Her squeak was the only thing I let slip through before I shut the door and locked it behind me.
I was done with women, especially the one who owned this cabin—the one who’d been nothing but a hazard to my cock from the moment I met her.
“What do you think, Chewie?” I ruffled the fur on my husky’s head. “More beer?” I sighed, side-eyeing my mischievous three-year-old pup. “Some jerky?”
His snout rose and mouth opened, letting his tongue hang free.
“Yeah, I know you want jerky,” I drawled, plucking a piece of the home-marinated, freshly-dried meat from the counter. “Only because you’re cute. And because I’m struggling.”
Chewie eagerly devoured the treat, confirming my long-accepted suspicion that I was only worthy of his attention when there was food involved.
I drummed my fingers on the laminate of my kitchen counter, watching my vacuum-seal machine package the last half-pound of the jerky I’d finished drying in the oven this morning.
Ooo! I could make him my famous venison SpaghettiOs casserole.
No. I winced and tugged my lip between my teeth. Definitely not.
Obviously, I’d gotten off on the wrong foot with my temporary tenant—and neighbor.
Some people might do something dumb when meeting the unexpectedly gorgeous man who was now living within walking distance from my remote abode. Some people might, as the saying goes, put their foot in their mouth to make the greeting awkward.
But not me. Not Winna Madden.
I was not a foot-in-mouth level of awkward. I was, clearly, a forehead-to-groin kind of girl, making our initial introduction both memorable and miserable.
I chewed on the corner of my lip, my thoughts turning inside my head, searching for how to make this right.
I wouldn’t bring over more beer. The case I’d left chilling (literally) on the front porch yesterday after he’d shut my own door in my face was still out there as of this morning when Chewie and I went for our walk just as the sun ended the deep, dark nights I loved about Michigan’s winter.
The machine buzzed that it was done sealing and I turned it off, quickly cutting the excess material from around the dried meat with the proficiency of habit that let me do it with hardly any attention while my thoughts drifted to a different piece of meat…
Winna Jean Madden!
I groaned. That was what happened when a girl was raised by her recluse huntsman of a father and his grizzly friends in the middle of nowhere Michigan. A wild child who could take down a buck with a single arrow, who loved beef jerky and thought SpaghettiOs were gourmet, and who had absolutely zero experience with men.
But Ryan Finan was a different kind of man. Definitely not a Michigan man, that was for sure.
His coat had a label. He had no beard. And he’d rented a massive black SUV.
I never thought to really check on the people who rented my cabin. Most of the time, it was hunters and the like looking for a few weeks of good game and quiet peace. Most of the time I never came in contact with them—the ones I didn’t know.
But not Ryan.
For the first time in a decade, I regretted both the sparse cell service and my decision to forgo the expense of getting internet all the way out here. Usually, I checked on email and things when I went into town once a week, and Kurt, who also listed an apartment of his for rent online, kept an eye on my listings and gave me a call when someone wanted to rent my spare cabin.
Propping my elbows on the counter, I rested my cheek on my clasped hands and looked down at Chewie, angling for another piece of my jerky.
“You’re lucky you got one, mister,” I declared, making a point to take a large bite of the second strip while he watched. “Those were my favorite pair of slippers.”
Yesterday, because I’d taken a bit longer than usual to get back from town, Chewie decided to use the sheepskin slippers my uncles had gotten me for Christmas as a chew toy. And effectively lived up to his name.
Kurt, Marshall, and Bert weren’t really my uncles by blood, but they’d helped my dad raise me after my mom died when I was a baby, so, to me, they were closer than blood because they were in my life by choice.
Chewie whimpered.
“Ugh.” I caved and fed him the rest when he gave me those puppy dog eyes--which, to be clear, were his normal eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute—you’re going to need it when you break the news to Uncle Kurt what you did to those slippers,” I warned him, aware but uncaring that I was having a discussion with my dog.
I looked out from the counter, racking my brain for the best way to apologize to my neighbor for head-butting his balls.
My house was a similar A-frame style but larger than the one Ryan was in. This one had a master bedroom on the first floor in addition to the loft on the second. The living room and kitchen were slightly more spacious to accommodate my dad and me while I was growing up, but always grew cozier when my uncles were over after a successful day of hunting.
Maybe I should send flowers. My brow furrowed, imagining the note. ‘So sorry for whacking your nuts.’
I snort-laughed, startling Chewie with the noise that then turned into a groan. Part of me knew most women would probably bake something, but hell if I knew how to use the oven for anything other than meat and casserole.
My dad had taught me how to hunt any and everything that lived in the woods around us; he’d taught me how to survive on the land. Uncle Kurt had taught me about business and how to run my own. My uncle Marshall was the one who taught me how to cook—if cooking meant how to smoke and dry meat, and how to make the best SpaghettiOs casserole in the Midwest; in his world, baked goods meant any kind of jerky dried in the oven. And my uncle Bert… well, he taught me how to drink with the best of them.
“It looks like jerky is all I’ve got,” I mumbled, knowing it was a damn delicious option even if it wasn’t exactly what the situation called for.
I reached for the roll of ‘Four Jerks Jerky’ logo stickers and stopped myself; my brand came from the men responsible for teaching me everything I needed to know about meat jerky and business—the four jerks being my dad and uncles.
Sticking the circle design on the vacuum package, I sighed and traced my fingertip around the edge to make sure it was sealed completely.
The beginning of the month was always dedicated to packaging and shipping for my jerky business. The next two weeks I’d spend hunting and butchering. Then, I’d be busy with the marinades; there were three standard flavors I always offered and one monthly special. Since it was February, I already knew I was going to whip up a chocolate-chili concoction.
It wasn’t something I ever thought I’d do, but looking back on my childhood, I saw how my childhood—and the four men who’d raised me—had all come together in bits and pieces as I’d formed this business that I loved. Who knew there was decent money in dried meat? I only sold it locally, but it was more than enough to sustain an income to provide for my needs—and I didn’t need much. I was raised full well knowing that the most valuable things in life didn’t have a price tag attached to them.
Tossing my braid over my shoulder, I grabbed the freshly packaged meat and strode around the small island in the kitchen, through the living room, to where I’d left my jacket hanging and boots sitting by the door. If there ever was a label on my coat, it was long gone with well-use, and next year, I’d have to replace the laces on my boots again because I could see where they were starting to strip. Unless Chewie got to them first.