Chapter 7

The bakery stand would havea few disappointed customers today, but the chickens were having a great time pecking at the salvageable parts of the ruined loaves. The biscotti had escaped its purgatory in the oven unscathed, thanks to the higher moisture content in the fresh pumpkin puree. I wrapped portions in parchment paper and placed the two larger portions in tins, one for Emmett and one for Cohen, reserving a handful to enjoy with my lattes at home.

With Sawyer filling the hobs in our pre-dawn adventures, I drove into town with my head on the swivel, looking out for Antler Tattoo and his pea-coat-wearing cronies. They either weren’t early risers or had moved on to make another town uncomfortable, for I didn’t see any sign of them. Still, my car couldn’t seem to get me to the Barn Market fast enough. As much as I wanted to check on Emmett, I didn’t want to be in town. Town was were Arthur was, which meant an increased chance in seeing him, and I couldn’t take that look of rejection in his eyes again.

Mercifully, the only vehicle in the Barn Market lot was Emmett’s. I parked way off to the side, out of sight, just in case Antler Tattoo had noticed me driving away yesterday and sighted my car today. Clutching the tin of cookies to my stomach, I hurried across the parking lot and into the indoor flea market, the little bell above the door announcing my arrival.

Though the sunlight had only started to flow through the windows in weak beams of whitish yellow, the old man was already hard at work, sorting through some new inventory on his checkout counter. His eyes crinkled, a smile brightening his face. “Why, if it isn’t Misty Fields! How are you doing today, miss?”

I hadn’t seen him since the Carnival Cauchemar, but I knew he and Cody Beecham were best friends, despite their constant bickering. Cody would have definitely filled him in on the fight I’d had with Arthur, and yet, from the genuine happiness in his voice upon seeing me, that hadn’t tainted his opinion of me. I almost lurched across the counter to hug him, to thank him, but instead I placed the tin down on the only unoccupied spot of countertop and lifted the lid.

“Wanna be a taste-tester for some pumpkin biscotti?”

“That depends.” He rubbed his jaw with mock suspicion. “Have you been apprenticing with Ms. Charlotte Harris at all? Am I gonna find sand or pea gravel in these?”

I blew a raspberry at him. “Of course not.”

He chuckled and plucked up a cookie, lifting it to his nose for a long sniff. “Oh, that smells mighty fine, Miss Misty.” He gave it a swirl in his coffee, crunched down, and groaned with delight.

I watched him closely as he ate, detecting no distress, nothing that would indicate the magic hunters had ruffled his feathers or worse. And the flea market was in its customary organized chaos, so they hadn’t been a nuisance in that regard either.

“Monkfoot,” he called to his brownie helper, “Misty Field’s brought us some pumpkin biscotti! You’ll love it.”

As always, the brownie helper never replied verbally, but I did hear a skittering of excited footsteps.

“So…” he drawled, finishing his cookie and wiping the crumbs from his hands with a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket, “something tells me you’re not here just to use me as your baking guinea pig.”

“Well, that’s correct. But first, did you like them? Cohen asked me to start baking for the Magic Brewery. I haven’t agreed, and I’m still waffling about it, but I thought those cookies could ‘audition’ or something.”

“They’re divine.” Then his bushy white eyebrows rose in expectation.

“I was wondering if you had any fur coats?”

“F-fur c-coats?” he sputtered.

Ha! Got you, old man. Did you think I was going to come in here and ask if you’d heard anything from Cody about Arthur? Emmett Trinket was a romantic, after all.

Pretending not to notice his surprise, I elaborated, “Or fur hats, gloves, scarves. It doesn’t matter. Actually, I think it can be fake fur, too, if that’s all you have.”

“U-uh…” He coughed, clearing his throat, and said more normally, “Yes, miss. Remember where I keep the live traps?”

Arthur had shown me where those were. Had carried my selection up to the checkout counter before pulling me down beside him to hide from Ms. Charlotte Harris’s tirade. I still remembered the way the reflections of colored glass had striped his face, the feel of his shoulder beneath my hand, the heat of his palm against the small of my back.

I pushed the pang in my heart aside and masked it with a little humor. “Seriously, Emmett? You keep your fur wares next to your live traps? Classy.”

“Now, now, don’t get all fussy with me. It makes sense!”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll go help myself, thank you. Enjoy those cookies.”

Weaving between the towers and shelves of odds and ends, I worked my way to the rear of the store, hunching down so he couldn’t see my head over the tops of the shelves when I spied a collection of vintage paperweights. They were the blown-glass kind, full of bubbles and flowers, galaxies and coral, and I snuggled the black tourmaline in the back where it wouldn’t be noticed.

Then I resumed my path to the back of the store, unhunching when I was no longer suspiciously off course. That pang in my heart whenever I thought of a certain bearded face with smiling hazel eyes returned when I found the small selection of ankle-length fur coats and accessories right next to the men’s clothing section. Hanger after hanger of gently worn flannel shirts in all colors of plaid, cable-knit sweaters, jackets. There were ties and never-been-opened bundles of wool socks, even a display of artisan soaps, all scented in “manly” fragrances like Rainy Asphalt, Gunsmoke, Mountain Air, Flannel Hunter, Lost in the Pines.

Pine.

That’s what Arthur smelled like. Well, old-growth forest to be exact, but pine and sometimes honey and sunlight—if it indeed had a smell—were all secondary scents. Lifting a square of soap to my nose, I recognized the aromas of the forest, of oatmeal, of goat milk.

Goat milk?

Turning the bar over, I read the label printed on the cardboard container:

Lost in the Pines

All-Natural Soap Crafted by Nanny Finch

50% of Proceeds Donated to RescueLove Animal Shelter

So Daphne Finch and her nanny goats were manufacturing soaps now. The woman’s resourcefulness never ceased to amaze me.

Setting the soap to the side to retrieve later, I meandered over to the plaid flannel shirts. There were many in red, but only one had the thin yellow striping that had become so familiar to me. Lifting the sleeve, I rubbed the fabric between thumb and forefinger, then against my cheek. Familiar, too.

The hanger clacked as I removed the shirt, so long it would easily come to mid-thigh, and draped it over my forearm. Then I moved on to why I’d really come to the flea market… and gasped at the price tags.

This was real fur, not an ounce of faux fur in sight. Not even the earmuffs and shawls and mufflers were fake. I felt that sucker punch to my wallet in my own stomach and left the fur where it hung. Sawyer would be tasked with hunting down squirrel and rabbits from here on out, so long as it didn’t bring him into coyote territory.

“Emmett Trinket,” a voice shouted. “Where’re the goods?”

I jumped with a startled cry, flinging the plaid shirt into the air and slapping my hand over my mouth to muffle the tail-end of my yelp. Reeling from the price of the fur, I hadn’t heard the bell jingle, hadn’t heard the two sets of footsteps entering the store. Whirling, I tracked the top of a head covered in thick brown hair bobbing along the books lining the uppermost shelf of the bookcase I’d once hidden behind, then glimpses of plaid between rose glass vases and green glass goblets.

Arthur.

“Sorry, boys,” Emmett apologized. “The bakery stand was cleaned out by the time I got there.”

So he was their pastry-fetcher now. That stung, but it made sense. Of course Arthur wouldn’t be coming by, and Cody was obligated to support him, which left only one in their circle to swing by Sweet Cider Farm twice a week for apple butter cinnamon rolls.

“Are you telling me I have to resort to eating oatmeal for breakfast again?” Cody Beecham demanded. “The humanity! Well, what are those?”

“Uh-uh.” There was a scrape of metal against polished wood as Emmett undoubtedly snatched the tin of biscotti out of reach of Cody’s greedy fingers. “These were special delivery.”

“The Harris Harridan?”

“No, thank goodness. She’s moved on, setting her attentions on Axel.”

“Axel? That man doesn’t have time to do anything else but torque wrenches and mop up engine grease. What makes her think he can spare a wink of his waking hours on her?”

“You really think I’m gonna to stick my nose in there and ask when I’ve finally gotten free? No sir!”

“These smell fresh, Emmett,” came Arthur’s rumbling accusation, returning the conversation to the topic at hand.

“Heh, um… they are.”

“And it looks like you have plenty to share, old man,” Cody said. “Don’t be stingy!”

There was a kerfuffle as Cody tried to steal a cookie and Emmett tried to fend him off, but I only heard Arthur’s boots clomping against the floor. “I’m gonna look at your shirts, Emmett. Been going through a few lately.”

Looking left, then right, then center, I discovered I had nowhere I could get to that would hide me in time. So I did the only thing I could think of.

I pretended I was looking for Narnia and flung myself into the fur coats. They were heavy and deliciously soft, and I elbowed and squirmed my way until my backside bumped against the far wall. Pity. Narnia would’ve been neat to visit.

Stuffed between silver fox and brown beaver fur, I watched through the miniscule gap between them as the lumberjack shifter appeared around the bend in the center aisle and turned right to the men’s wear. There’d been no hitch in his stride, no sharp inhale, nothing that denoted he’d sensed me. I wondered if the scent of the fur coats was obscuring my own.

Curious, I leaned forward, widening the gap between the coats that concealed me and craning my head after him.

He was crouched, retrieving the shirt I’d flung into the air and then abandoned on the floor. It looked like it would fit him perfectly. Turning to set it aside, he placed it down by the bar of soap that was nowhere near its brethren on the display stand. The lumberjack shifter lifted the soap to his nose for an inquisitive sniff, and then, showing no expression at all, returned it to the spot he’d found it.

I jerked my head back as he turned to pick through the clothes, the hangers sliding as he examined one shirt after the other.

He’s coming closer.

Half of me wanted to obey the tug I felt on my heart, to fling myself from my hiding spot and into his arms, to plead for us to return to the way things had always been between us—flirty with no expectations. Except, that was what I had wanted, not him. He’d wanted more. More enough to dive through these coats and pin me up against this wall and crush his mouth against mine. More enough to guide my hands to knot into his hair before he hoisted me onto his hips and deepened that kiss until we both threatened to combust.

You have no right to think those things, Meadow Hawthorne. To want that. Not after you shot him down and he put that Celtic amulet over his neck.

Still, my heart raced as I silently pressed my back against the wall and bent my knees, sliding down so the shoulders of the coats rose a good foot above my head. Then I waited, breath held, for him to move along.

There was a shuffling of boots, a rustling of fabric, and then Arthur was striding away, a handful of shirts draped over his arm, their bare hangers clutched in the opposite fist. Only when he was back at the checkout counter did I emerge from my furry hideaway to snatch up the shirt he’d left behind and the bar of soap, moving on silent feet to another part of the flea market in case he came back.

“…are pretty good,” Cody said with his mouth full. “Tasty!”

“I should hope so,” Emmett sulked. “You’ve eaten half of them. Now leave off. Arthur, did you want to try some? You could use the extra energy, I’m sure.”

I watched from behind a stack of vinyl records with musty sleeves as Arthur glanced down at the proffered tin. He lifted a hand, but it was only to set the empty hangers down on the counter. “I’m good.”

Now that really felt like a sucker punch to the gut. He’d never turned down the opportunity to enjoy my baking before.

“That’s a lot of shirts there, Arthur,” Emmett said as he tallied them and folded them into a neat stack. “How’s a discount sound?”

“Cookies? Discounts? Sounds like you’re buttering him up before asking him to patrol your property too,” Cody was quick to say. “Back off, his muscles are mine!”

Patrols?

“Emmett, you alright?” Except from the tone of Arthur’s voice, he wasn’t asking a question. He was demanding an answer.

“Those weirdos come by here yesterday too?” Cody pressed.

“Strangers just passing through town doesn’t make them weirdos,” Emmett said.

“But these guys sure are! Asking all those questions about supes and bright lights and whatnot. And what’s with all those markings on their skin? Don’t look like tattoos to me. Can you believe they wanted to snoop around in our forest? Feh, we weren’t allowing any of that, were we, boy?” He slapped Arthur’s arm again. “Told ’em to scram.”

The moonflowers! Thistle thorns, the elm tree!

But Arthur and Cody knew of the moonflowers in the Alder Ranch glen, knew they had to be protected or else the town might succumb to that blight unleashed by the heart tree. Even so, I whipped out my cell phone to text Flora, to tell her to contact Codrin Alder and tighten up his ranch security. The Cedar Haven side of the forest might be guarded by a lumberjack shifter, but the Alder side had no supe to assign such a task.

“How’s Monkfoot?” Cody was asking. “He’s Fair Folk through and through.”

“He’s just fine. And speaking of Monkfoot, stop eating those cookies. Misty brought those— Oh. Sorry, Arthur.”

The lumberjack shifter just shook his head.

“Well,” Cody said, simultaneously changing the subject and swatting Arthur’s arm with the back of his hand, “when they came snooping around yesterday—not a one of them buying a thing, mind you—it got me thinking... Boy, cover your ears.”

While the lumberjack shifter towered over the twiggy carpenter, Cody was still his senior, not to mention his employer, so after rolling his eyes, Arthur placed his hands over his ears.

Cody leaned across the counter. “The miss alright out there on Apple Blossom Lane? She’s just your run-of-the-mill green witch, but she’s pretty and alone and—”

“Cody,” Arthur growled, dropping his hands.

“Oye, boy! I told you to cover your ears!”

Arthur extracted his wallet and thrust a couple of twenties at Emmett, then plucked up the plastic sack of shirts. “We’re going now. Have a good day, Emmett. Call me if you need anything.” He grabbed Cody by his skinny elbow and hauled him towards the door.

“Ack, boy! Let g—”

“Bye now, fellas,” Emmett called after them.

I waited several minutes after they left, mulling over all I’d heard, before I emerged from behind the vinyl records.

Emmett blinked as I approached, taking off his wire-rim glasses and inspecting them for smears. “That doesn’t look like fur to me.”

“Maybe another time.” I lowered the shirt and the soap to the counter. “Just these today, please.”

The sideways look he flicked in my direction before stabbing the keys of his register told me his curiosity was burning to know why I was buying manly soap and a manly shirt, and in Arthur’s preferred scent and style, but he had the good manners to keep his mouth shut about it. “Nice of you to visit, Misty Fields,” he said instead. “You take care now, ya hear?”

My thoughts drifted to the black tourmaline secreted away in his store, ready to activate if those magic hunters decided to do more than ask him questions. “You too, Emmett.”