She waited again. The gate opened, and Chuck stood there smiling. Somewhere, he’d shed the rifle and taken a shortcut to get here ahead of her. He was still wearing the scary belt with the knife and handgun. “I’ve shut the nervous dogs up,” he said. “Leave your vehicle there, please, and come into the house.”
Reluctantly, Rachel left the comparative safety of her Jeep and walked through the gate. Inside, she stopped and stared. Ahead was a neat log cabin with stone chimneys at either end. To her left, running downhill, spread an old orchard, overgrown, but still showing vestiges of late apples and walnuts. On the hillside, beyond the picturesque cabin, stood a log barn and several smaller outbuildings, also built of logs. Beyond the structures were the remains of a garden, and a pasture with goats, horses, and a half dozen long-haired, shaggy, reddish Highland cattle. The open fields stretched several acres, a miniature high valley tucked into the folds of the ancient mountain.
Her astonishment must have been evident because Baker laughed, a deep, soft belly rumble. “Did you think I lived in a cave?” he asked.
“Ne.” Actually, she hadn’t thought that far. After the fencing and bridges that were rigged to be dropped or raised up and the cameras and dogs, she wouldn’t have been surprised by a WWII-type concrete bunker. What she hadn’t expected was a quaint dwelling and homestead that looked as if it had been created two hundred years ago. Except for the wind turbine and the solar panels. “It’s beautiful,” she pronounced. “Do you live here alone?”
He shook his head. “I have my dogs, and there are twenty of them at last count. No, make that twenty-two. One was pregnant when I got her from the shelter in State College. Thoughtless kids. They buy a puppy, neglect her training, and then are surprised when she’s not housebroken or takes a bite out of the neighbor’s poodle.”
“I see that you like pit bulls.”
“They’re the ones most likely to be left chained to a box when the owner moves or, if they’re lucky, dropped off at the shelter. They need care and discipline. Nothing wrong with a pit. People say they’re dangerous. It’s the owners that are dangerous. You have no business owning something if you can’t take care of it.”
She looked up at Chuck and reconsidered her first impression of him. He sounded like a man who cared about the welfare of animals. In her mind, that didn’t mesh with the paramilitary security and the guns. A complex man, she thought. Nothing is ever what you expect on first sight. “I don’t want to keep you from your chores,” she began. “If you could just answer a few questions about Daniel and your trouble with him—” She cut herself short, looking at him looking at her.
Baker’s hooded eyes narrowed. They were so dark brown as to appear black, and for the first time, she wondered if he might have Native American blood. “I’m not answering any questions out here,” he said. “You’ve come this far, and I only let you in for Rupert’s sake. We’ll talk inside. This wind is cold, and you could probably use something warm to drink.” He slid a bolt into place on the gate and led the way down a path to the cabin. “You’re safe enough in here,” he said. “I don’t make war on women, at least not those who aren’t trying to blow me to smithereens.”
“I can assure you that I’m not armed and I have no intentions of harming you or anyone else.”
He chuckled. “Good. That makes me feel better.” He gave her a long look, taking in her clothing. “You aren’t Amish, but you dress like it.”
“Born Amish; not anymore, though. I intended on talking with some of your Amish neighbors. They’re more open if I don’t wear jeans and a T-shirt.”
He smiled. “You’re smart. And determined. Most women would never have gone around that first wire gate. And few men, either.” He pushed open the door and pointed to pegs against one wall. “You can hang your coat up there.” He unbuckled his weapons belt and shrugged out of his heavy coat. “Just give me a moment and I’ll make us a pot of tea. You do drink tea, don’t you? My blackberry is excellent, but I have Irish breakfast or peppermint, if you’d prefer that.”
“Peppermint, please,” she said. Her stomach was a little queasy from the drive up the mountain. She glanced around. Inside, the cabin was as lovely as out. The walls were decorated, not with mounted deer heads as she’d expected but with Indian baskets, beadwork, and what appeared to be a very old bow and fringed leather quiver. Over the doorway she’d just stepped through hung a green stone Indian peace pipe with a wooden stem. An eagle feather dangled from it. “Are you Native American?” she asked.
“Enough to claim a tribal card. My dad’s parents were part Shawnee. Mom was Oneida out of upper New York State.”
“The Oneida are one of the five tribes of Iroquois,” Rachel said.
“Good,” he remarked. “You aren’t completely ignorant about my heritage.”
He waved her to a leather chair by the stone fireplace. This spacious room contained a galley kitchen and living area. There was a door leading off the kitchen and another at the far end of the room. A large ginger-striped cat was curled in a basket beside the hearth. “Oh, I forgot.” She turned back to him before reaching the chair. “I brought you homemade cinnamon-raisin sticky buns. They’re in the Jeep. I’ll just go out and get them.”
Baker frowned. “No, miss, you stay put. The dogs
