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white towel and hung it on the wooden rod on the log wall. Everything was hard, rustic. No pampering heat lamp, no lush towels, no elegant wall coverings, only bare wood. No amenity she would have previously expected as a matter of course. The lack invigorated her.
    She dressed in shorts and a sleeveless cream knit shirt. Now that she had a place to stay she would see the town, get to know her surroundings. She’d never done anything like this, and she had to get it right. She bit her lip, wondering at that thought. At some point she would have to face reality, but since it presently eluded her, she wouldtake each thought as it came. She locked the door from the inside and crossed the landing that overlooked the main room downstairs.
    The heavy log walls angled up two stories to the vaulted ceiling. A stone fireplace dominated one wall with bookcases flanking either side. Across the fireplace was a massive log mantel, and above that hung a plain wooden cross, pine like the rest. It was the only ornament in the room.
    No feminine touch softened the space. No color accented the pale wood, lichen-covered stone, and saddle-tone leather couches. No curtains blocked the view from the wide front window. It was a man’s place, untouched by a decorator’s hands, almost primitive in its simplicity.
    She went down and found the office underneath her own room. No one was inside, but a metal key lay on the desk with her name on a yellow Post-it. The note said, “Please leave your rent on the desk.” He probably didn’t realize she had cash. She took out the four hundred-dollar bills but couldn’t leave them lying there. She would give them to him later but took the key now. She put both money and key in her pocket and walked out.
    Morgan sat in the corner chair in the main room, one leg crossed over his knee. As she passed, he looked up from his newspaper. “All settled in?”
    â€œYes.” No need to tell him she hadn’t yet paid. She started for the door.
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    A quiver of fear licked up like a flame. It wasn’t him. It was inside her, like a frayed nerve reacting and not knowing when to stop. What was dangerous, what wasn’t? And when would it stop? It was a perfectly ordinary question, and she answered, “To look at the town.”
    â€œWant a ride?” He folded the paper down over his knee.
    â€œNo thanks.”
    He stood anyway and met her at the door with an easy stride. “The walk down’s not so bad, but up’s a bear. Much worse than my bite.”
    Had he sensed her fear? Her mind whirring over endless possibilities of danger? She could drive herself crazy with what-if s. And the walk up the gravel road was daunting. “All right.” An instant trembling chased up her spine, but she resisted it.
    He fished his keys from his pocket. “How’d you get up here?”
    â€œI walked.” She passed through the door he held.
    â€œI mean up to Juniper Falls.”
    â€œThe tour bus.”
    â€œAha.” He closed the door behind them. “So what brings you here?”
    â€œI liked the look of it.” The questions were inevitable, but she hoped her terse answers would discourage him soon. She slid into the fawn leather seat of his car. Of course, his was the Corvette. “What does FSTLN mean?”
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œYour license plate.”
    â€œOh. Just add vowels.”
    Noelle solved it in her head, and as the gravel flew behind his tires, she fastened her seat belt. Though the grasses brushed the underbelly of his car, he drove with just enough velocity to keep her attention without putting her over the edge, literally. Then he parked in the central lot outside the general store. Fast lane indeed. She surveyed the street before her as he walked around to let her out.
    â€œTo the right, tourist row, down that way, the real town. Which will it be for starters?”
    She followed the sweep