Along the Broken Road (The Roads to River Rock Book 1)

Home > Other > Along the Broken Road (The Roads to River Rock Book 1) > Page 4
Along the Broken Road (The Roads to River Rock Book 1) Page 4

by Heather Burch


  “Fine, soldier. Just fine.” Slowly, she turned and walked toward the door. Once there, Charlee paused. “That was my dad’s tool belt. Take good care of it.”

  Something in Ian’s heart snapped. Wrapped around his waist was the utility belt of Major McKinley. Ian’s hands came down and ran slowly over the smooth leather pouches. He swallowed hard. Charlee’s dad had died a year ago. For a moment he thought he should take it off, but he didn’t. Instead, he gently placed the hammer in its place, filled the nail pouch with a handful of trim nails sitting nearby, and hooked a wrench through one of the loops. It was a few more seconds before he could bring himself to leave the shed.

  Outside, the sun was rising to the center of the world and chasing away every bit of shadow and shade. It was going to be a hot one. Charlee stood in the center of the hub waiting for him.

  When he reached her, she asked, “What’s the most powerful force?”

  “What?”

  “Earlier you said fear of the unknown was the second most powerful force on the planet. What’s the first?”

  Off in the distance, a crow split the silence with a piercing squawk. “Passion for the journey.”

  Charlee’s brow quirked. Her face was the most interesting thing about her. Alive with determination one second, curiosity the next. She wasn’t used to being thrown off base, that much was evident. Passion for the journey. He could almost see her repeating it in her head, weighing it, seeing if she agreed. When neither moved, she nodded slowly and headed to Mr. Gruber’s cabin. Halfway there, a surprise breeze met them, coursing around the mountain and pushing against their backs. It drove Ian and Charlee forward. And in it, Ian could smell the scent of hope. His hands came down to his sides to the tool belt as he followed Charlee onto the porch.

  She knocked a few times, but there was no answer. “Mr. Gruber?”

  “I’m here,” came a voice, from the side of the cottage.

  They both turned to see him coming around the corner. Confusion flickered in Ian. This was the man who’d painted The Storm? Couldn’t be. He was thin and frail and weak looking and the painting was nothing if not powerful and bold and commanding. The wide sweeps of the brush made for a violent oncoming storm. This man looked as if he could barely lift the canvas onto the easel.

  “Mr. Gruber, this is Ian. He’s going to fix your water today.”

  “I wish I’d known. I took a cold shower earlier. I could have waited.” His narrow blue eyes studied Ian. “Nice bone structure. Have you modeled?”

  “No sir.” Oh Lord, here we go again.

  Gruber reached up to his face as if he were a scientist and Ian a newly discovered species. “Look at his facial structure, Charlee.”

  She reluctantly leaned closer.

  “See how his cheekbone narrows here?” A cold, wrinkled finger grazed Ian’s cheek.

  “Mm-hmm,” Charlee said, but it sounded forced. She cleared her throat.

  “It would be garish if not for his lovely jawline. See how the squared jaw creates the uniformity?”

  Charlee licked her lips.

  “When I studied in Paris, we were often offered models of this quality. Not anymore, though.” There was a distinct nostalgia in his tone, sounding like the kind of man who gloried in days gone by more than the present.

  “King Edward is going to paint him.”

  Ian’s skin crawled at the thought. Had he really agreed to that?

  Gruber poked him on the shoulder. “Don’t let Edward destroy you. He has no sense of true artistry. All passion, no training.”

  Ian raised his hands. “I just want to fix the water.”

  Charlee and Gruber took a step back, as if the strange inspection was complete. Charlee grinned. “Okay, I’ll leave you two guys to it.”

  Mr. Gruber opened the door for Ian. “Go right on in. I’m going to sit in the swing for a bit. I’ll be back along in a while. Make yourself at home. If you need to move some things out of your way, feel free. But stay out of my loft. I have paintings in process up there.”

  “Understood.” Ian gave him a salute and went inside, thinking he just might like Mr. Gruber. He did, at least, until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the cabin. “Lord Almighty,” he whispered, half in disgust, half in prayer for immediate deliverance.

  Ian wasn’t sure where to rest his eyes first. The small couch was covered with clothes and papers. The coffee table supported a mix of plates and half-empty glasses crowded together; one cup sat so dangerously close to the edge, he couldn’t imagine why it hadn’t toppled off. “Ignore it,” he told himself. “Not your business.” Touching as little as possible, he looked for the closet that likely housed the water heater. There in a pantry separating the living and dining rooms, he found it. The door was blocked with an overflowing trash can and three bags of canned vegetables. Irritation whooshed up from deep inside, but he fought it. He was here to fix the water heater.

  For ten minutes, he moved and moved again the items in his way. Maybe Gruber was a hoarder. He’d heard about those people. But when Ian pulled the cabinet doors open he found . . . nothing. “You gotta be kidding me.” Gruber had room to put things away; he just didn’t do it. When Ian stubbed his toe on yet another bag of unemptied groceries, he exploded. He sailed across the cabin and flung the front door open wide. “Gruber!” Hearing the tension in his voice, he took a breath before continuing. “Need a hand in here.”

  Slowly Gruber stood from the swing and started across the lawn. Ian counted to ten while he waited.

  When the older man stepped inside, Ian’s hands rose in question. “Are you kidding me?”

  Gruber’s bushy brows tilted into a frown.

  Ian gestured around the house. “You’ve got bags of groceries sitting on your floor where you have to step over them while your cabinets are empty.”

  Gruber blinked, the lines around his mouth deepening.

  Ian pointed toward the kitchen. “Don’t you care? Doesn’t it matter to you . . . the state of your home?”

  When Gruber just stood there, Ian moved to the front window. “I can’t work in this.” Years of soldier training had done a number on him. This kind of irresponsibility was unacceptable.

  The window groaned as he opened it. He pulled the curtains open, filling the space with light. Ian moved to the other windows with Gruber standing aside watching him.

  “This morning Charlee showed me the most amazing painting I’ve ever seen.”

  Gruber threaded his hands together, and though he looked a bit like a child being scolded, Ian didn’t stop his rant. “Your painting, The Storm. I can’t quite assimilate that to this. Where I come from, you take pride in your work.”

  Gruber’s chin rose. “I do take pride in my work.”

  “No. You don’t. Or you’d have more respect for yourself than this.”

  Gruber’s eyes darted around the cabin. “I’ve . . . I guess it’s gotten a bit out of hand, but that’s just how I do things.”

  “Look.” Ian knew his temper had taken over and that could just as easily get him fired as anything, but no one should be okay with this. “It just needs to be picked up. Let’s get it done. I can’t complete my mission until this stuff is out of the way.” Before Gruber could answer, Ian was gathering glasses and dishes and taking them to the sink.

  Gruber carried a trash bag around and silently filled it with papers, crumpled potato chip bags, plastic cups, empty water bottles.

  “While I was deployed, I watched some of the hardest workers in Afghanistan. Know who they were?”

  “The foot soldiers?”

  “No. It was the guys who kept the vehicles clean and running smooth. If you don’t have a vehicle you can count on out there, you’re screwed. Everything fills with dust, sand, dirt. Everything clogs. It’s a constant battle, even when the vehicles are sitting at base. We could do our best w
ork when our vehicles were up to the challenge.”

  Gruber paused, a half sandwich in his hand. “What are you saying?”

  “Well, you’re like that vehicle.”

  He tossed the sandwich in the trash, brows high on his head.

  “You’re an artist. What’s the most important component to your artwork?”

  He shrugged and the bag made a crunching sound. “My brushes.”

  “No.”

  “Paints, canvas, inspiration.” Gruber huffed when Ian continued to shake his head. “You’re losing me, soldier.”

  “You are your most important component. You can have all the paints in the world but without you to give it life, there’s nothing. You are your vehicle. It needs to be kept up so you can do your best work.”

  Gruber emptied one bag of trash into another. “Hmm. I’ve never seen it that way, but perhaps you have a small point.”

  Once Ian was able to get to the water heater, he quickly discovered it needed to be replaced. Mr. Gruber kept cleaning. By the time he had the old water heater pulled out, the cabin was spotless. And Gruber looked . . . lighter. Even younger.

  Gruber folded a shirt and glanced around. “This place is roomy with all the junk picked up.”

  Ian nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  The older man scratched his ear. “Thanks.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ian muscled the water heater out the front door. He’d need to find Charlee and see about getting to town to buy another one. Dripping with sweat, he figured a shower couldn’t hurt. She might want to drive him there and he didn’t really want her to have to smell his essence of sweat and stale cabin.

  He turned to Gruber, who held the front door open for him. “If you see Charlee, could you tell her I’ll be at my cabin? We need a new water heater today. I’m gonna grab a shower.”

  Gruber saluted. “Sure thing, Soldier Boy.”

  Ian wiped the sweat from his hands onto his jeans. “See you later.”

  Anger shot from Charlee’s gut to every appendage. After her conversation with Mr. Gruber she headed straight to Ian’s cabin, burning up the ground with each step. She banged on his door. No answer.

  She should have known the innate problems associated with hiring a soldier for . . . well, anything. Already her artists’ retreat felt smaller with him there. More cramped, a bit stifled. She wished she’d listened to the inner voice that told her, Danger, danger! Soldier in need of work and a world to absorb. But he’d looked so sweet standing there at her Jeep door. So sweet and so . . . lonely. Alone in a world he’d gone away to protect. Curse her romantic notions about life and patriotism. They were going to bring her nothing but trouble.

  She knocked again, this time letting some of her fury out with the pounding of her knuckles against wood. And she kept pounding. And kept pounding until, just on the other side of the door, she heard him yelling, “Okay, okay!”

  Ian threw the door open, met her angry eyes with his own, and barked, “What? What is so important it couldn’t wait until I dried off?”

  Bare chest, tan flesh, jeans, bare feet, wet, wet, wet. Water dripped from his dark hair onto his face and trailed in rivulets down his chest. He took the towel in his hand and rubbed it over his eyes. “You want to come in?”

  “Yes.” She took a step, stopped. “No.”

  He tossed the towel over his shoulder and the muscles in his arm bunched. There was a narrow scar on his left arm and another across his wide chest.

  A flash of amusement entered his gaze. “So which is it? Yes or no?”

  “Yes,” she said, but her voice sounded shakier than she liked. She breezed past him, hoping to gain some equilibrium. “You shouldn’t answer the door half naked.”

  She hadn’t turned around, but could feel him inching closer. “You, uh, didn’t give me much choice.”

  Before her, the wall was a nice steady place to focus. No dripping wet muscles, no dark eyes. For an instant she forgot why she’d been mad.

  “Are you here about getting the water heater?”

  Oh yes, that brought it all back. She turned to face him. “Mr. Gruber said you yelled at him about his house.”

  Ian used the towel to scrub his hair then smoothed the strands with his fingers. “Someone needed to.”

  She tried not to watch. “Look, this isn’t a preschool and it’s not our job to teach these people how to take care of themselves. You were way out of line.”

  Ian threw the towel on the kitchen chair and moved toward her so quickly, Charlee wanted to step back, but she didn’t. She’d learned with four brothers, you never back down. Never show fear.

  When he didn’t speak, she continued. “You’re the handyman. Not the camp counselor.”

  He stopped at her feet where their bodies nearly touched. “And I shouldn’t have any pride in my work?”

  “Of course you should.”

  “Then, to work well, all that crap in his house needed to be moved.”

  “Look, this isn’t the army, Ian. You’re being paid to do a job. That’s it.”

  “So, I’ve gotten my first complaint.”

  His eyes scanned hers. She wanted to create some space between them because he was standing too close. Close enough she could see tiny flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes, close enough she could pick out the scents of spice and pepper in his aftershave. He’d shaved, she realized. The day-old stubble gone, revealing surprisingly smooth skin. Charlee swallowed. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”

  “Mr. Gruber complained.”

  Her shoulder tipped up. “Actually, it wasn’t really a complaint.”

  She watched as he released a bit of the tension from his shoulders.

  “He wanted me to come in and see how his place looked.” Her gaze fell to the floor when she said it. His bare toes, tan and manly, were almost touching the toes of her work boots.

  “He was proud of it,” Ian whispered. And though she would have expected him to rub that in, he didn’t. He just seemed pleased.

  “Yes, he was. Very. But, I don’t want to have to worry about someone treating my artists badly.”

  “You know, when I look around, they all look like big girls and boys to me. Not so much in need of a mommy.”

  Frustration shot into her gut. “Then stop trying to be one.”

  “I’m sorry. That was out of line. You’re the boss.” He was used to subordination.

  “That’s right.” She turned from him and headed for the door, hoping the air outside would be clearer. Hoping it wouldn’t smell like pepper and sin. But her feet shuffled to a stop when she thought of Mr. Gruber’s face when he’d asked her to come in. “Look, I may seem a little overprotective, but they’re artists and they’ve spent their whole lives being misunderstood by society. I give them a safe place where they can just be themselves without fear of . . .”

  And then there he was. Right behind her again. “What about you, Charlee? Have you been misunderstood by society?”

  Off in the distance, McKinley Mountain towered over the retreat. Was she misunderstood? Yes. Not just by society, but by everyone she’d ever cared for. Except her mother. There was heat at her back. Ian had moved close enough to change the temperature around her. She took one step forward, turned her focus back to Mr. Gruber and the incident. “I don’t want this to happen again.”

  “I get it. But I gave Gruber something today too.”

  She angled just enough to see Ian over her shoulder and waited for him to answer.

  “Self-respect.”

  She couldn’t argue with it. She should have known she’d have a war on her hands if she hired a soldier. They were always looking to put things in order, always landing on the side of discipline. “This is a safe place, Ian. I want to keep it that way.”

  He smiled; it was slow and genuine. “Sounds good to me.”

>   Was there a hint of longing in his words? Charlee wasn’t certain so she chose to focus on the task ahead. “I can drive you to town in an hour.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Whatever had been there was gone, replaced by a distinct playfulness to his tone.

  She walked away mumbling, “Stupid army men.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Nice truck,” Ian said as he climbed inside the late 1980s model Chevy Silverado. He’d already placed the water heater in the back and sandwiched it with a concrete block so it wouldn’t roll around. It was three in the afternoon and the sun was a vindictive ball of flame above them.

  “Thanks,” Charlee said. “Sorry there’s no air.”

  “Windows are good.” He watched her shift into reverse to back it out of a garage nestled behind the main hub area. He hit the button and his window went down. His gaze scraped over to her legs. There was something inexplicably hot about a pretty girl driving a truck with a stick shift.

  “I called the hardware store. They’ve got the same model as this one.” Charlee used her thumb to motion into the back of the truck.

  “Sorry it wasn’t reparable.”

  “Eh, I figured.” She brushed a hand through the curls snaking around her cheeks as they picked up speed on the dirt road.

  She turned the radio on to a country station and Jason Aldean’s voice filled the cab. “So,” Charlee said and smiled over at him, “what are your plans after the summer?”

  He rubbed his hands along his pant legs. Well, that really was the question, wasn’t it? “My sister wants to introduce me to someone who may want to hire a foreman for his construction business.”

  When she reached the main road, Charlee peeled out, throwing gravel. Once the wide truck tires met the paved road, they screeched. “Why wait? Why didn’t she plan to introduce you right away?”

  Because of you. Instead, he said, “He’s not ready to hire for a couple more months. My sister’s getting married and he’ll be at the wedding. The guy is a cousin of her fiancé. She figured it would be a great time for him to get to know me.” Plus, Ian had a mission. And he wasn’t sure how long it would take. He’d told his sister the soonest he could meet the guy would be August at the wedding. That would give him several weeks to accomplish his task.

 

‹ Prev