Bone Dry

that carpentry seemed to offer. Something about working with his hands, seeing a structure slowly take shape from his own backbreaking labor, gave Marlin a release he found nowhere else, not even hunting. Over the years, he had built a large covered deck, a sunroom, and a carport for his state-issued Dodge truck.

But Marlin had more of an emotional investment in this particular project. Or, he used to. Last year, after Becky had moved in, she had commented that his place was awfully small. It was a casual remark, but it forced Marlin to do a little long-term thinking. His place was a simple ranch-style cabin. Two bedrooms, one bath. Small living room. Barely more than a thousand square feet, total. It had always been fine for him alone. But he realized that a man and a woman should have a little more space than his house provided.

So last spring he had begun adding a sixteen-by-twenty room to the back of his house. More than three hundred square feet, he had told Becky. That’ll open things up quite a bit, give us plenty of room.

His secret plan-something he had shared only with Phil Colby-was to propose to Becky as soon as he finished the addition.

But then Becky had gone to stay with her mother, and Marlin had put the project on hold for a while. He had been lonely when she was gone, and his heart simply wasn’t in it.

And now she was gone for good.

Oddly, though, now that he knew where things stood, Marlin had the urge to get back to it, to keep himself busy with some honest physical labor. He figured it would be better than moping around all day, thinking himself into a funk.

Marlin eyed the work he had done in the spring. The walls were framed. Now it was time to get the roof up before the weather took too much of a toll on the plywood subflooring he had installed five months ago.

Marlin strapped on a tool belt, pulled a tarp off a stack of two-by-eights, and got busy. Using his circular saw, he notched each rafter to rest on the top plate of the outer wall. Then he began hauling the rafters up the ladder and nailing them in place.

After two hours, the roof line was beginning to take shape. Marlin felt invigorated, his mind fresh, thinking of nothing but the task at hand. He took a break for a large tumbler of iced tea, then pulled his shirt off. Sixty degrees outside, but Marlin had worked up a good sweat wrestling those planks up the ladder.

At two-thirty, he hammered the last rafter into place and remained on the ladder for a moment, catching his breath. Then he heard a female voice say, “Ooo-whee! Check out the beefcake.”

He looked down and saw Inga Mueller grinning up at him. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail. Marlin thought he had heard a car pull up. She must have heard the hammering and come around the side of the house.

Inga fanned herself with one hand and attempted a Southern accent, saying, “My, my, I do believe I’m getting weak in the knees,” then faked a swoon, leaning against the framework of the new room.

Marlin had to laugh. “You’re a real bashful one, aren’t you?” he said, climbing down the ladder. She tapped on one of the wall supports. “Well, at least there was a stud around to catch me.”

Marlin grabbed a rag and began wiping some of the grime off his hands. “So, you out of jail already?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at her.

She smiled. “Sure. Got out yesterday. Seems nobody’s pressing charges. Not Rodney Bauer, not Cecil Pritchard… and not you.”

The district attorney had called yesterday, a chuckle in his voice as he read the report and asked Marlin if he wanted to proceed with an assaulting-an-officer case against her. Marlin had declined. “What about Rodney’s truck?” Marlin asked. “Don’t tell me his insurance is going to cover it?”

She folded her arms and cocked a hip, like a young girl pouting. “Well, no. Those heartless ghouls said they would sue me for the damages.”

“Can you blame them?”

“No, not really. I’m going to pay Rodney back myself. In fact, I already did. Met him in Johnson City and wrote him a check. He told me where you live.”

Marlin nodded as he pulled his shirt on. “I was wondering about that.”

He stood there a moment, uncertain what to say, thinking Inga would announce the reason for her visit. Instead, she looked up at the roof joists and said, “What’re you building?”

Marlin hesitated for a second. “Aw, I’m just adding on another room. Wanted a little more space.”

“What is this, a two-bedroom? Three? What’s a single guy like you need all that space for?”

Marlin wondered how she knew he was single. There was the obvious sign that he didn’t wear a wedding ring, but not all married men did. Who had she been talking to?

Marlin simply shrugged, then grabbed his glass. “You want some tea?”

“You got any beer?”

“I do. What kind you like?”

“Cold.”

“My favorite flavor. Think you can refrain from throwing it on me?”

She put her hands up in an I surrender gesture. “I come in peace.”

Thomas Collin Peabody simply didn’t understand women. Not this one, anyway, this wild sprite, this forest nymph named Inga. Ah, what a fiasco. Here she was, mooning over a common man-a redneck, a hick, a yokel. Meanwhile, a man who truly loved her-a man of substance and values and compassion and humanity-sat outside in her rusting Volvo.

She had asked him: Did he want to come inside? Hell no, he didn’t. He just couldn’t stand watching her make eyes at the man, like she did with all the others. But she always said it didn’t mean anything. Just my way of doing things, she’d say. Gets them on my side. Sure, it got them on her side because they wanted to get her on her back. It gave Thomas Peabody a big knot in his stomach just thinking about it.

Who was this Marlin guy, anyway? A game warden. Not even a real police officer. Peabody was surprised they were even allowed to carry guns. And now this guy-this high-and-mighty game warden-was in there, chatting with Inga, probably having a good laugh about the incident at the coffee shop, then checking out her breasts when she wasn’t looking. Or maybe even when she was.

From the moment Peabody had met Inga at a logging protest, where he had chained himself nude to a massive redwood, Peabody had loved her with a feverish intensity. She was truly a vision, more beautiful than the loveliest Rodin, more haunting than the most provocative Picasso. She seemed to share so many of Peabody’s qualities, too: a love of nature and its delicate ecosystem, an affinity for the animals that graced the Earth, and a strong moral compass that dictated the actions necessary to defend both.

They had been fighting the good fight together for two years now, traveling the country when necessary. Living off Thomas’s trust fund, doing their best to right wrongs wherever they found them. When Inga had spotted an article in Birdwatcher about the plight of the red-necked sapsucker, Thomas had said, Certainly, by all means, let’s see what we can do about it. Let’s mosey on down to Texas and have us a look-see. That had elicited a smile, but not the kind of smile Peabody wanted. More like a smile you’d get from your sister.

Then, when he had humbly asked for her hand in marriage, he had received that same smile again. Oh, Tommy, she had said. I don’t know what to say. You’re so sweet to ask. So sweet to ask. What kind of comment was that? That’s the kind of remark you make when a friend inquires about your sickly aunt.

That’s when he realized she wasn’t just going to give him her heart. He was going to have to win it. He was going to have to prove just what kind of man he was. A good man. A gentle man. A compassionate man. And if he had to vandalize a few backhoes or slander a couple of developers along the way, so be it.

Inside, sitting at the small kitchen table, Inga sipped her beer and gazed around the room. “I like your place. Kind of rustic, all the wood and rock, nice and comfortable. Makes me feel right at home.”

“Thanks. I enjoy it out here, away from town.”