More Than Cookies (The Maple Leaf Series) (2 page)

He hated metaphors.

He also wouldn’t be getting into any situations remotely resembling a relationship with a woman. They were all sweet smiles and passionate kisses… until the claws came out.

No thanks.

Sighing now as he continued farther into the woods, Orion pushed aside thoughts of Adriana, Myah, Ranger, and his father. This morning was about finding the perfect trees for his next sculptures. The order was for three life-sized black bears—one of his most favorite things to carve. A zoo in New York had requested the carved critters for a display to be erected near the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center in December. They wanted them now so they could build the rest of the display around his bears. This one customer would bring in some good money. Hopefully it would be enough to convince a judge that he could support his daughter.

After taking a swig from his water bottle, Orion followed a brook toward a grove of suitable pines. Tall, straight, and healthy, they were perfect for this project. He reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and produced three lengths of bright orange rope. He tagged three trees to mark them for his buddy, Adam Rouse, who would come in with the heavy equipment, cut those babies down for him, and tow them to Orion’s workshop. Then he’d get to hack away at the logs until the bears emerged from the shavings.

He couldn’t wait.

Carving always made him feel… free. As if he could give birth to absolutely anything he wanted out of that wood. As if it were just waiting for him to breathe beauty, creativity, and art into it. As if, without him, the wood would not have fulfilled its true purpose in this life.

He ran his rough and scarred hands over the trunk of the nearest pine. The bark scraped across his fingertips—except for the pinkie fingertip on his left hand. He’d lost from the first knuckle up to the tip during one carving project, making the entire cast of
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
for an obsessed Frank L. Baum fan. If Orion had “only had a brain,” he would have been extra careful carving around the lion’s mane, but he’d still been developing his techniques. Still experimenting with which angles created the right effects, which tools did the job best. He’d made a rather important note to self on that job. Under no circumstances should one’s pinkie finger come into contact with the grinder’s blade. Not good. Lots of blood. Lots of swearing.

Looking at that abbreviated finger now, he shook his head and pulled out his cell phone.

“Hey, Adam,” he said when his buddy answered, “I’m west of the brook, about two-thirds of a mile in. Tagged three trees.”

“Got it,” Adam said. “I’ll grab those for you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, man.” And that ended their conversation. Vermont men didn’t need a lot of words to get jobs done. Orion liked it that way.

Carrying his phone, he turned to retrace his steps back to his workshop. As he walked, dog barks and a few gunshots echoed somewhere closer than he would have liked. Damn hunters were always parading through his land with their bloodhounds, cornering bears, and calling it a sport when they put a bullet into the trapped creature.

Pointless.

As far as Orion was concerned, there were much better ways to spend one’s time.

He continued on his way but stopped when a deer bounded across his path. Its big brown eyes connected with his for a moment then the animal was gone. While Orion stared down the path the deer had taken, another shot rang out.

Something hot and fucking painful bit into his right thigh. He immediately clamped a hand over the aching area, and his stomach did a sick flip-flop when his hand came away wet and red. His vision got spotty. His ears rang and not in the this-is-an-awesome-rock-concert way. No, definitely more like the I’ve-been-shot-and-am-going-to-pass-out way instead.

This was so not the morning he’d planned.                   

Chapter Two

Sage had unpacked her suitcase, done laundry, tidied the room she occupied at her mother’s house, made a batch of her signature maple peanut butter cookies, gone for a run with Rick’s coyote, Poe, and washed her car—along with her mother’s and Hope’s.

It was only 1:30 in the afternoon on her first full day back in Vermont.

She should have been exhausted. She’d spent two weeks with her family in L.A. and had done all the touristy stuff she could find. Lily had taken her to an awesome Utopia Resorts gala too, and that had been like being wide awake during a truly fabulous dream. Glitz, glamour, dresses trimmed in jewels, paparazzi, with a side of dance music—all of this had made that night magical.

Still, something had been missing. She’d still felt alone amongst all those party-goers.

Quit being so pathetic.

As she walked to the kitchen, Sage slapped her own cheek lightly and shook her head. She had no reason to be down. California had been a great vacation. She’d seen her cousin tie the knot, stepped on Johnny Depp’s star on Hollywood Boulevard, and stayed in the fanciest hotel room she’d probably ever stay in at Gems Utopia. A great trip. Phenomenal.

So what’s my problem?

Because she did have one. She couldn’t put a specific name to it yet, but it was there, lingering, just the same.

“Have you seen my jean shorts?” Hope asked from the laundry room.

“On your bed,” Sage said.

“No, they’re not there.”

“I put them there myself after I finished
your
laundry.” She’d done her own, Hope’s, and her mother’s too.

Huffing, Sage stomped into Hope’s room next to her own. She rifled through the small mountain of freshly laundered clothes and extracted a pair of faded jean shorts.

“Voila.” She turned to leave, but Hope clamped a hand onto her arm.

“What’s up with you?” Hope asked.

“Nothing.”
Everything.

“You can’t hide from me, Sage. I’m in tune with you. Always have been.”

Another thing that got annoying after a while.

“Yeah, well, tune into another channel, Hope. There’s nothing happening on this one.” Absolutely nothing happening at all. Zero activity. Her existence had become a still-life painting—one of those meaningless, bowl-of-fruit watercolors where nothing looks appetizing and too much perylene maroon paint from one of those toothpaste-like tubes had been used.

Can we say blah, everyone?

“If nothing is happening, whose fault is it?” Hope asked as she stripped out of her cotton pajama shorts and pulled on the jean shorts.

“Don’t go all yoga and granola on me. You know I hate that.” Sage flopped down on Hope’s bed and stared at the ceiling. “Besides, I’m not even sure what I
want
to happen.”

But she was pretty sure it had something to do with getting laid.

“That’s not the answer,” Hope said.

“Huh?”

“Getting laid.”

“I never said anything about getting laid.” Sage sat up. She hadn’t said that out loud, had she?

“You didn’t have to say it, Sage. We just came from an incredibly romantic wedding, spent two weeks in California—the capital of fun movies where people fall in love and are cinematically over-attractive—and neither of us has been properly laid in a while. A good, long while.”

“You miss Sam?”

Hope nodded. “I didn’t think him being off at medical school in Washington would be such a big deal, but it is. It totally is.” A faraway look drifted across her face, but she blinked, and when her deep brown eyes focused on Sage again, a smile had worked its way into them.

How the fuck did she do that?
When a bad mood gripped Sage, it held on. Tightly. Like with Wolverine claws. Not Hope though. She was forever upbeat.

Also annoying.

“I’ve got a website job to work on for a few hours, but when I’m finished do you want to go out or something?” Hope asked.

Sage shook her head. “Nah. I’m not done moping around yet.” She stood and gave Hope’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Thanks though.”

She left her sister’s room and went into her own to grab her laptop, then headed for the sunroom at the back of the house and plopped down onto the cushioned outdoor couch. Tossing her feet up, she balanced the computer on her thighs and powered it up.

While she waited, she watched her mother weeding the impressive herb garden growing just beyond the patio Rick had built for them three summers ago. On her hands and knees with her blonde hair hidden under a giant straw hat, Joy was at her happiest when her hands were covered in dirt and the sun was beating down on her back. Sage knew her mother could spend all day in that garden and be perfectly content.

Why can’t I be perfectly content?

She scanned the woods surrounding the house. Aside from a few hawks screeching and some dogs barking in the distance, the area was quiet and still. Just like always. Just like every day before this one and probably every day after this one.

Sighing, Sage turned her attention to the laptop screen as she hopped online. After catching up on a few emails and responding to a catering request, an ad on the sidebar caught her attention.

Soul2Soul.com, Where Hearts Find Each Other…

As that one turned around in her head, another one popped up.

New England Realty, Matching People with Their Home Sweet Homes…

Sage didn’t believe in signs. She didn’t believe in waiting for things to happen either. In two clicks she could find a soul mate and her own space. And if her theory about needing to get laid were true, those were exactly the two ingredients she needed.

****

When Orion came to, the first thing to catch his attention was the fire burning in his right thigh. The second thing was the dirt, pine needles, and leaves pressing against his cheek. Slowly, he managed to get his arms beneath himself and turn his body over so he was on his back. The sun was no longer shining through the leaves. Judging from the light, he would have guessed it to be about 6:00 or 7:00 p.m.

Hours. I’ve been out here—bleeding—for hours.

That thought made him struggle to his elbows then to sitting upright. A large blotch of red stained his cargo shorts right at the epicenter of the ache in his thigh and rivulets of blood drizzled down his knee and around his shin to his calf. His head swirled and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Don’t puke. Do not puke.

The sight of blood didn’t bother him. Hell, he’d been nicked enough times by various saws while creating his sculptures. Every one of his projects had some of his blood and a great deal of his sweat in them, but being shot? That was definitely a new one. He definitely didn’t have the stomach to actually lift the leg of his shorts and examine the wound straight on.

Nope. Not going to do it.

The gears in his mind slowly turned as he ran through what he should be doing to get out of this unfortunate—and potentially fatal—situation.

Tourniquet?

But he didn’t have anything to tie around his leg. He glanced at the ropes he’d used to tag his trees, but they weren’t sturdy enough for this job.

Apply pressure to the wound.

Again, he didn’t have the right supplies. He’d basically grabbed the ropes to tag the trees and headed out into the woods with his phone.

My phone.

He remembered calling Adam and having the phone in his hand before the shot had sounded. Rustling through the leaves and brush nearby, he hunted for the phone he must have dropped. When his hand closed around it near a piece of ledge peeking from the ground, he sent up a silent prayer. When he realized the phone was in three pieces, most likely after hitting the rock, that prayer turned into every foul word he knew.  

I’m going to have to get up.

The idea of getting to his feet made his thigh scream in protest, but what choice did he have? If he hung around much longer, there would be more blood outside his body than inside it. Generally speaking, that was never a good thing.

Orion removed his camouflage T-shirt and twisted it so it became a spiral of cloth. He tied that around the hole in his leg, trying his best not think about the fact that he had a hole in his leg, and reached for a nearby branch on the ground. Using the branch like a crutch, he managed to get to his feet. He bit back the howl of pain threatening to let loose from his throat and took a moment to decide which way to go. His own place was at least two-thirds of a mile away.

Too far.

Less than a quarter of a mile away, however, was Claire Cressen’s place. Better known as Crotchety Cressen’s place by the local kids, the beautiful plot of land sported a rustic farmhouse a little smaller than his own. It was up for sale and the old lady no longer lived there. She’d moved in with her daughter so she wouldn’t be alone. If he could make it to the Cressen house, he could figure out a way in and find something to at least tend to the wound.

Deeming that to be his best plan—actually his
only
plan—Orion took several unsteady steps forward. He used the crutch branch and leaned on every tree he passed. If an animal were tracking him, it would have the invitingly fresh scent of blood to follow.

Not loving the idea of being a bear snack, he made an attempt to speed up, but the pain was too much. Each step felt as if someone were cutting into his leg with one of his chainsaws. He could hardly feel the toes on his right foot anymore, and that couldn’t be a good sign. His head pounded, he was covered in a sheen of sweat, and he’d kill for an ice cold beer right now.

Thinking of beer, he pressed on and soon Crotchety Cressen’s farmhouse came into view between the trees. He had to cross a small brook to get to the house and the cool water was too much to resist. Easing down into the stream rushing by, Orion let the water soothe his overheated body and wash away some of the blood that had dried on his lower leg. There would be time to worry about parasites going into his open wound later.  

He studied the T-shirt tied around his thigh, and though it did the job of containing his blood, it was nearly soaked through by the crimson flow. He’d need something else to cover the wound. Soon.