Page 53 of Stolen for Keeps
I stood there for a minute, one foot still inside the truck, and looked at the house again. It wasn’t much yet, just walls and a roof and a promise, but I saw it.
A future.
Maybe with a dog curled at the steps, a second coffee mug left out. Maybe someone walking barefoot across the hardwood floors, saying something that made me want to stay forever.
Maybe Maya.
I shook my head. I was getting ahead of myself again.
But damn, it was a good vision.
The delivery showed up right on time—miracle of miracles—and I spent the next hour directing two guys who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else on Earth. The Sundown didn’t have much yet, but piece by piece, it was coming together.
My style? Simple. Country, classic kind of country, not the kitschy antlers-and-flannel kind. Clean lines, aged wood, and a leather couch that creaked. The kind of style that didn’t clash with the Victorian bones of the place but leaned into them and made them feel lived in.
And then came the punchline.
“Sir,” one of the guys said, “about the bed…we couldn’t get it in the truck with the rest of the load. Ran out of space. We’ll bring it on the next run, two days tops.”
“You left the bed?”
“Yeah, we figured we’d do the smaller stuff first. Prioritize the easy unload, you know?”
Right. Prioritize everything except the thing a man actually sleeps on.
So much for a king-sized dream.
He gave me a thumbs-up, then climbed back in the cab while I stood there, one mattress short of a furnished house.
They left, and I stood there, thinking about how the bed was supposed to be the centerpiece.
“Never mind!” I shook it off.
I had bigger things to worry about, like a certain four-legged mystery who might or might not show up.
Lazily, I grabbed the bowls I’d picked up from town, filled one with clean water, the other with some dry food, and set them on the porch.
It didn’t take long.
From the trees came the faintest sound, the leaves rustling just enough, and out trotted the shaggy mutt.
“Hello there, big fella,” I said, crouching. “Look at you, showing up like you’ve got a standing invitation.”
He didn’t make a sound. He just settled in and studied me, tail still, ears alert.
Before long, he padded over and started eating.
I leaned back against the railing and watched him. “What should I name you? Bear? You’ve got the coat for it.” His ears didn’t twitch.
“Tawny?” I tried. “You’re part coyote, admit it.”
Nothing. He kept chewing.
Then it came to me. “Reko,” I said.
The dog paused mid-chew, lifted his head, and tilted it, one ear twitching like he was processing.
“Yeah, I know,” I muttered. “Weird name. But I knew aFinnish guy back in my hockey days. Defenseman. Quiet as stone, but he was always exactly where I needed him.”
