Hideaway. Hannah Alexander

problems never did anybody any good. Dane crunched the bacon.

      “You know how Blaze likes to hang around and shoot the breeze with ol’ Cecil when there’s time,” Cook said. “He got the milking done early and already had the potatoes shredded when I got down here. He was just underfoot, driving me nuts. I figured—”

      “It’s okay,” Dane said. “He’ll be back anytime, I’m sure.” He strolled to the back door and peered out the window.

      “You worry about that kid too much,” Cook said, stepping up behind him.

      “And you don’t?”

      “He’s a piece of work, all right. Charmer. He got Bertie Meyer to bake him a batch of her chocolate black-walnut cookies last week, then he traded half of them to Willy to do his chores one morning so he could sleep in.”

      “Well, if he doesn’t get back soon, he’s going to be eating the rest of them for breakfast. We’re not waiting around if he’s late.”

      

      Brightly colored houses graced the narrow, roughly paved road into Hideaway. The peridot green of budding springtime gave the morning a crisp, fresh feel, the multitude of pink-and-white dogwood trees providing a splash of elegance to a progression of postage-stamp-size yards. Larger, more elegant brick and stone homes graced the cliff line across the lake. Other houses were set deeply into the hillsides above the road.