Starry Night

remember everything she could about him for her article. Right away she noticed that while he was a large man, he moved with a grace and ease that defied his size. His hair was as dark as her own, and shoulder length. Unfortunately, his full beard hid his face. Even without seeing him clean shaven, she doubted that he would be considered traditionally handsome. His nose was a bit too large and his mouth a tad too thin. While he didn’t appear to be hunk-calendar material, she found the raw vitality surrounding him strongly appealing.
    Although they hadn’t spoken, she sensed his irritation and his curiosity. He had probably already guessed she was a reporter, which was why he hadn’t pursued his questions. One look told her he was determined not to give her any information she could publish.
    When the water was thoroughly heated, Finn brewed coffee and without a word set a mug on the table in front of her. Carrie took it and held on to it with both hands. The first sip scalded her lips, but it was so deliciously hot that she barely minded. Finn remained on the far side of the room, close to the hot stove, as if to keep as much distance between them as possible.
    Taking careful note of what she saw, Carrie realized that most everything inside the cabin had been made by hand. The space was compact but utilized beautifully. The kitchenarea, complete with sink and countertop, a few open-faced cupboards, the cast-iron stove, and a table with four chairs, flowed naturally into a cozy sitting area. Hennessey lay on an oval-shaped braided rug close to the warmth of the stove. Two rocking chairs rested on either side, with dry wood stacked close by, and a sofa rested against another wall. The windows, of which there were two—one in the kitchen and another in the living area—had coverings that were pulled tightly closed. The cabin had lights, which she assumed were powered by a generator. What she found encouraging were the bookcases built against the walls, which were jam-packed. From what she could see, Finn Dalton was a reader. When possible, she’d check out the titles, which were sure to give her insight into this man.
    “My name is Carrie,” she offered, hoping that by being open and friendly he’d be willing to chat. “Carrie Slayton.”
    Finn ignored her and sat down with his back facing her.
    Fully capable of moving now, Carrie stood and, taking the coffee with her, claimed the second chair. The heat from the stove felt glorious. “I apologize for arriving unannounced.”
    “Who brought you?” The question was clipped, angry.
    “Sawyer. He tried to reach you, but you didn’t pick up and—”
    “How much did you pay him?” he asked, cutting her off.
    “Well, nothing yet. I told him I’d square up with him in the morning when he returns to pick me up.”
    Finn snickered.
    Carrie wasn’t sure what that meant. “We discussed terms, and I found his price reasonable.”
    “What did he charge? Thirty pieces of silver?”
    “No, no, it was nothing like that.”
    For the first time she noticed a small nook on the other side of the room. He had another table set up there, with a lone chair. On the table was a computer and what she assumed was a radio. If she’d had his email address, she might have been able to convince him to give her the interview. Then again, probably not.
    “Your cabin is amazing … all the conveniences. You actually have a computer, but then I shouldn’t be surprised, right? I know that you worked with your publisher via email.”
    Nothing. This one-sided conversation wasn’t going the least bit well.
    “I read your book,” she said, trying again. “It was wonderful. The stories are detailed and rich. You make the reader feel part of the story as well. That’s a rare gift. My dad read your book, too, long before me. In fact, Mom mentioned that he purchased two additional copies as gifts this Christmas. Alone is still on the bestseller lists and has beenfor months, but then you probably already know that.” She realized she was chattering away and stopped.
    “I’m grateful you found me when you did,” she said, trying again after several tense moments of silence. “Sawyer wanted to stay, but the storm was fast approaching and he needed to get back to Bad Luck.” What an unusual name for a town.
    “Hard Luck,” he corrected.
    “Right. Hard Luck.” That wasn’t much better. It was difficult to maintain this cheerful facade with little to no feedback.
    “I bet