by Vella Munn
“I’m sorry.” Could he guess how much she hated the direction the conversation had taken?
“So am I.”
He draped his arm casually over her shoulder as he guided her down the hall. He was telling her about Shady Cove, its beginning, its present status, but Michon couldn’t listen. The weight of his arm was a presence that registered deep inside her. She felt the warmth of his body, his breath on her hair, the sensation of jeans brushing against slacks. The dark corridor stretched ahead of them. If she could will it, there would be no end to the passageway.
Chapter Five
She was going to Chas’s house!
The hours at Chantilla dragged until Michon thought she was going to lose her mind before closing. It was bad enough knowing she only had four more days to put in here, but what made the day endless was being made to keep thoughts of Chas and his home from her mind.
Would it really be the bachelor’s cabin he’d referred to? He hadn’t mentioned how old the place was, so she couldn’t draw any mental pictures, but she could hardly imagine him in a modern structure with sterile walls, up-to-date-lighting fixtures, no-wax flooring. She decided he was the kind of man who would have a fireplace. Along with that would go a functional but plain kitchen range, a bathroom minus any decorative touches, a double bed with an old brown bedspread thrown over it.
“I’m sure he was joking about the electricity,” she told Traci as they ate lunch in the employees’ room. “But I wonder what kind of television reception he gets in Shady Cove. I’ve been there a couple of times. It isn’t much of a town. Not very much in the way of shopping facilities. I think tourists trying the Rogue River are what keeps it from turning into a ghost town.”
“I had relatives who lived there once,” Traci said. “They lasted almost two years before my aunt said she’d sooner starve than stay there one more winter. They have a lot of snow and the roads get pretty bad. I wonder what people do in the winter. Probably go into hibernation.”
“Not Chas,” Michon said, and explained about Chas’s involvement with search-and-rescue.
“Sounds like you’ve got a real frontiersman on your hands,” Traci giggled. “He doesn’t eat with his fingers or anything, does he? I just see him with a coon-skin cap perched on his head while he eats. Feet on the table too.”
“Hardly,” Michon protested. She would have felt affronted if she didn’t understand her friend’s harmless teasing. “Just because he doesn’t know why a place like Chantilla exists doesn’t mean he’s a savage.”
“I didn’t say he was. Look, if you like the guy, who am I to find fault? I just can’t see the two of you having that much in common, that’s all.”
“Well we do—” Michon started and then stopped. What, really, did she and Chas Carson have in common? “At least we will if I survive this John Day River expedition,” she said hopefully. “I hope I know what I’m getting myself into. Sometimes I think I’m crazy. It’s too late to back down now.”
“Were you thinking of backing down?”
“Of course not,” Michon said with more conviction than she felt. The truth was, ever since her meeting with Harry and Chas she’d been honestly trying to face the reality of what her impulsive move had gotten her into. “The next time you see me I’ll be decked out in rubber-soled boots, denim or khaki pants, and a wool shirt. Do you think they’ll let me in here then? I can hardly wait!”
“I think you can hardly wait to see your mysterious Chas Carson again. I’m not too sure about the rest of it. I’ve heard of inventive ways to meet a man, but this has to be one of the weirder ones.”
“Hey,” Michon protested, “I’m not chasing the man!”
“You’re not running away from him either.”
“True,” she relented. “It’s just that I’ve never met anyone like him before. Traci, he’s different. Good-different.”
Michon was grateful that her friend didn’t ask what made Chas different. She wasn’t sure she had an answer for that. She admitted she was attracted by his unique lifestyle, the combination of independence and innocence she found in him, but that was hardly reason enough to talk herself into a river expedition, was it? So what was it? Why did she know that her life would feel hollow if he walked out of it?
Although there were times when she doubted it would, 5:00 P.M. finally arrived. She hurried out to her car, slipped out of her heels and into a pair of tennis shoes, and pulled her blouse out of the waistband of her pencil-slim skirt so she’d be able to travel in comfort. Not much more than a week before, Michon would have left the windows of her car rolled up so her hair wouldn’t be tossed by the wind, but that no longer mattered. She threw back her head, relishing the warm breeze flowing against her cheeks and stimulating her scalp. “Four more days,” she laughed over the sound of the car radio. “Four more days and no more panty hose!”
It took over an hour for Michon to reach Shady Cove. The drive on the two-lane road that traveled through farmland and reached up into the foothills was slowed by loaded logging trucks, campers, and trailers, none of them concerned with the thought that some people might be in a hurry to reach their destination.
The sign hanging over the town of Shady Cove was weather-beaten and in need of repair, but that didn’t lower Michon’s expectations. She stopped at the first service station and asked directions to the road Chas lived on.
“You looking for Carson Canoes?” the middle-aged man in the grease-stained coveralls asked. “That’s about the only place on the road. You’ll see his sign right off the highway, but it’s another mile up to his place. He’s the best guide in this state. He’ll do right by you.”
Michon said thanks and got back into her car. She drove through the town until she reached the outer town limits and then started looking for Chas’s sign. It wasn’t hard to locate, a small well-maintained sign on a wooden replica of a paddle. Michon made a mental note to ask Chas if she was right in her guess that he had both designed and made the sign. It ran the risk of being lost in a sea of neon signs, but there was something stable and honest about it that probably appealed to potential clients.
The station attendant was right. There weren’t any other houses on the packed-earth-and-gravel road weaving itself through the hills and evergreens. As the hill became steeper Michon shifted into a lower gear. The air coming in the window was laced with pine fragrance and the smell the earth takes on when the sun is warming it.
No wonder he lived here, Michon thought. It was unspoiled. And beautiful. Chas had the Rogue River nearby for his tamer river guiding trips, and enough privacy so that the casual visitor to the town wouldn’t find him. Was he a recluse? No, she didn’t think that was the case. But now that she was almost there Michon found herself filled with a sudden case of nerves. Chas wasn’t delighted to have her on the expedition. They were going to have to hash that out.
Michon didn’t need the second sign to tell her that she’d arrived at Chas’s home and place of business. There were several outbuildings and garages with canoes stacked both inside and outside of them, an outdoor work area with two canoes in stages of repair set up on sawhorses, a Jeep bearing the name of Chas’s business. Parked near a two-story log house was the truck she’d seen before.
Log cabin? Hardly.
It was the house that took Michon’s breath away. It had obviously been built by hand, by someone who’d gone to the work of felling trees, skinning them of their bark, and then painstakingly erecting the structure on a cement foundation. The house rose among the surrounding pine trees, a heavy shake roof helping it to blend into its surroundings. As Michon got out of her car she saw that the log walls had been treated with some kind of preservative to protect the wood from the elements, while allowing the natural grain and knot holes to show through. She placed her hand on the railing and started up the stairs leading to the spacious wraparound porch. There were no splinters on the railing and yet she could feel the uneven surface that existed because the wood hadn’t had the life sande
d out of it. The smell of warm wood penetrated her nostrils.
As Michon reached the porch level the large solid wood door opened. Chas stood in the doorway in his uniform of work shirt and jeans. His hair was uncombed, adding to his mountain-man appearance. For a moment she stared up at him. This was a man. Did he think of her as a woman? She had to fight off the impulse to touch him.
“It’s magnificent,” Michon whispered. “Did you build it?”
“That’s a long story,” Chas said as he led her inside. “I was a punk kid when this place was built. I’ve done the finishing work, but I’m not responsible for the basic house. The owner, a retired logger, hired me to do some of the more exciting aspects of the job, such as run to the hardware store for supplies, clean up after the men, and groom and feed the Clydesdales.”
“Do what?” Michon had been torn between listening to Chas and trying to take in the magnificent open interior with its six-feet-long windows, and spiral staircase built in the center of the room and leading to the exposed second story.
“Clydesdales. They’re a breed of draft horses.”
“I know what they are. What do they have to do with building a log home?”
“A great deal, Miss Lycan. A great deal. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
Michon gave him a grateful smile, feeling somehow special because of his simple gesture. “Iced tea if you have it,” she said as she followed him into the kitchen. It felt different and yet right to have the man be in charge of social amenities in a room that was traditionally a woman’s domain. Chas obviously knew his way around the room. As he was filling a tumbler with sun-tea from a large jar near a window over the sink Michon let her eyes roam around the large room. Her eyes fastened on the table and she stepped over to it and ran her hands over the polished laurelwood surface. “This is handmade, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice breathless with awe. “Did you make it?”
“Yep.” There was something modest and yet proud in the way Chas said the word.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said, leaning over to get a closer look at the hand-rubbed wooden legs. “The grain, the knots, everything comes through. It must have taken hours.”
“I enjoy wood. Each tree has its own character. I think of them as works of art,” Chas said as he joined her at the table with a glass for each of them. “I guess you could call it a labor of love.”
“You said a logger built this home. I can’t call it a cabin. It’s much more than that,” Michon said. “But it’s yours now. Did you buy it from him?”
“Not really.” Chas’s eyes were on the windows and the tree-blanketed mountain across the clearing from his home. Michon wondered if the time would come when she’d really understand what he was looking at. “Will—everyone called him Bear—was a second father to me. My own father died when I was a child. Bear kind of adopted my mother, brother, and me. I knew some people thought there was something between him and my mother despite the difference in their ages, but there wasn’t. He was just there whenever we needed him. He taught me everything I know about the mountains.” Chas fastened his eyes on hers. “He taught me how to love the wilderness. When he died he left this house to me.”
“Chas, that’s beautiful.” Michon sighed, feeling as if they were the only two people on earth at this moment, and loving the feeling. Did there have to be a past, a future? Now was enough. “He must have been a special man.”
“He was.” Chas was playing with his glass, his fingers idly rubbing against the icy surface, but his eyes were on her. “He never had any children of his own. It’s sad, because he would have made a good father. I was pretty messed up after my dad died, but Bear pulled me back into line.” Chas laughed softly. “He took me over his knee more than once. I never told my mother that. It was something between Bear and me. He was always setting goals for me, pushing me. He had an instinct for knowing what I was ready for. I just wish he were still here.”
For several minutes Michon didn’t feel any need to break the silence. Instead she found herself trying to picture Chas as a teenager trailing after a huge bear of a man who believed that kids should learn to whittle, be able to identify the sounds each bird makes, have the foresight to lay in enough wood to last the longest winter. Wasn’t that more important than giving him money to play video games? “You said you were in charge of his horses,” she said finally.
“He used them for horse logging,” Chas explained as he leaned back in his sturdy chair. “Bear made his living logging, but he believed in preserving the forest as much as possible. Bring in horses to do the logging, and they disturb a lot less of the underbrush than machinery does. A horse can drag out one log at a time. They don’t tear up the ground the way a tractor does. Bear owned all the land around here. He wanted to build a log house without destroying his acreage.”
“I didn’t know anyone still used horses for that kind of work,” Michon admitted.
The air inside was as fresh as she’d found it outside. She noticed that there were no curtains on the generous windows, increasing the feeling that almost nothing separated Chas from his mountains. Why should there be? There were no neighbors to block out the view.
Chas looked into her eyes, blinked, and got to his feet. “There’s a lot you don’t know about the wilderness, Miss Lycan. You’re in for a cram course once we get to the river. What size shoes do you wear? I’m not sure what I have will fit.”
Michon trailed after him, clutching her iced tea. He started up the spiral stairway, his long legs taking the steps two at a time while Michon had to hold onto the oak railing and scramble after him. At the top Michon found herself in a small hallway with a large open room on either side. One, obviously, was Chas’s bedroom, although she didn’t have time to do more than glance in and spot the handmade quilt on the large bed. The room Chas had entered appeared to be a mix of office, storage room, and den.
“Bear’s friends kidded him because they didn’t know what a bachelor needed with two bedrooms. But he was a pack rat just like me,” Chas explained. “We need extra room to store all our junk.”
Michon could hardly call the room’s contents junk. A bookshelf rose to the ceiling on one side, while an ancient but perfectly preserved rolltop desk dominated the opposite side. Photographs of an elk, a bear at the edge of a river, a sunset, and a flock of birds silhouetted against the sky took up another wall. Chas was rummaging through one of several boxes stacked in a corner. Finally he held up a pair of rubber-soled shoes. “They might fit after all,” he said as he stared at Michon’s feet.
Michon perched on the chair that accompanied the desk and started to remove her shoes. “Now that’s what I call useful pack-ratting. How many men have in their possession a pair of women’s all-weather shoes?”
“The owner never came back for them.”
Something in Chas’s tone stopped Michon. She stared at him, one of her tennis shoes dangling loosely in her hand. Chas’s features were innocent enough, but his eyes had turned black, as if he were dropping a curtain over anything they might reveal. “Her loss is my gain,” Michon said, not at all sure she was saying the right thing. “How long have they been hanging around here? Maybe she’ll want them back.”
“She won’t. Try them on. I’ll try to find that rain parka.”
Michon had no choice but to respect Chas’s back. She slipped her foot into the shoe, feeling more than a little uneasy because it was a perfect fit. She wasn’t sure telling Chas that was the right thing. Nor was she sure she liked knowing how much she had in common with the nameless woman who was part of Chas’s past. She was tying the heavy leather laces when Chas turned back toward her.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said in response to the foot Michon wordlessly stuck out toward him. “You aren’t quite as tall as April, but I think your hands are the same size. I thought her shoes might fit.”
“I’ll take good care of them,” Michon offered. “And I’ll get them back to you right after the expedition.”
“Keep them,” Chas said shortly. “I don’t want them.”
“But you’ve kept them this long.”
“I don’t want them!”
Michon recoiled from the anger in Chas’s voice. “All right.”
Chas came closer, draped the shapeless canvas parka over her shoulders, his fingers brushing her cheek, and stood back. “I’m sorry,” he said softly in reply. “I didn’t mean to jump at you. It’s just that there are a lot of memories where April is concerned. I need more time than I’ve had already. Look, are you in a hurry? If you aren’t, I’ll show you around the place.”
Michon nodded enthusiastically. Leaving, despite April, was the last thing she wanted to do. As Chas explained the circumstances under which he’d taken the framed photographs she could only shake her head in wonder at the difference between the animated man of now and the tense stranger he’d been a few minutes earlier. Michon stood with her shoulder inches away from Chas so she could study the photographs, feeling, reacting to, his body heat. The parka was now under her arm, but she could still sense something of the mysterious April filling the room.
Had April been his wife? Michon knew it was none of her business, but she couldn’t help hoping that the relationship between Chas and April hadn’t been that deep. Clearly she meant a great deal to him, and her leaving had opened wounds which had not yet healed. There were a few touches, like hanging plants and the quilt on his bed that made Michon wonder if April had lived there with Chas.
A minute later Chas was leading her into his bedroom. The air of masculinity surrounding it was unmistakable—and disturbing. Rich deep-chocolate carpeting picked up the wood tones of the handmade bedstead and the brown in the painstakingly sewn bedspread. The closet door was pulled back to reveal a row of flannel work shirts and wool jackets. Michon spotted a conservative suit encased in clear plastic, but imagined it seldom saw use. More of Chas’s outdoor photographs graced the paneled walls.
