Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 141951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
“Liquor?” she asked.
“And food,” he told her, pointedly.
Like that was what mattered.
“What does she put in there for you?” Delaney questioned, making a slow trek across the cottage floor.
“Whatever Mack’s got on the shelf, usually,” he muttered, hefting the bags onto the island.
He pulled out a pint of scotch first.
“Mack?”
“Mack Smith,” Lucas said, gesturing broadly at the front of the cottage that faced the hill leading them into the gully. “He owns that half of the Ridge, practically. That lot of fir trees we landed in keeps him going in the winter.”
Ah.
“Christmas trees,” she said.
“They do sleigh rides and all sorts of things. They make a whole season out of it, anyway,” Lucas said, distracted by the second bottle he’d pulled from the bag.
It wasn’t liquor.
The amber gold, a sweet favorite for every Canadian’s breakfast table, filled the tall glass bottle with a corked and wax-sealed top.
“Maple syrup?” Delaney asked, reaching for the bottle to look at the homemade label on the front.
The best kind.
Deadpan, and suddenly frosty, Lucas handed over the bottle without a word before yanking his gloves back out from his parka’s pockets. “I’ve got some things to do on the outside. You’ll want light, running water, and a working fridge by tonight, I imagine.”
“You okay?”
His back, ramrod straight as it faced her where he stood at the front door, hunched a little. At her question “Yeah, I’ve just got things to do to get the camp up and going. It won’t take me long.”
He disappeared into the cold in the next breath. Only the slam of the door and the icy wind that swept across the cottage broke the silence and kept her company once he was gone and only his snowy footprints remained on the rug.
On the one-liter glass bottle filled with maple syrup, a note had been taped to the middle of the label.
For Jacob, it read in neat handwriting. Under that, the person had added, Hope that’ll do him for the year, friend.
Chapter 17
I won’t be long.
A lie, and he knew it, the second the words left Lucas’ lips. Maybe it wasn’t as devastating of a lie as his assurance that he was, in fact, fine, but it just piled his dishonesty higher on the mountain that had become his most recent days.
Pretty soon, that mountain would crumble. Or Lucas might find himself breaking under the massive weight.
Not if he could help it, though. Lucas would hold himself together, by ripped seams, if need be, until he absolutely couldn’t anymore.
Life had not taught him how to manage, or keep on, otherwise. He didn’t have a choice.
The rural cabin did require quite a bit of set up work upon arrival, so heading outside to get a start on those duties gave him something to do. Getting power running and clean water coming up from the well dug beneath the cellar were easier tasks in the summer when cold and snow wasn’t a factor.
One didn’t have to concern themselves with clearing the driveway leading out of the gully of snow outside of the winter months. A requirement, really, because the old truck with all season tires that he used to travel in and out of Birch Ridge when needed couldn’t get up the hill without a clear path. Which was often why Lucas didn’t find himself this deep in New Brunswick’s countryside during the harsher times of the year.
More work.
For the moment, he didn’t mind it.
Even if his hands ached and shivers kept him jittery as he flipped on the switches for the generators before pulling their start cords to get the gas engines running after filling both with the gas left by one of the Smith boys. He barely considered the cold; his focus stayed on the work of getting the cottage usable and safe to leave, if needed, instead.
He couldn’t let his mind wander.
Lucas couldn’t go there yet.
The two generators, one hooked up to the main lights and the out-building’s electricity, and the other, wired directly to the kitchen appliances and submersible pump down in the well, used a good thirty liters of gas between them a day to keep the place livable. By modern standards, anyway.
Given the constant consumption of gas, trips out of Birch Ridge had to be regular. Every other day, or so, during a stay. Hence, the need for a vehicle.
Or, in the unlikely case of an emergency.
Things happened.
His grandfather, who had left the property to Lucas after his death because the Dalton brothers had enjoyed it for years alongside him, had made sure both his grandsons were equipped and capable of maintaining and living in the cabin. Including an education on running and maintaining the generator system, and closing the cottage down, essentially, at the end of any given season.
Dropping the empty gas jug in front of the garage doors he’d pulled close to help with the chill while he readied the generators, Lucas waited as the bare lightbulbs overhead came on one by one. A good sign that at least one of the generators, and wiring, hadn’t suffered in the last two years that it had been left to the wayside.