Page 6 of Woods of the Raven

“Agreed,” he said, then to Pete, “What is a harvest festival?”

“A fall festival. Ours is two weeks before Thanksgiving.”

“Why don’t you just call it the autumn festival?”

“Because it’s always been harvest,” Pete told him. “And you’d have to screw around with the town charter to change it.”

“Heaven forbid,” MacBain said snidely.

I chuckled, taking his finished cup. “Another?”

“Yes, please,” he murmured, his voice thick and low.

“Would you rather have chai this time?”

“No. This one was perfect.”

I was glad to hear it, and when I went to the sink to rinse his cup, I heard him get up and walk toward me. The floor, like the house, was ancient, so it creaked. Turning, I found the chief of police looming over me. At over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a presence that charged the air around him, he gave off the feeling of a lightning storm. It was like he was blotting out the sun with his deep, dark eyes and solid frame.

“Would it be all right if I looked around?”

“For clues?” I asked nervously. Something about him was drawing me in, and while yes, he was a gorgeous specimen of manhood—anyone with eyes could see that—there was something else I couldn’t put my finger on.

“No,” he said, moving around me toward the sunroom. “I’ve just never been in such an old house that didn’t feel cold or smell musty. Yours is really warm and cozy.”

Oh, he loved my house. Perhaps he wasn’t the annoying creature I thought he was. And I might even want him to visit again.

“Is it all right if I take a tour?”

I nodded, and he took the two steps down to the sunroom. I heard his breath catch as he walked to the right, toward the end that faced my garden.

“This is beautiful,” he remarked wistfully, and I had to wonder how much he would enjoy living in my little house. Funny how quickly my earlier irritation had dissipated. The man was actually much different, and perhaps I’d misjudged him. My grandfather was right: I needed to give people the same courtesy I gave new books—at least fifty pages before I made a decision. Best not to be hasty.

“I’m sorry you lost your job,” Pete offered, making himself comfortable at the table and leaning back in his chair. “Are there any muffins?”

“Nice segue.” I squinted at him. “And of course there are muffins. Would you like blueberry or corn?”

He squinted back. “When have you known me to want anything but blueberry?”

True. I shrugged and moved to the covered stoneware cake plate, grabbed him a muffin, and put it on a dessert dish. Then I got the refrigerated honey butter and brought everything over.

“Pete told me you’re not on the county grid,” MacBain said, rejoining us in the kitchen. “How do you have a refrig—are you eating?”

Pete, mouth full, quickly chewed and swallowed. “Yes, I’m eating. Xan’s muffins are amazing.”

As I handed the chief his mug, he groused, “We didn’t come here to have tea and baked goods. We’re on official business.”

“I understand,” I soothed. “But it was kind of you both to accept my invitation and come in.”

He grunted but sipped the tea. “You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you.”

The aroma of lavender and lemon verbena drifted from his tea, and I knew he was responding not just to me, but to my grandmother as well. I would scold her later for butting in. Apparently, she liked the look of our new chief of police. I needed to tell her how much he didn’t like how I rode my bike.

Taking a seat at the table, the chief eyed Pete’s muffin. Or what was left of it.

“Blueberry, corn?” I offered. “There’s also pumpkin spice and apple.”