Part of Your World(42)

I started wandering the garage looking around while Daniel rummaged in a fridge. Hunter walked with me, pushing his head under my hand until I resorted to walking with a palm between his ears.

I saw the headboard Daniel had been working on last night. It was propped to dry. He had chairs hanging from the walls in various stages of completion. A dresser set and a pair of nightstands sat by the garage door.

He had a stack of books on a stool by his workbench. I picked up the top one. The Circus Fire.

Daniel looked over at me. “That’s a good one. Have you read it?”

I shook my head at the cover. “No.”

“It’s about the deadly Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus fire of 1944. You’d probably really like it—severe burns, emergency situation, mass casualties. Your kind of thing.”

I laughed.

“You can borrow it if you want.”

“Thanks. We like the same books,” I said, looking at the rest of the stack.

I knew he liked history, but most of these weren’t big titles. Self-published books about Alaskan homesteaders and stories of Native Americans. A memoir about a man who ran a dogsled team in the 1940s.

I liked lesser-known books too. I’d even read a few of these. It was a little surprising. I didn’t really know anyone who read the exact same kind of books I liked.

“What’s the last book you read?” he asked, pulling out a frying pan.

“Well, I actually just finished this one,” I said, showing him one from his stack. “But right now I’m reading The Great Influenza by John M. Barry.”

“Oh yeah, I read that,” he said, setting some carrots, garlic, and an onion on the counter. “About the Spanish flu of 1918. You know my great-great-grandfather Wilbur Grant saved the whole town from that.”

“Really?” I said. “How?”

“Cut down trees to block the roads into Wakan. Kept everyone in, everyone out. Didn’t lose one person. They were pretty pissed at him though at the time.”

“Was he the mayor too?” I asked.

Daniel nodded. “Yup. A Grant has always been the mayor, going back one hundred and twenty-five years.”

“Wow. Always?”

“Always.”

“How many Grants are here now?”

He shrugged. “Just me. I’m the last one.”

Ha. I knew what that was like.

“And if you leave?” I asked.

He laughed. “Why would I ever leave?”

I gave him a small smile.

He pulled out a knife and a cutting board. “After Wilbur died, my great-great-grandmother Ruth Grant took over. She set up an illegal Prohibition bootlegging operation out of the basement of the house. The most prosperous years in Wakan history. They named a gin after her. We use it to stitch people up with fishhooks.”

I laughed.

I eyed a few novelty woodworking pieces in the corner of the garage. There were three of them. One was a wall hanging of a horse, its mane flowing behind it, twisted into the knotted wood. There was a mirror with an intricate floral appliqué frame, hand-wrought. And a custom rocking chair. He’d etched an elaborate whimsical design into the headboard. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Works of art.

“Did you do these?” I asked, pointing at the small collection in the corner.

He glanced up from chopping carrots. “Yeah.”

“Who are they for?”

“Just practice pieces.”

“These are your practice pieces?” My God.

Daniel was an artist. It was like he brought the wood to life in his hands.

I traced the curve of a rose carved into the mirror frame. “How much do you sell these for?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. The materials aren’t very expensive. That horse? The beam came from an old barn we were tearing down. Got it for free. It’s mostly my time.”

“Well, how much time did it take to do this one?” I pointed at the mirror.

He looked at it. “Couple of weeks? I don’t know. I’d probably ask two hundred for it.”

I scoffed. “You’re undercharging.”

He laughed like I’d told a joke.

“See the wood I used for the horse?” he said. “I liked it because of the color. The barn was a hundred, hundred and twenty years old. The ammonia from the cow’s urine stains it over time. Darkens it.” He nodded at it. “You see the ghosts? Those lighter patches on the horse’s neck? That’s where the metal brackets used to be. The ammonia didn’t get to that part of the wood, so it’s lighter.” He pushed his chopped carrots into a pan. “I like working with things that have history. It gives it character. There’ll never be another one exactly like it.”

My face went soft. He was an artist.

I glanced over at him. He looked really handsome standing there in his black Grant House T-shirt, all bearded with his dimples flashing, a wall of tools hanging behind him. There was something infinitely sexy about a man who could build things. And cook things. When he started to sauté the onions and garlic, I think I fell a little bit in love.

I came back over to the kitchenette and sat on the weight bench to watch him. Hunter put his face in my lap.

“Why don’t you do the carpentry full-time?” I asked, petting the dog. “You’re so good at it.”