“Evening.” Ian had a dangerous smile. Slightly crooked, curling up at one edge and exposing a line of white teeth beneath succulent lips.
Charlee mumbled a greeting. When she moved to sit down, she was surprised to find a lap rather than a wooden seat. “Oh, sorry Wilma.” Embarrassment caused her to laugh. She hadn’t even seen Wilma there. Keeping her eyes on Ian as he sat at the table across from her, she moved to take the seat next to Wilma. The scraping sound drew her attention. Charlee looked back to find Wynona stealing her chair.
After Wilma tossed an empty cup at King Edward, understanding dawned. Wilma gave Edward a sharp look. He shrugged; her eyes widened and shot to one of the empty seats at her table. Wynona had already taken Mr. Gruber by the hand and was leading him to the fourth and final seat at the table Charlee had tried to claim as her own. This of course left Ian alone. Sitting under the butterfly lights with the flame from the tiki torches reflecting in his dark eyes.
She would have expected him to laugh at the scene. At her. But he didn’t. Ian Carlisle drew a deep breath and let his head fall back to gaze up at a star-studded sky. And Charlee’s heart melted by a tiny increment.
Above them a sky filled with diamond specks glistened. It was beautiful and under the right circumstances could be wildly romantic. But this wasn’t the right circumstances because what she imagined that sky represented to Ian was a place he could—for possibly the first time in a long time—close his eyes and rest without the fear of waking to mortar shells, combat. War.
Ian was finding home. She knew this because her brother Isaiah had told her about it when he first returned from Iraq. He’d been there a year and she’d been so happy to have him stateside until he was sent to Afghanistan. The joy had been short-lived. And might have done more harm to her than good. She understood the struggle soldiers go through, at least to some small degree.
When Ian’s eyes opened, even though she’d moved from her previous spot, his gaze fell straight to her. And there he sat while she stood, and for the briefest of moments something passed between them. What it was to really come home. And what it was to know someone understood.
Charlee pointed to the seat across from him. “May I?”
Light danced across his features. “I’d be crushed if you didn’t.”
His humor lightened the mood. Charlee cocked a hip. “I highly doubt that.”
Ian’s face split into a wicked grin. “I’m beginning to think you’re going to doubt everything I say.”
“Until I get to know you, yes.” She lowered herself onto the seat and pretended not to notice Ian’s careful scrutiny as she did. “I’ve learned men aren’t the most trustworthy of beings.” Why had she said that? Charlee pulled her hands through her hair, shaking off the past and all the memories with it.
“Learned from?”
Richard, she wanted to say, which really was strange because she never wanted to talk about him to anyone. “I learned from my brothers.”
“Ah.”
“The ones who fed me a spoonful of celery salt and told me it was cinnamon sugar, the ones who duct-taped me to an oak tree. The ones who swung me by my arms and legs and dropped me into the river. I could go on, but I think you get the point.”
“Jeremiah is the oldest, right?” Ian threaded his hands together on his flat stomach.
She tried not to notice, but her gaze dipped to the spot where his jeans met his shirt. “He’s thirty-one. Isaiah is twenty-nine. Gabriel, twenty-seven. And Caleb is the baby.”
“Younger than you?”
“By a year.” The breeze rose and carried the scent of honeysuckle to them. It grew wild along this side of the toolshed. “I suppose I shouldn’t call a man who carries an automatic weapon every day a baby, but he’s still my little brother.”
At the table behind them King Edward dished up plates of spaghetti; utensils clinked against china. A moment later he was hovering over their table.
Charlee swallowed as the nauseating scent of hot tuna and tomato sauce filled the space between them, obliterating the honeysuckle. Edward smiled. “An extra large helping for our soldier?”
Charlee’s eyes widened at Ian then she gave her head an almost imperceptible shake back and forth.
Ian watched her, unfolding his hands from his stomach. “I did work pretty hard today.”
When Edward’s grin spread into what Charlee could only call a sadistic smile, she cleared her throat, catching Ian’s eye. Again, the head shake, which she quickly quelled when Edward’s laser gaze moved to her.
The sound of Ian’s hands slapping together brought everyone’s attention to the table. “Give me a double helping, Edward.”
Poor Soldier Boy, Charlee thought. She’d tried to warn him. Why did men always insist on learning things the hard way?
Evil. Pure evil reflected in King Edward’s eyes. He knows his food tastes like crap. He’s doing this on purpose.
Ian lifted the plate under his nose and inhaled deeply.
Charlee leaned back, ready to dive under the table lest he spew.
“Smells amazing.”
What? What? Charlee blinked. Edward’s smile deflated.
“Put one more scoop on there, Eddie. I’m starved.”
The empty ladle hovered in the air for a few long moments while Edward’s curled top lip ticked. Finally, with a huff, he slapped another scoop on top and went back to his chair. “Dive in,” he mumbled.
And Ian did just that. The air stilled as Ian lifted the first bite. He took it in, eyes fitted tightly on Charlee as he chewed twice and swallowed.
She waited for the sound of gagging. But there was something more going on here.
Ian dropped his fork to the plate. “Wow. I mean, wow.”
Charlee’s gaze flittered from him to the other table, where four sets of round eyes watched Ian intently.
“King Edward, this is fantastic.”
Charlee sucked a horrified breath. As did the patrons at the other table. Ian, well, Ian spooned mouthful upon mouthful until his plate was nearly empty.
Food gone, he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You gotta give me that recipe, Edward.”
Edward didn’t bother to turn around or reply so Ian’s gaze skittered to Charlee, eyes flashing with not just tiki illumination, but something else. Something more. His tongue darted out and moistened a mouth that was too perfectly shaped, too sexy to belong to a soldier who lived on her property. His brow dipped and that’s when she saw the smirk.
Without drawing attention, she pointed to the plate and mouthed, “Good?”
Ian looked around her at the other table then leaned closer. “Awful.”
Charlee slapped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut until she had her desire to laugh out loud under control. Behind them, the other table had finally engaged in a conversation about museums.
Charlee lifted a hand. “Why?”
Ian shot a glance left then right, then motioned for her to move closer. He too leaned in and Charlee refused to admit—even to herself—the intimacy caused emotions to stir inside her.
When she was right there, two breaths from his face, both their chests pressed against the table edge, Ian said, “My commanding officer always told us to never ever let the enemy know your fear. Fear is the only power he has over you. Don’t give him the match to light the cannon.”
Charlee felt her face spread into a slow smile. Ian smiled back and the two sat there, looking at one another and sharing the art of war. “Sounds like one smart commanding officer.”
Ian swallowed, the muscles in his throat tightening. “He was the best.”
Charlee stayed quiet and let him reminisce. The scars of war and remembrance colored Ian’s features.
Finally, he returned to the present and addressed the table behind him. “So, Edward, did you ever think of adding Vidalia o
nion? Maybe a little more basil?”
Edward turned and glared.
“I love tinkering around in the kitchen. If you’d like, I can swing by on your next meal shift and maybe we can concoct some more original dishes.”
Charlee spun to look at the other table, where wide-eyed artists seemed more than a bit off guard. Wilma’s and Wynona’s heads tilted like lilting boats while Edward looked almost relieved he’d have help in the kitchen. “If you like cooking so much, take my shift,” he said.
Ian leaned back in his seat. “Nah, it’ll be more fun if we do it together.”
When Edward sighed and turned away, Charlee scrutinized the soldier before her. His dark eyes filled with amusement; his lips spread into that dangerous half grin. His hands pressed flat against the table. He’d managed to uproot and undo not only Edward, but the other artists as well. Except Gruber, who just seemed bored with the whole thing. Finally, those dark eyes broke their hold on her and he winked. “Don’t worry. I can cook.”
“Aren’t you tricky?” she whispered back. “I believe your CO would be very proud of you right now.”
One blink. Two. Ian’s gaze moving to the horizon, then far away. His mouth—full of mischief moments ago—lay lax now, slightly open. She watched as the light in his eyes dimmed. The mischief faded, being replaced by something darker, deeper, and if Charlee wasn’t wrong, much more painful.
The pain of a soldier come home.
Did people really know the sacrifice these men made? Ian was damaged. Of that, she was sure, but how damaged? She hoped one summer could repair the hurt. He had a right to enjoy a life free of the sorrows of war.
Her thoughts shifted to her brothers on foreign soil serving their country. Becoming damaged. Would they return with the same ghosts she saw in Ian’s eyes? Would they all return home?
It was a moment before she realized her hand had warmed. Charlee glanced down to see Ian’s hand gently covering hers.
He whispered, “Are you okay, Charlee?”
No. She wasn’t okay. She was a woman who’d lived her dream, only to discover she wasn’t sure it was what she still wanted—and if she didn’t do this, who would take care of the Mr. Grubers of the world? She was an orphan. She was a girl who prayed every night her brothers would make it home and a girl who worried they wouldn’t.
In her own way, she was a soldier. And she was damaged.
Without answering, Charlee rose from the chair. Fear and love drove her across the dance floor, across the yard and around the corner where a tree-lined path led to the sanctuary of her front porch. When she reached the steps, tears stung her eyes because she’d been foolish to think she could have a soldier living on her property without feeling his pain—her brothers’ pain—every day. She loved her brothers, bullheaded as they were. Charlee had convinced herself they’d all come home. Jeremiah was stateside, but that still left the other three. Her dad had died in combat last year. In her mind, her family had given enough. But now she knew there were parts of a soldier that never came home. There were things they left there, on the battleground, things one could never get back.
Charlee continued to cry as she entered her dark house. She cried for her brothers. And she cried for the innocence they’d never have again. When her eyes fell on the urn sitting on the fireplace mantel, she wanted to throw something at it. Don’t you know I’m not equipped for this? I can’t hold a family together when they’re halfway around the world and you’re . . . you’re gone. The kitchen light shone against the smooth porcelain of the urn. No answer from it, no reassurance. Charlee headed to bed without bothering to lock her front door. There was no reason. No one came out here. She was alone.
“I’m not sure what I said.” Ian retraced it in his mind as he stood from the table and moved to the four onlookers. Mortified that Charlee had run away and he’d been the cause, he stopped at the feet of those who knew her best.
“Sure have a way with the ladies,” Edward joked.
Wilma jerked, in unison with a muffled thump under the table. Edward jumped. “Ouch. You kicked me.”
Wilma pursed her mouth. “Don’t you worry, Ian. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Wynona reached out and snagged his hand. “That’s right, honey. It wasn’t you.”
Ian ran a free hand through his hair. “Could someone tell me what it was then, so we don’t have a repeat?”
Both sisters opened their mouths, but no words followed.
Edward took a bite of spaghetti. “Personally, I think it was you.”
He shifted his chair so Wilma couldn’t land another strike.
Wynona squeezed Ian’s hand in hers. “Charlee is a very special kind of creature.” Wide, expressive eyes rimmed with tiny wrinkles blinked up at him as if willing him to understand. “She’s unique.”
“Yes,” Wilma agreed. “Unusual. Complex.”
Ian coaxed them on, but neither woman said more. He wanted to understand Charlee. Needed to, if his mission was to be accomplished. “And complex, unique, unusual people frequently fly away from dinner without warning?”
Wilma scooted in her chair. “No. Charlee feels the blows of the world deeply. She’s an empath.”
A what? Okay, this wasn’t helping. It was like another language.
Mr. Gruber dropped his hand to the table. “Oh good Lord. What they’re trying to say, soldier, is that you don’t get to know someone like Charlee in one night. She’s got layers. The strongest women sometimes have the weakest hearts. Charlee didn’t get upset with you . . . Whatever you did. You got into her heart and for her that’s a little bit scary. Understand?”
Around them, the wind kicked up. Yeah. He did understand.
“Eloquently put, Arnold.” Wynona released Ian’s hand and patted Mr. Gruber’s. Gruber made a face and pulled away.
“So, what should I do now? Go after her?”
At the same moment he heard two different answers from the four different artists. The men landed on the side of yes. The women landed on the side of no. He opted to listen to the women on this one.
“Give her time,” Wilma said and the nod of Wynona’s head had her agreeing. Long white strands floated around Wynona with the breeze, a soft, encouraging smile on her face.
Ian realized she must have been some knockout in her younger days. And a dancer too. And he had a suspicion she’d been a bit on the wild side. “Okay. Give her time. I can do that.”
By the time he got back to his cabin, he wasn’t sure. Something about being around Charlee threw him off guard in too many areas. Only one summer then life could move on. With that in mind, he found the journal in the dim light the moon cast through the open window shade.
Ian angled himself in the chair so that moonlight lit the page. Not that it needed to; he’d memorized so many of the entries all he needed was the first few words to get him started.
Some were titled; some weren’t. But all were important, each one cutting right to his heart.
Charlee,
The eyes of my mind picture you. Standing on the front porch watching a sunset. It is sunrise here. Bullets zinging over our heads, but that doesn’t change the blue sky. Its umbrella covers us, reminding the boys it’s the same sky they grew up staring at when they were young and would lie on their backs and make shapes from the clouds. I can picture each one as a small child. I can see a father scooping each into his arms. It wasn’t that long ago they rode bicycles and skateboards, not that long ago they learned to drive and perhaps experienced a first kiss. Oh, I look into their young eyes and I see the children they were. But they’re men now. Each one a man with scars and memories no one should have to live with. Of course, it’s not all bad here. They’re building who they are and who they’ll be for the rest of their lives. They’re learning that all days must end. That’s what I tell them. “Keep your head down and your spirit up,” I say. “
This day, like all others before it, will end. How it ends is your choice. Who you were this morning and who you’ll be tonight—that’s up to you. You can’t control what happens to you, but you do have a say in how you handle it.” Those are words for you too, Charlee. You can’t control what happens to you. But you do have a say in how you handle it.
Ian closed the journal. This was going to be harder than he imagined. Though he didn’t know what he expected, Charlee was a lot more—what was the word Wilma used?—complex than he’d thought. And his physical reaction to her didn’t help. He’d heard so much about her, he felt he already knew her before he came. And seeing her, meeting her, well, he’d assumed that would destroy the fairy-tale person he’d created in his mind. She was just flesh and blood. He needed that fairy tale destroyed. Because he already cared about Charlee much more than he should. And because of her stubbornness, once she knew the real reason he was here, there was a very good chance she’d throw him out. Caught between two McKinleys, Ian had no clue what to do. On one side, there was duty. On the other side, a woman he’d grown to love from afar. There was no easy way out. If he’d thought the war was difficult, this was a thousand times worse. And he was the one calling all the shots. He had to go ahead and tell her. About the journal, about everything. He couldn’t wait any longer. Though there’d been specific instructions to let her get to know him before dropping the bombshell, it was just wrong to be here, to have this agenda and not come clean about it. He was going to tell her. At the very first opportunity.
CHAPTER 4
The next day, Charlee was gone but had left instructions for him on what work to do for the day. Done by noon, he searched out Mr. Gruber.
“Morning,” he said, at the foot of Gruber’s steps.
Gruber offered a rare smile. “Nice work with Edward yesterday. I’m assuming you can cook.”
“Yes, sir. I actually attended a culinary school before joining up.”
Along the Broken Road (The Roads to River Rock Book 1) Page 6
