Oh, yeah. That. He owed her an explanation for his behavior, but since he was turning into the drive for the Captivity Inn, he simply said, “Some of us have better technique than others,” and steered the Yukon down the ramp into the covered parking.
“I guess I’d need a broader sample size to confirm that,” she muttered, and turned to look out the window as he slid the car into a parking space.
Was that a challenge? He looked at Key and raised a brow. The dog cocked his head. Inquiring minds wanted to know.
Trace expected to help Isabelle out of the Yukon, based on her size, the manners his mother had drummed into him, and how close she’d come to taking a header exiting the Beaver, but she hopped out as soon as he cut the engine.
Apparently she wasn’t quite that high maintenance.
Trace got out, waited until Key jumped down, then shut the door and walked back in time to watch her round the bumper.
Or maybe she still felt protective of her bag.
He opened the hatch, lowered her slightly worse-for-wear trunk to the ground and extended the handle. “I’ve got it,” he insisted when she reached for it. To avoid a pointless argument, he simply turned, said, “Come on,” and started walking.
In addition to the underground parking that the inn had added during a renovation three years ago, they’d installed an elevator that took guests from the garage to the lobby. Most people appreciated the convenience of not having to trudge through weather to get from car to inn, but in a town where the progressives were committed to “slow change,” and the conservatives wedded to “no change,” you’d have thought Rose Iquat, who owned the inn, had proposed building a Vegas-style high-rise resort. Of the approximately 1,700 full-time inhabitants of Captivity, each one had harbored an opinion about Rose’s proposed improvements and as soon as she’d applied for the permits, she’d had to listen to every last one of them.
He’d just as soon spare himself that ordeal. He aimed to get the sale of his stake in Captivity Air fully negotiated and all but inked before he paraded it out for public comment. A certain percentage of people wouldn’t want a bunch of outsiders—especially outsiders from the lower forty-eight—putting their fingerprints on something as homegrown as Captivity Air, even if the deal improved things in the long run. Or the short run. The constituents of Captivity, Alaska took a skeptical view of advancements.
But they can adapt, he reminded himself as they boarded the elevator up to the lobby with Jorg Hendrickson. The lurch of the elevator unbalanced Isabelle in her pointy heels, but he caught her around her waist and held her upright. Key immediately went sniffing at Jorg. The seventy-something fishing boat captain had been one of the fiercest opponents of the “elevator scheme,” yet here he was, years later, contentedly parking his truck in the underground garage that would eliminate the need to plug in the motor block heater—though the inn also had plug-ins if they became necessary.
Jorg smiled at Trace, goggled at Isabelle, and placed a weathered hand between Key’s ears. “Hello, doggie,” he said, softly. “Have you been a good boy?”
Key knew the man kept salmon jerky in his pocket.
“Woof!”
“Yes,” Jorg agreed, rubbing his head. “You are good. Good boy!” He produced a dehydrated salmon chew from his coat and gave it to Key. The dog crunched in ecstasy. Jorg’s pale blue eyes shifted to Trace. “And you, big brother?” A gentle inquiry, as had been everyone’s since November, but now the question subtly leaned toward Isabelle. “Have you been a good boy?”
Trace shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her, Jorg.”
The older man grinned as only a widower of twenty-plus years would grin and turned his dancing eyes to Isabelle. “And you, beautiful lady, say?”
The elevator bumped to a stop. “You’ll have to ask me tomorrow,” Isabelle replied, endearing her to him all the more as she made her way out the open doors and through the polished wood and old leather of the lodge-style lobby.
Jorg let out a loud, uninhibited laugh and grinned at Trace. “I will ask,” he promised, and wagged a finger. “For sure I will ask.”
“Goodnight, Jorg.” He chased after Isabelle’s retreating form, while Key heeled like the good boy Jorg called him. They caught up with her as she approached the long, redwood reception desk the original builders of the inn had imported all the way from San Francisco.
Rose looked up from her computer screen as they approached and let the faintest of smiles bring a trace of Mona Lisa–mystery to the proud Native bone structure of her face.
“Hi, Rose, I think you have a reservation for—”
“Hello, Trace Shanahan.” Her dark eyes shifted to the woman beside him. “You have been busy, I understand.”
He took the cryptic observation to mean Mad and/or Wing had called during the fraction of an hour it had taken him to bring Isabelle to the inn and told Rose he had arrived from Anchorage with not merely a passenger, but a girlfriend he hoped to upgrade to a fiancée. Until he could explain his idea fully—and get Isabelle on board to continue the ruse long enough to get the deal done—the less conversation, the better. Currently, she stood beside him, her dainty hands folded on the counter, looking around the lobby like a small, exotic owl.
Before he could think of a benign response to offer Rose, Key whined and tapped a paw to the closed half-door built into the side of the reception desk that led to the hallway behind her.
“You want to go meet tonight’s dogs, K’eyush?” Rose asked while staring at her computer screen and typing on her keyboard to bring up Isabelle’s reservation.
Another whine and tap served as Key’s answer. Rose’s attention shifted to Trace. “Okay, Uncle Trace?”
He nodded. “Sure.” More beloved to Key than underground parking or even the elevator, the inn boasted a kennel and dog run for visitor’s pets, as well as local doggie daycare. Neither of those were new additions. He suspected the kennel and run had existed, in one form or another, since Captivity Inn had opened for business in 1883. Dogs had played an integral role in Alaskan history, and even the earliest settlers would have required a safe place to house them through rains, blizzards, and endless winter nights. “Have fun, big guy.”
Rose opened the door and added, “Sheba’s back there. Go say hi.”
Sheba, Rose’s St. Bernard, was one of Key’s favorite four-legged friends. The husky barked twice and took off down the hall that led to the back offices and, eventually, the kennels, the small indoor playroom, and the outdoor run.
“So,” Rose continued, in her clipped, businesslike way, “Ms. Marcano—”
“Isabelle, please,” she invited. “If I’m going to be here for several weeks, I can’t be looking over my shoulder for my mother every time someone wants my attention.”