Well, it would be.
If it weren’t in such disrepair.
Ridiculously excited, I climbed the steps, took out the keys I’d just collected from the realtor, and unlocked the front door. Letting the door swing inward, I stepped inside.
The front living room was small and cozy. The original fireplace hadn’t seen a lick of warmth in years. The wooden floorboards were blanketed in dust, but sunlight cracked in through the bare windows, making dust motes spin like allergy galaxies through the empty room.
The tall ceilings made the room feel bigger but the house had a chill in its bones. Being empty and unloved for a few years would do that.
I knew exactly how it felt.
Walking through the arch to the kitchen and running my hand across the countertop, I then had to wipe my hand on my jeans. I didn’t care. In fact, it made me smile.
Maybe I hadn’t stopped smiling yet.
My new house. My new life.
In Hartbridge, Montana.
The tiny, little town where Dad and I’d stopped last Christmas, the bed and breakfast having been kind enough to give us a room at the last minute. The tiny, little town I’d come back to in June, very much alone instead of with my husband who’d decided the day after my father’s funeral was the perfect time to announce he was leaving and wanted a divorce.
“Life’s too short to be unhappy,” he’d said.
So I’d arrived to spend the weekend in Hartbridge feeling all kinds of lost, and I left having found a new sense of purpose.
A charming town full of friendly faces, smiles, and warm hellos. The perfect place for me to start again.
I found a house—a very rundown house—on the outskirts of town. I’m sure the realtor thought I was crazy, but I wanted it. Given I was no longer employed, no longer married, I had nothing but time to fix it up.
To make it really mine.
I turned on the kitchen faucet. A pipe somewhere clunked and whined, a puff of resistance coughed into the sink, followed by a trickle of water, but after a few moments, a decent stream poured out.
I wasn’t game to try the hot water faucet. I hadn’t even turned on the power on yet. I wanted a plumber and electrician to look at it first. They were scheduled to come out the next day, so I wasn’t in any hurry to burst a pipe or start an electrical fire.
Old houses, especially those left unlived in for a time, were known for such things.
Apparently.
Not that I had any clue.
I could barely change a light bulb.
Had I bitten off more than I could chew? Absolutely.
I was way in over my head . . . I was so out of my depth, not even the coast guard could find me.
But what I was, more than overwhelmed or scared, was determined.
I was going to make this place mine.
Before I’d even had another look at the bathroom, a loud rumbling noise got closer and closer, and I realized it was a truck approaching.
I guess I had new house sounds to learn now.
An old red dump truck with Henderson’s Sawmill written in cracked yellow on the side panel came slowly down the drive, and I checked my watch. A little early, but I’d take that over being late.
I walked out onto the porch, and the driver’s window rolled down. “Morning,” I said cheerfully.
All I could see in the darkened cab of the truck was a brown beard and a wide smile. “Where would you like it?” he said over the rumble of the engine.
Looking at the load of chopped firewood in the back of the truck, which I assumed he was referring to, I pointed past my car, down the side of the house. “Uh, there’s a shelter . . . thing . . .” I yelled over the sound of the truck. “I think that’s for firewood?”
Well, it was now.
He gave a wave and the truck rumbled louder and chugged down the side of my house. He turned the truck away, backed it up, cut the engine, and tipped the bed up.
I stood back and watched the load of firewood tumble to the ground, and when it was done, the bed went back down, the cab door opened, and the man got out.
He was a giant.
Well, not literally.
At about six-foot-four, he was also at least three feet wide. His shoulders and arms . . . He had Popeye arms. He had short brown thick, woolly hair and a scruffy brown beard. He wore denim overalls over a red plaid shirt as if he’d stepped right out of an old Mountain Lumberjack magazine.
As stereotypical as it could get, but somehow . . . perfect.
His smile was wide and warm, and his greeny-blue eyes were bright and friendly. He offered me his huge hand, which I shook.
Without knowing why, I liked him immediately.
“Clayton Henderson,” he said, his voice deep. “Folks around here call me Clay.”
“Gunter Zuniga. Nice to meet you, Clay.”
He looked back at the load of firewood. “You’ll be okay to stack this? You coulda got the smaller bundles already wrapped, but you wanted a full load?”
“I did,” I said. It would probably take me half a day to stack it, but it was what I was here for. It was crazy how excited I was to get this place into shape. “And it’ll be fine. I’ll get it done.”
He looked at the side of the house and up to the roof. “Rumor has it you’re the new owner,” he said. Then he shrugged apologetically. “Small town. People gonna talk.”
I turned to the side of the house—at the peeled paint, the falling-down fascia, the broken skirting boards—and put my hands on my hips and sighed. “Yep. Just got the keys today. I have a lot of work to do.”
Clay looked at me, then at the house, then back at me. “Did you clean out the chimney flue yet? If you’re gonna use that firewood—she’s been sitting empty awhile now, and you gotta be careful—”
“Oh no, I’m not staying here,” I said. Was he concerned for me? I wasn’t used to strangers caring so much. I wasn’t used to even not-strangers caring, to be honest. “Not yet, anyway. I’m staying at the bed and breakfast for a few weeks. Until I can get the place cleaned up and livable.”
He seemed genuinely relieved. “Oh, okay. Did you want me to take a look at your flue for ya? Won’t take a second.”
Oh.
It’s a small town, Gunter. Get used to friendly people doing friendly things. Don’t upset the locals on day one.
“Oh. If it’s no bother, that’d be great.”
With a nod, he followed me to the front porch and up the steps. I was very aware of how he looked at the disrepair: at the cracked paint, the few boards in the porch that had seen better days.
“Leave your boots on,” I offered. “The floor is a mess.”
As soon as we were inside, I turned to see him smiling at the old beams that ran across the ceiling. “She’s a classic,” he said. There was no mocking, no hint of sarcasm. “Can I ask what kind of work you’ll be doing?”
“Uh.”
“Cosmetic or structural?”
“Oh. Cosmetic only. I bought it because it was old and full of character. I’d like to keep as much of that as I can.”
He seemed to sigh with relief, happy to hear that. “I was just going to say, if you’re ripping out posts or beams, I’ll come take them away for ya.” Then he added, “She’s old-school. Bet the frame and trusses are hand-hewn. Beautiful work.”
It took me a second to remember he was from a sawmill, which explained his excitement. “I’m afraid structural changes are out of my realm of expertise. I had a building inspection before I bought it. They said it was sound, aside from a few cosmetic changes. The plumbing was updated in the seventies, I think. The electrical was rewired around the same time, so it’s not as bad as it could be. I mean, it’s not new by any stretch. I have a lot of work ahead of me. And I’m short on time because the bed and breakfast will be busy with Christmas and I told them I’d be out by then. Admittedly, it’s not the best time of year. So I have about three to four weeks to make it livable.”
I looked around the room toward the kitchen through the arch. “Well, the kitchen will need updating. And the bathroom. I have a plumber coming to look at it tomorrow, and the hot water. I mean, the tiles they chose in the seventies were a crime.”
Clay smiled at me. “You said the inspector said there was no water damage, so the tiling and plumbing must be good. Just paint the tiles, change the fixtures, and you got yourself a new bathroom. Well, a usable bathroom for a coupla years, till you get settled.” He shrugged again. “If you’re short on time.”
That was a good idea. It really would save a lot of time.
“Stop in and see Ren at the hardware store,” he said with a nod. “He’ll getcha everything you need.”
“Oh, perfect. I actually have a list. Mostly cleaning stuff. Sandpaper. Paint. That kind of stuff. I was going there first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You got yourself a big job. Not afraid of hard work then.”
I grinned at him. “I’m so excited to get started. I was literally waiting outside the realtors before they opened.”
“Where are you coming from? You’re not a local.”
“Mossley. Down the mountain.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Hartbridge called to you, huh?”
I was still smiling. “Something like that.”
He stood there staring at me for a beat too long and then jolted away. “Right. Your fireplace . . .” He went to it and kneeled down.
“The floor’s all dusty,” I said apologetically.
He didn’t seem to care. “Don’t suppose you got a mirror and a flashlight here anywhere?”
“Uh . . . no. The only thing I have here is the load of wood you dropped off and my luggage in the car . . .” I tried to think if I had a mirror in my bags. I shook my head. “I have a flashlight on my phone, if that helps.”
“Nah. Old fashioned way it is then.” He ran his huge hand over the bricks in the bottom of the firebox. “Well, there’s no creosote. Looks like it was cleaned pretty good. No critter poop either, which is a good sign.” Then he lay down on his back, his head in the fireplace so he could look up the chimney. He really was a very big man. “The damper looks decent. Can’t see any blockages, but I can’t see the lining properly without any gear.” Then he shuffled out, the inspection over, and got to his feet. “No birds nests, so that’s good. Unless you like smoked pigeon.”
I made a face. “No.”
He laughed, a deep rumbly sound. “I can swing past tomorrow with some gear to have a better look. You’re gonna need a grate though.” He gestured to the empty fireplace. When I didn’t say anything, he added, “To put the wood on in the fire.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
He met my gaze and held it for a long moment. “Right, then,” he said, dusting his hands off and heading toward the door. “Work to do.”
I followed him out. “Thank you so much.”
He was down the steps and rounding the corner of the house toward his truck. “My pleasure. Tomorrow, yeah?”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
A second later, the truck rumbled loudly to life, and with a wave, he drove out. I stood there smiling until the red truck had disappeared through the trees.
I think I’d just made my first friend in Hartbridge.
Many hours later, I pulled my car up to the bed and breakfast and was met by Jayden. He was wiping his hands on his apron, smiling widely as he came down the steps to greet me.
I groaned as I got out of my car; the knot in my back was in dire need of a hot shower.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.
I waved him off. “Oh yes. I spent all day moving and stacking a truckload of firewood at the house.”
“Oh, you got the keys already?”
“This morning.”
“You’re technically a local now.”
“Isn’t there some twenty-year waiting period for being called a local in a small town?”
He grinned at that. “Probably. But it’s real good to see you again. I’m glad you’re here. Let me help you with your bags.”
Once we had my things in my room, Jayden left me to it. “Tacos for dinner. And maybe a margarita or two.”
“Perfect.” So, so perfect.
“And you can tell me all about your house and show me all the photos. I want to know everything.”
“Sounds great.”
I really liked Jayden. And Cass, his partner. Jayden had been so kind to me the first time I’d come here with my father, and then the second time when it was just me. I’d told him about the funeral, about the separation from my husband, and Jayden had taken it upon himself to be my merrymaker, always there with a wide smile, with food, and with something to make me laugh.
When I’d hinted that I could see myself moving to Hartbridge, he’d even helped me with some real estate searches and advice. He’d taken me into town, shown me around, introduced me to a few new faces. I knew he didn’t do that for all their bed and breakfast clientele . . .
So maybe I had two friends in Hartbridge already.
It was a nice feeling.
One steaming-hot shower later and dressed in comfier clothes, I found Jayden in the kitchen. He was, true to his word, making margaritas.
“Figured you’d want an early dinner if you’ve been working hard all day,” he said.
I showed him my hands, how red they were. Thankfully not blistered, but still sore. “Wore the wrong gloves.”
“Ouch.”
“I’ll have to go to the hardware store in the morning.”
Just then, Cass came inside from the back. Handsome as ever, his smile wide, he shook my hand. “Glad you made it.”
“He has the keys to his house already,” Jayden volunteered. “And I was just about to tell him that I can help him out tomorrow. We can have breakfast here, then hit up the hardware store for whatever you need, then I can go see your new place. I’m good with cleaning and organizing.”
“Oh.” I was not expecting that. “You don’t have to—”
Cass laughed and kissed the side of Jayden’s head. “Gunter, I hope you like being organized and bossed around. He will have a list or two.”
Jayden grinned at me, and it made me laugh. “The company would be great.”
He handed me a margarita. “Awesome!”
I sipped the drink. It was delicious. “Oh, I met Clay Henderson today,” I said. “He seems nice.”
Cass nodded. “He is a nice guy.”
Jayden frowned. “Do I know him?”
“Yes. Cliff’s son. At the sawmill. Cliff delivered the Christmas trees, but you met Clay at the spring festival. He did the sapling giveaway.”
Jayden’s face lit up with recognition. “Oh yes. He was cute! In a total teddy-bear, garden-gnome kind of way.”
Cass’ eyes went wide in a you-can’t-say-that way. “Jayden!”
But it made me laugh. “He totally does look like a teddy-bear garden gnome.”
Big and cute.
I didn’t say it out loud, but apparently I didn’t have to.
“Oh?” Jayden quirked an eyebrow at me. “And just how do you find teddy-bear garden gnomes?”
I shook my head and sipped my margarita. “I’m definitely not looking. He was just kind enough to check my chimney.”
Jayden snorted. “Oh really?”
I ignored the innuendo, but . . . “And he offered to come back tomorrow.” I cleared my throat. “To give it a better look.”
Cass pressed his lips into a line so he didn’t smile too big, but Jayden’s smile was so huge, not even his drink could hide it. “Sounds like you don’t even have to be looking,” he said, “when he’s already looking at you.”
“Jay,” Cass murmured, a gentle warning.
“What?” he said, unbothered. He winked at me without shame. “Christmastime in Hartbridge is known for its romance magic.”
Jodi Payne
