She strode to the closet and confronted yet more proof of the fact that Trace was a favored son of this town. New boots occupied one cubby. Taking them, and a dark blue insulated vest, she walked on to the main room, started to head toward the sofa, then changed course to sit on the bed when memories of the previous evening’s sofa shenanigans sent her pulse spiking.
The boots. Another symbol of how committed the gang in Captivity were to Trace’s happiness. Lilah had brought them up last night, after spying Trace crossing the lobby on his way out. Despite her assurances that everything was fine and he’d simply needed to go home to tend to Key, she knew by the younger woman’s poorly concealed concern that Lilah suspected she and Trace had fallen victim to a lover’s quarrel. One serious enough to ruin their romantic dinner and send him home alone.
Izzy sat on the bed, slipped the first boot on, and started lacing. If Lilah thought they’d had a spat, odds were good she’d shared the impression with Rose. And how many people had Rose discussed it with? She tied a bow on the first boot and started on the second. Would she find herself the recipient of pitying gazes and misguided matchmaking attempts? Jeez. What a mess.
The boots, however? Total success. The ugly brown vulcanized rubber and sueded leather creations looked like the Frankenstein’s monster of footwear, but they laced to the mid-calf, and, if the claims on the box could be trusted, were waterproof, insulated, offered arch support—a feature that had taken on new importance after last night’s muscle cramp—boasted a high-traction outer sole and rustproof hardware. A cuff of soft, tan faux fur encircled the top of the shaft, which she suspected accounted for why Rose, Lilah or the lady at Watkins General Store had chosen them for her. One of them had noticed the small nod to fashion and frivolity in such an aggressively practical item of outerwear, and thought, “These are the boots for that big city girl who caught Trace’s eye.”
All these incredibly kind, special efforts on her behalf—well, Trace’s behalf—made her feel so guilty. On the other hand, thanks to the deception, nobody had a clue she’d spent the better part of last night sublimating extreme sexual frustration into a beautifully formatted and thorough asset inventory. Assuming Trace blessed it this morning, she’d submit item one of the due diligence checklist a full day ahead of schedule. Chuck would be pleased.
With that thought bolstering her, she pulled her vest on over her white wool turtleneck and headed downstairs. According to the text Trace had sent her this morning, he planned to swing by the inn to pick her up in about thirty minutes. That left her enough time to walk to a souvenir store and pick out a surprise to send to Danny. Preferably something as tacky and embarrassing as the “surprise” he’d planted in her luggage. Reindeer jerky? Polar bear poop? An I really moose you! T-shirt?
She stopped at the front desk and got the scoop from Rose. The general store sold souvenirs. Rose also provided her with a pocket map of the all the major attractions in town. Armed with the map, she stepped outside to take the short walk down Captivity’s main street, aptly named Main Street, to the general store. Morning sun beamed down, turning the remaining snow into a wet, slushy mix. Grateful for the boots, she zipped her vest, donned her gloves and ear warmers, and slid her sunglasses on.
“’Morning, beautiful. Going exploring?”
She turned to find Mad Dog, Wingnut, and a tall—not quite Trace tall, but tall—man with disheveled brown hair and a stubbly jaw, all standing under the covered sidewalk. They were drinking coffee and looking like the world’s most effective ad for flannel shirts and jeans. “Good morning,” she replied, and to answer Mad’s question, added, “I’m heading over to the store to do a little souvenir shopping. I’ll be at the airfield later. Will I see you guys there?”
“You’ll see us,” Wing confirmed, swiveling a thumb between Mad Dog and himself. “This”—he gestured at the third man—“is Ford Langley. He owns The Tipsy Goose.” Wing pointed one door front over, to the bar and grill. “You can pretty much always find him there. Ford, this is—”
“Skinny burger,” the other man supplied, flashing straight white teeth at Izzy. “Hold the bun, the cheese, the ketchup, mayo, pickles. Dijon mustard on the side.”
“Um, yes. That’s me.” She held out her hand. “Isabelle Marcano. Izzy, for short.”
He shook her hand. “Hope you enjoyed the burger.”
“It was perfect.”
“Terrific.” His smile broadened. “I’ll add it to the menu. Come on in and get yourself a Skinny Izzy any time the mood strikes.”
Her own menu item at the local bar and grill? The guilt raced back, but she smiled and nodded. “Thanks. I will. See you all later.” With a wave, she turned and made her way down the sidewalk in the direction of the general store. Once beyond the covered portion of the sidewalk, she found herself dodging standing water and mud.
At the first intersection, she discovered an open nature space her map identified as Seward Square. Probably a lovely spot for a stroll or a picnic in warmer weather. Bare-branched trees and split-log benches surrounded a pond. At the moment, the bank closest to her consisted of melting snow and mud, and hosted a group of sleepy, long-necked birds about the size of swans, but far more homely. Geese, she decided as she passed, taking in their oversized football bodies, black tails and necks. Some had white stripes on their black faces. Had she ever seen a real, live goose before? She didn’t think so. If they were still there on her way back, and she had time, she’d break out her phone and get a picture or two. Text one to Danny and show him how well this city girl could commune with nature.
Liking the idea, she strode into the perky, periwinkle blue shingled building bearing a large blue and white carved sign over the double-hung doors that read Watkins General Store. A little bell sounded when she entered, but it took only seconds to see she had the generously sized and generously stocked store to herself. Thankfully the layout was fairly instinctive, and ceiling signs above the aisles highlighted the contents. At the back of the store, next to a small clothing and shoe section, she found a display of T-shirts, hats, mugs and other Captivity-branded items.
Paydirt.
She perused the shirts and considered one that read, It doesn’t get any wilder than Captivity, when a pleasant female voice asked, “Is there something I can help you find?”
Turning, she found a pretty, forty-something woman with curling red hair and an abundance of freckles. “Oh, I’m just looking. I’m trying to find a funny gift for a friend.”
The woman held out her hand. “You must be Isabelle. I’m Annie Watkins.”
She shook the woman’s hand. “Nice to meet you. How did you know?”
Annie laughed. “We don’t get many new faces around here during the off-season, but even if I hadn’t been sure, the boots gave you away.”