Thunderstruck
Page 17
A half hour into the lesson, Phil decided horses were her thing. Who knew? With Lexi’s guidance, she’d practiced saddling and bridling Trigger, who was a big old lovebug who put up with her fumbling. Now she was riding him around the corral while Lexi called out things like heels down, relax your lower back, chest up.
Trigger was a really nice horse. His soft ears swiveled back whenever she praised his handsome gold coat and white stockings. He was such a great listener that she decided to tell him her troubles, and she had the feeling he understood and sympathized.
“Okay,” Lexi sang out after another thirty minutes or so of circling the corral. “That’s enough for today. We’ll get that guy unsaddled, brush him down and go grab some lunch.”
“Lunch? Hey, you don’t have to babysit me.”
“Who’s babysitting? I was planning to let you buy.” She grinned and took hold of Trigger’s bridle to lead him back to the hitching post.
“In that case, how can I refuse?”
“That’s the idea.”
Later, as they sat in a well-worn booth eating hamburgers and drinking chocolate shakes, Phil glanced across the scarred table at Lexi. “You’re good at this.”
Lexi shrugged. “My friends took care of me when Cade left town. They made me go do stuff that first day or I would have chosen what I’ll bet you had in mind—hiding out and feeling miserable.”
“Did they take you riding?”
“No. For me, that would have been too ordinary, since I’m around horses all the time. There was a traveling carnival in town, and we rode the heck out of the Tilt-a-Whirl. I screamed until my throat was raw. It was great.”
“Well, riding Trigger was perfect for me. You were right. He’s better than a therapist’s couch. I told him the whole story, and he didn’t interrupt once.”
Lexi’s hazel eyes warmed. “So I take it you liked the experience?”
“I loved it. Let me know when you’re available to do it again, and I’m so there.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Seriously? Because I don’t want you changing your plans just because I’m in sort of a crisis.” But the thought of more Trigger time sounded wonderful.
“Isn’t it great when life just works out? I have the next two days free. I recommend you take advantage of that.”
“I will. Thank you.” She could look forward to riding Trigger the day that Damon flew back to LA, too. Perfect.
17
SOMEHOW DAMON MADE it through the next day and a half before his flight left without borrowing a truck and driving over to Phil’s house. He had a couple of close calls when the urge to see her nearly overwhelmed his better judgment, but he managed to control himself.
Back in California, his strategy was simple. He worked night and day on the house. The closing was in less than two weeks and the buyer was eager. Exhaustion was his friend, the only thing that allowed him to sleep when he finally fell into bed.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t control his dreams. His nightmares seemed to have temporarily disappeared, which was the good news. Erotic fantasies involving Philomena had taken their place, which was the bad news. He’d wake up hot, sweaty and hard.
Sometimes he’d take a cold shower, and sometimes he’d surrender to the need for relief. But the dreams weren’t his only reminder of her. He’d hear her voice in his head commenting on his work. She liked the baseboards but disapproved of the cream-colored walls. He found himself wanting to show her a ruler-straight grout line on his tile job.
For the first time he questioned all the neutral tones he’d used in the house. He went to the hardware store to pick up some finishing nails and ended up in the paint aisle examining swatches of blue and green while he considered using color in one of the bathrooms. When he realized what he was doing, he put the swatches back and left the store.
He’d been flipping houses long enough that he knew most people wanted to make those choices for themselves. He might hit it lucky and paint a room in a shade the buyer liked. More likely, though, he’d paint the bathroom the color of Philomena’s eyes, and the buyer would prefer butterfly yellow.
Phil had gotten under his skin, no question about that. But once he experienced the thrill of turning the house over to the new owner, he’d be back in the groove. That special moment validated his way of life each time. It would do that for him again.
Finally, the day for the closing arrived. He’d packed his stuff into the construction trailer and taken it to storage. Normally, he had his next house lined up and was ready to move in and begin the process all over again. But the trip to Wyoming had thrown him off schedule, and so he’d rented a room in a suite hotel for a week until he got his act together.
He’d cleaned the house from top to bottom and on his final walk-through he’d been proud of what he’d accomplished. Phil might consider the house sterile, but he’d rather say it was sleek and sophisticated, ready for the buyer to make it his own.
The buyer was a single guy who wanted to surprise his girlfriend with the purchase. Damon had his usual setup with the title company. They’d handle the paperwork, but he’d retain the keys and meet the guy at the house to hand them over. That was his ritual.
He had pictures on his phone of how the place had looked before he’d started working on it. He’d studied them again early this morning. As usual, they reminded him of the trashed apartments and duplexes he’d lived in as a kid. The buyer would never see those pictures, but Damon loved comparing them with the shots he’d taken after the work was finished.
The buyer and his girlfriend arrived right on time, and Damon turned over the keys. “I’d like to do a quick walk-through, in case there’s anything that isn’t the way you expected.”
The buyer was an ambitious young executive type. “Sure thing.”
The three of them entered a house filled with the scent of new wood and recently grouted tile. The house was clean, but it also smelled clean. The windows sparkled, and the kitchen appliances gleamed.
The girlfriend went ballistic, and the guy winked at Damon. All was going as it was supposed to. They were thrilled, and any second now he’d feel the rush of accomplishment.
It didn’t come. Instead he became absorbed in watching the couple discuss how they would create a life together in this house. She talked about decorating schemes, and her boyfriend wrapped an arm around her waist as they surveyed the living room and discussed furniture choices.
When Damon saw that simple gesture, he missed Phil so much he felt an actual stab of pain in his chest. The realization came swiftly—he didn’t want to be the contractor who’d transformed this house. He wanted to be part of a happy couple eager to move in. No, he didn’t want that, either, because this house would never suit Phil.
Oh, she could fix it up with color and interesting furniture, but why would she? She had the house she wanted, the life she wanted. The next insight hit him so hard that he gasped out loud. She had the house and life he wanted, too.
He was in love with that house, but he was also deeply in love with Philomena Turner. Judging from the way he felt right now, that wasn’t likely to change...ever. Because of that, everything else would have to change.
The girlfriend glanced at him in alarm. “Are you okay, Mr. Harrison? You look a little pale.”
“Something I ate for breakfast.” He managed a smile. “So, any questions?”
“Not that I can think of.” Her boyfriend walked over and shook Damon’s hand. “I have your card if anything comes up.”
“Absolutely. I stand by my work.” But they didn’t need him hanging around anymore, so he wished them well and walked back out to his truck.
If everything had to change, he saw no reason to delay. The shift in his thinking seemed to be instantaneous, but he knew that wasn’t true. It had started on the front porch of Thunder Mountain Ranch, the moment he’d looked into her eyes.
Before he climbed into his truck, he checked his wallet. He had a fair amount of cash and two cr
edit cards. He’d gassed up early this morning. If he went to the hotel to grab his duffel, he could get delayed in LA traffic. If he left now from here, he could hit the 15 and be at Phil’s house around 6:00 a.m.
Decision made. He’d have close to eighteen hours to figure out what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. Surely that would be enough time to come up with something brilliant.
A little over seventeen hours later, as he gunned the engine to climb Phil’s ski slope of a driveway, he was still debating. He’d just have to wing it and hope she didn’t throw him out. At least if she did he could head to the ranch.
She wouldn’t throw him out, though. She’d had the guts to end their affair, but he knew it hadn’t been easy for her. Chances were she still liked him well enough to listen to what he’d come here to say. And she should believe him. He’d never once lied to her.
He climbed the steps to her porch. Her little porch light illuminated the swing they’d never cuddled in. When they did cuddle there, and he was determined they would no matter how long it took to win her over, he’d want the porch light off.
Pulling out his phone, he checked the time. Not quite five. If she had a renovation job, she might be getting up about now. She started work at dawn if possible, just like he did.
But it wasn’t dawn yet, and she didn’t seem to be up—no water running, no lights shining through the front windows, no smell of coffee brewing. Her truck was here, though, so she hadn’t gone anywhere.
Technically he should be tired, but adrenaline pumped through his system and made him jittery. Or maybe it was all the coffee he’d consumed during the trip. Because he hadn’t wanted to look like a vagrant, he’d pulled into a truck stop a few miles down the road so he could shave and wash up.
He looked around for a doorbell and couldn’t find one. Then he noticed something he’d missed before. She had a cast-iron door knocker instead. Simple. Old-fashioned. He never would have thought of that, but he loved the idea. Phil had good ideas.
After banging on the knocker, he stood and waited for a while. Nothing. He tried again, banging louder this time. That made him think of the way he’d banged her headboard against the wall that last night they’d made love.
He wondered if she’d had any second thoughts the next day. Guaranteed she’d have some dings in the wall and maybe the headboard. She might have repaired them so they wouldn’t remind her of him. He remembered that she’d liked the squeaking of the bed frame, too. She’d been really cute about incorporating the bed into the experience.
God, how he loved her. He was fairly sure she loved him, although she was probably trying to get over it. He hoped she hadn’t succeeded. He knocked again.
“Who’s there?” Her voice was strong, challenging any intruder to think twice.
He imagined her standing in the living room with a fireplace poker in her hand, just in case. It made him smile. “It’s me, Damon.”
“No, it’s not. Whoever you are, you’d better get out of here. I have a big dog.”
“You do? Since when?”
“Damon?” The lock clicked, and she opened the door wearing the same caftan she’d had on the night she’d driven out to the ranch without underwear.
“Where’s your dog?”
“I made that up to scare you. I mean, to scare the creep I thought was pretending to be you.”
“I’m glad you’re cautious.” Man, she was beautiful. Her hair was all tousled, and the caftan shifted when she moved so he could see the outline of her breasts. “Then I guess I didn’t ruin it.”
“Ruin what?”
“Your caftan.”
“No, it washed up okay. But what in hell are you doing here? What’s the matter?”
He took a deep breath. “Nothing. Well, all kinds of things, but they can be fixed if... Listen, can I come in? It’s been a long trip. Seventeen hours.”
“Um, sure.” She didn’t have a fireplace poker in her hand, but she seemed a little tense as she stepped away from the door.
Not surprising. She’d ordered him out of her life for a good reason. He had a lot of explaining to do before she’d consider letting him back in.
He walked through the door, and she closed it behind him. Then she reached over and pulled the chain on a Tiffany-styled table lamp he’d especially liked the couple of times he’d been here.
He gazed at his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. Home. Why hadn’t he realized that before? He let out a sigh and turned to her. “I should probably make this prettier and more poetic, but I’m a tradesman, and I think in basic terms.”
She swallowed. “What are you talking about?”
“My own stupidity, mostly.” He spread his arms. “My blindness to what I’ve craved all my life. It was right here. You were right here.”
“I don’t quite—”
“My life in LA has been a substitute for what I really wanted, which was life and color and someone who...” He paused to suck in some air. This was harder than he’d expected, mostly because she was giving him such a stony stare. “Someone I could love with all my heart.”
She stood very still, and her expression didn’t change.
“Phil, did you hear what I just said? I love you.”
“I heard you. I think I’m probably making this up. It’s one of those lucid dreams I’ve read about.”
“Now that you mention it, I’m feeling a little spacey, too. Seventeen hours on the road can do that. But I’m reasonably sure this is real.”
“You actually drove here from LA in one hop?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, which was feeling a little stiff. “I know it sounds goofy, but I closed on the house yesterday morning, and...there was no thrill.”
“No thrill.” She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“I always get a big charge out of turning over the keys to a house I’ve renovated, but this time I felt nothing. Well, that’s not true. I was missing you like the devil. It was a guy and his girlfriend buying it, and I wanted to be them, except you wouldn’t have liked the house, because you love this house, and so do I, and—”
“Damon?”
“What?”
“As Rosie says, can we cut to the chase? Exactly why did you come here?”
“To ask you to marry me.” Then he stood there stunned, because he’d had no idea he was going to blurt that out. But now that he had, he knew it was the most important part of the conversation besides telling her that he loved her.
“Are you sure you know what you’re saying? You’ve been driving a long time, and you might not be completely—”
“Yes, I am absolutely sure.” He moved toward her. “Don’t you see? That’s why I had to drive all this way, immediately, because I knew I wanted you, and there was no time to waste.”
“But you said you didn’t want to get married, or leave LA, or change your life.”
“Because my life was working for me. But now it isn’t. My life doesn’t work without you, Philomena. I love you and I want—” he spread his arms “—all this.”
“Oh, my God.” She walked right into his open arms and cradled his face with both hands. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Of course I mean it.” He drew her close and almost moaned out loud with the joy of holding her again. “Otherwise why would I drive seventeen—”
“Hours. Right. I heard you.” Smiling, she gazed up at him. “I’ll probably be hearing about those seventeen hours on our fiftieth wedding anniversary. And I drove seventeen hours, blah blah-blah, blah, blah.”
“Actually it was more like seventeen and a half.” Although he didn’t want to lose sight of the first part of that comment, the part that made his heart beat faster. “But since you mentioned a fiftieth, it sounds as if you might be interested in my proposal.”
“Very interested.”
Hot damn. His heart beat even faster. “That must mean that you like me a little bit.”
“No.”
“I like you a whole lot. I might even go so far as to say—” her voice softened “—I love you.”
The breath whooshed out of his lungs. “Thank God.” He could see it in her eyes, but how he’d wanted to hear her say it.
“I tried really hard not to. I gave the not-loving-you routine all I had, but my heart wouldn’t listen. So it’s a good thing you showed up because it appears you’re the only guy for me.”
Joy flooded through him. “That was definitely worth driving seventeen hours to hear.”
She cupped the back of his head and drew him down. “Blah, blah-blah, blah, blah.”
“Seventy-fifth.”
“What?”
“We’ll blow right past fifty.” As he kissed her, he knew even seventy-five years wouldn’t be enough. He’d locked himself away for so long, but Philomena had set him free.
Epilogue
“LET’S TRY THIS AGAIN. Hoist the beer keg one more time for me. I’m sure I’ll get the shot this time.”
Finn O’Roarke scowled at the blonde behind the camera. Mostly blonde. She’d added lavender streaks to her hair. Chelsea Trask was the most irritating, fascinating woman he’d ever known. He’d met her in line at a Seattle coffee shop four years ago when he’d first hit town.
She’d been kind to a guy fresh off a Wyoming ranch who’d wanted to set up a business in the big city. Her marketing savvy and knowledge of crowdfunding had been invaluable as he’d launched O’Roarke’s Brewhouse. He might not have made it without her, and he sent her a check for a percentage of the income every month.
Because of her expertise she’d been the obvious person to consult on Thunder Mountain Academy’s Kickstarter project, and she was doing it free of charge. When someone had the brilliant idea to create a Men of Thunder Mountain calendar, she’d insisted Finn had to be in it, and she’d volunteered to handle the photography, since flying to Wyoming for a photo shoot would be ridiculous.
He’d thought he could just pose by the door of his microbrewery, but no, that was too boring for Chelsea. She’d made him dig up his Stetson from the depths of his closet, put on his worn jeans and his scuffed boots while he stood inside the bar with a medium-size keg on his shoulder. And no shirt.