Page 25 of The Lost Book of First Loves

She gestured toward Hank, who was lapping at a large water bowl before wandering over to a dog bed in the corner.

“He didn’t disappear. He’s right there.”

“Because I brought him back. He came by Carson’s cabin this morning. I was afraid he might take off into the mountains and get attacked by a cougar or something.”

He grinned, looking ridiculously attractive for a man who wore safety goggles on his head. “Hank knows better than that. He has his morning routine. He likes to greet my horses, then go say good morning to all the animals over at The Painted Sky.”

“When was the last time you fed him? He seemed to be starving when he came to the cabin.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement, reminding her again what an astonishingly good-looking man he was.

“Don’t let him fool you. He puts on a good show, but he gets plenty to eat. As part of his morning routine, he always used to stop by and visit with Carson, who invariably gave him a treat. The man’s been gone six months yet Hank still wanders over to the cabin every day about this time, hoping he might be there.”

The thought made her sad, for a host of reasons. For Hank, who would never find Carson at the writing cabin again. For Alison, who had lost her father so recently. And for the world that had lost a man of immense talent and insight.

“If you want, I can drop off some of his treats so you have something to give him when he wanders over. Or you can ignore him and eventually he’ll stop coming around.”

She quite liked the dog and didn’t want to discourage him from the habit of stopping by, even if she was a poor consolation prize for Carson.

“I can pick up some treats for him. At some point I have to catch a ride into town for some supplies, anyway. Is there a particular kind of treats he likes?”

“He’s a very indiscriminate eater. I mean, he eats spiders and deer poop.”

She grimaced. “Remind me not to let him lick me.”

He smiled again. “Good luck with that. You might have noticed Hank has a mind of his own.”

“Don’t you have a fenced yard where you can keep him? What if he ran out to the road and was hit by a car?”

“He’s a ranch dog. He doesn’t go anywhere near the road. He knows better.”

“He’s a dog. Not a doctoral candidate.”

“I don’t know. He’s a pretty smart dog.”

She didn’t want to argue with him about his dog’s intelligence quotient. “What are you making?” she asked instead.

She looked around the workshop and for the first time noticed various other huge pieces of gorgeous wood.

Her gaze drifted to the piece he had been working on. It wasn’t only wood, she realized. Weaving from edge to edge was a striking blue that seemed to cut through the piece of timber like a river through a steep canyon.

“Eventually, it will be a console table for a Hollywood director who is renovating a house in Jackson Hole.”

She looked around the workshop and saw other similar pieces in various stages of completion. Each one she could see was breathtakingly lovely.

She moved to take a closer look at the piece he had been working on, and all the pieces suddenly clicked into place.

“Oh, my gosh. You’re B. Hunter.”

She shot him a look when he said nothing and saw what looked like discomfort in his eyes.

“You are, aren’t you? I can’t believe this. Last year we bought one of your tables for our conference room and paid a fortune for it. I love having meetings in that room. It always feels like we’re having a meeting on the banks of a beautiful river.”

Now she saw pleasure join the edge of embarrassment. “Is that right?”

“And you have a YouTube channel where you demonstrate how you make these. I’ve watched it. I should have recognized the workshop.”

That was why it had seemed familiar to her, she realized.

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