Refuge Cove (New Americana 2)

The table was set with two mismatched plates. A pot of chili simmered on the stove. John turned away from stirring it.

“Sit here,” he said, indicating one of the two kitchen chairs. “I want to check your feet.”

She sat down, making sure the robe covered her knees. After picking up a jar of salve, a pair of rolled-up tube socks, and a box of bandages from the counter, he pulled out the other chair and took a seat facing her, laying a towel across his knees. “Give me your foot,” he said.

Emma raised one foot. Resting the heel on the towel, he opened the jar and began rubbing salve on the fresh scrapes and scratches. At his touch, warmth trickled up her leg. She willed herself to ignore it. In the silence, she could hear the washer running and the night wind whistling through the trees.

“Thanks for the shower,” she said, needing to make conversation. “The hot water made me feel like I’d died and gone to heaven.”

“You didn’t stay in there long.”

“Believe me, I was tempted. But I wanted to leave enough water for you.”

He glanced up at her with sharp, dark eyes, then lowered his gaze to her foot again, giving Emma her first real chance to study him. His features were angular, almost fierce, with a finely chiseled nose, square chin, and high cheekbones. His skin was a deep golden bronze.

From where she sat, she could see one of the old black and white photos that hung on the wall. She couldn’t make out the details, but it appeared to show three people in ceremonial garb, with robes and headdresses, standing at the foot of a totem pole.

“The people in the photos, who are they?”

“My relatives—the Tlingit.”

“The pictures look old.”

“They are. Those people are mostly gone now.” He slipped a white tube sock over her foot and lowered it to the floor. She raised the other foot without being asked.

“And those amazing costumes—do your people still wear them?”

“Only at celebrations.” He inspected the sole of her foot. “Most of the time we’re just people—teachers, lawyers, laborers, fishermen, artists, even pilots.”

“I do believe that’s the longest sentence I’ve heard you speak,” she teased, trying to draw him out.

“Most people talk too much.” He daubed salve on a long scratch. She winced as he touched a deeper cut.

“That one needs more than salve.” He unwrapped a bandage. Taking care to clean around the cut, he applied it and pressed it tight.

Emma unwrapped the towel from her hair and began using it to blot away the water. She wasn’t here to make small talk, she reminded herself. This might be her only chance to learn more about the man she’d been foolish enough to marry.

“So how do you know Boone?” she asked.

“We went to school together.”

“Were you friends?”

“No.”

“And now?”

“No.” He slipped the other tube sock onto her foot, rose, gathered the supplies he’d used, and set them aside on the counter. “The chili should be hot. Hungry?”

“Starved.”

He set butter and a loaf of store-bought bread on the table, and filled two glasses with milk. “Sorry I can’t offer you a beer,” he said. “Since I’ve sworn off alcohol, I don’t keep it around.”

“It’s all right,” she said, surprised that this taciturn man would reveal something so personal. “I don’t drink either. Not even coffee.”

“Salt Lake City. I should’ve guessed.” He spooned steaming chili into two bowls and placed one in front of her.

“It smells wonderful,” she said. “Did you make it yourself?”