it was pretty.
I enjoyed the show, watching while he came out of the bathroom and to the bed, claiming me at the same time pulling us both under the covers.
When he was on his back, and I was where he put me—propped up on his chest with my lower body off to the side—his arm resting along the small of my back, I asked, “Did you know your kitchen is probably worth as much as this whole cabin?”
He did a very slow blink and said, “Come again.”
“Just one of your upper cabinets would sell for over a thousand at an antique auction. The craftmanship is crazy.”
“You want me to auction my kitchen?”
The very thought made me instantly nauseous.
“Good Lord, no. That thing probably came west in a covered wagon, guarded by shotguns held by whoever paid a substantial amount of money to get it in the first place. The man who put that in this house loved his wife, that’s for certain.”
“He did,” Hutch grunted.
Ooooo.
Interesting!
“You know the history of this cabin?” I asked breathlessly.
He stared at me a long beat before he said. “Trapper named Chisolm Beckwith cleared this patch and built the house with its offerings.”
“Wow,” I breathed.
“This big bedroom and bath were added on later.”
“Okay.”
“Apparently, Chisolm cut a fine figure in Misted Pines.”
I smiled. “Ladies’ man?”
“They wished. Loner. Back then, MP wasn’t a twenty-minute drive. It was a couple-hour horse ride away.”
“I see.”
“The ladies all went for their smelling salts when he came to town with his tanned furs, though.”
This I had to see. “Are there pictures of him?”
“Maybe. Somewhere. But I don’t have any.”
“Bummer,” I mumbled. Then prompted, “So, that wife he loved?”
“Clementine Cosgrove.”
I laughed. “Oh please, tell me that’s her real name.”
He grinned at me. “It was.”
“Keep going,” I urged.
“Clementine hadn’t had it good. Child bride of a union soldier who had the bad luck to die in the final days of that war. She hooked up with another guy who, probably, put her ass in a covered wagon and took her west. Got here, he got tuberculosis. Lasted for a spell, but it eventually took him. She was stuck all the way across the country from her family, with a house and two kids to look after, and no money. But the west wasn’t won just by men. The women did their part, like they always do. She took in boarders, did washing and had some fences built in her backyard around tubs. Word was, she had water heating on her stove twenty-four hours a day. She sold baths. I guess that was a thing.”
I scrunched my nose.
“It fed her kids,” he reminded me.
I changed my mind. “Go Clementine.”