Shelter Me Home
T. S. Joyce
Chapter One
New York had chewed Farrah Fennel up and spat her out. In her defense, the big city had taken seven years to break her. Still, she never thought she'd be seeking sanctuary in her childhood home of Cooper Landing, Alaska as long as she lived. Her traveling companions included one ratty suitcase, a tobacco-chewing trucker who'd picked her up near Anchorage, and about as much shame as a person could shoulder.
Walter pulled the enormous 18-wheeler off the highway and smiled reassuringly at her. "Here's where you have to get off. I have to unload right down the road, and then I'm headed back where I came from."
She smiled to hide the nerves that sent waves of nausea into her stomach, and then nodded. Walter was a stout man with a slight paunch and a beard with every shade of silver imaginable. He had an easily earned smile and a knack for carrying the conversation where she failed at small talk.
For the hundredth time, she shifted her gaze to the picture of his wife taped to the dash. Farrah swallowed and looked back out the window to watch the fat snowflakes blanket the quiet town of Homer. His wife was a plain woman, if her sepia-toned picture was anything to go by, but when Walter talked about her, he made her sound like the most beautiful woman in the world.
That was what love was supposed to be like.
She'd missed her mark, and missed it wide, with Miles Anderson.
The 18-wheeler hissed and rocked as Walter pulled to a stop in a gas station that doubled as a diner. Downshifting to park, he turned and leveled her with a fatherly look.
"Ms. Farrah, I don't know the reasons a proper looking woman such as yourself is out here hitching rides from strangers, but be wary." He pushed his faded Peterbilt hat from his thinning hair and slid it back on as if it was habit. With a tug at his pocket, he pulled a black plastic rectangle out and flicked open a dangerous looking blade. "Anyone gives you trouble, you put this in their neck."
The ease with which he said that was startling. With shaking fingers, she reached across the cab and held it between pointer and thumb like it was a dead snake. Even if someone had ill intentions toward her, she wasn't altogether sure she could end a life to save her own. Walter didn't have to know that, though.
"What does it mean to you?" she asked.
A slow smile spread across his face, and he shook his head. "Not a damned thing. I don't believe in luck, and I don't believe in lucky possessions. I switch out my pocket knives as I find them, and this one's about due for a change anyway. You aren't taking anything important from me, and I'd feel better leaving you with a way to defend yourself."
"Okay. Thanks," she said, folding the blade and tucking it into her pocket. "Not just for the knife, but for taking me all this way, too."
"Sure thing, and Ms. Farrah?" he said as she turned to open the door. "Be wary," he reminded her.
"Yes, sir," she said with a tiny salute and grabbed her duffle bag.
Inside of the simple luggage was everything she owned in the world. She'd sold everything out of her one bedroom apartment in the city to afford the plane fare to Alaska, and anything important and small enough, she'd shoved into the purple suitcase. Her warmest clothes, miniature bottles of fancy shampoos and body washes she'd collected from the hotels she and Miles had stayed at, a pink bag of toiletries and make-up, jewelry that held sentimental value, and a small wad of cash she'd stashed in the hidden zipper inside. All of the money she had to her name was bouncing in the bag against her leg as she waddled across the snow and ice to the front door of the gas station. The wheels on the luggage had stopped working years ago, and she dragged it across the frozen parking lot, leaving a divot trail in her wake. Even if she didn't own much, it was still heavy for a five-foot-three woman who hadn't eaten a decent meal in a few days.
Turning to wave Walter off, she took the opportunity to catch her breath and give her arms a rest. When the truck drove past, snow flurries whooshed up from the ground and made tiny tornadoes in the wind.
Walter waved as the 18-wheeler pulled back onto the main road. She'd been lucky to hitch a ride with a decent human being. From where she stood, there weren't many of them left. Hopefully, she could get as lucky with her next ride.
Cooper Landing was just two tiny hours away from Homer if she took the highway connecting the two towns. She pulled her parka more tightly around herself and zipped it up to keep the chill away. Her knees buckled when a roiling and unexpected wave of nausea took her. She swallowed hard once. Twice. A fine sweat broke out over her eyebrow as the world wobbled. She needed to eat something, and fast.
Hefting the suitcase handle to her hip, she slipped and slid until she reached the door, then tugged it open. The air smelled of grits and fried potatoes and brought another wave of sickness from sheer desperation. Mouth watering, she made her way to the back to a counter adorned with old fashioned stools. A young couple talked quietly in the corner. The only patron she had to pass on the way to an empty stool was a man, his face obscured as he hunched over nursing a mug of steaming coffee. His heavy jacket lay across the stool to his right, and the neck of his gray thermal shirt was stretched just enough to show the strong cords of muscle in his neck that led down to two vertebrae that pushed against his smooth skin. A curl of black ink peeked out from under the fabric and brushed the base of his neck. From the way his shoulders pressed against the cloth of his shirt and hung loosely around his middle, the man was built better and healthier than any of the models she'd served drinks to in the city. The material of his shirt was thin enough to show off the muscles of his back, and she looked away, widening her eyes to saucers. The man had tingling warmth flooding into her stomach like some dam had busted, and she hadn't even seen his face yet.
What in great goodness was wrong with her?
She'd left Alaska years ago because no one would ever suit her in this frigid place. Snow-loving hippie Alaskans weren't her type. It was probably just the mysterious tattoo. She'd always been a sucker for tattoos.
Much harder than she'd meant to, she dropped her luggage by a seat three down from the man. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him twitch his head toward her once before pulling his attention back to a weather report on the old black and white television set hanging from the back wall.
No matter which way she stretched her neck, there wasn't a soul to be found to take her order. No one behind the counter nor in the kitchen, from what she could see through a small cutout in the wall. Her entire body shook with its need for fuel, and she searched instead for a service bell to ring.
A bowl of peanuts sat between her and the man, and she pulled it to herself and started gobbling the little snacks down like a desperate squirrel. It wasn't until she was picking at the crumbs in the bottom that she looked up to see the man watching her.
Recognition froze her in place.
Aanon Falk stared at her with raised eyebrows like she'd just beamed down from the moon. She dropped the empty nut bowl with a tiny clatter to the countertop.
"Hi," she said to break the awkward silence that filled the space between them.
He waited two seconds too long to be polite before he gave her a terse, "Hi" back.
Aanon didn't recognize her.
She turned away and stifled a laugh. Of course, he didn't. She hadn't exactly been memorable in high school, and he had been seven levels out of her league back then. She snuck a sidelong glance at him as he took another drag of coffee. Oh hell, he was still out of her league, even if she was interested. His nose was straight and strong, probably a gift from the sexy Norsemen who peppered his genealogy, and the angles of his jaw were sharp like glass. The color of his eyes rivaled the clearest Alaskan summer sky, and blond hair tumbled out of his gray winter hat and tickled the tip of his tattoo. Short, gold whiskers graced his chiseled jaw, and when the waitress finally appeared through a swinging door, his smile still held the masculine beauty she remembered. A strange sensation rose in her chest as the memories of the lanky boy she'd gone to school with warred with the physical presence of the well-formed man beside her.
The waitress, Clara, her nametag read, topped off Aanon's cup of joe and focused her attention on Farrah. "You know what you want, sweety?"
"Uhhh." Shit, was she really freezing up now? Perfect. Aanon-Sexy-Face-Falk was staring, and her mouth couldn't remember the syllables to the word pancakes.
"You okay?" Clara asked.
"F-fine," she stammered. "What's good to eat here?"