Along the Broken Road (The Roads to River Rock Book 1) Page 3

  “There are also some cabins around the property.” She pointed. “Along the woods over there are the nicest ones. Others aren’t habitable yet.”

  Ian smiled. “Perfect.” When she started walking toward the edge of the woods, he followed, leaving his stuff at the bike. “One of the woods cabins will be great.”

  “They’re a little bigger. Especially the first one. But you may not want it. My garden is alongside and I work there early some mornings.”

  “How early?” But even as they neared the dwelling, he knew he wanted it. It was framed on one side by a beautiful garden overflowing with an array of plants. It smelled like home. Garden and green and fresh.

  “Sometimes eight o’clock.”

  That wasn’t early, but he decided not to point that out.

  He inspected the green tin roof, as if still deciding, but he’d already fallen for the place. “This should work.”

  Her hands went to her hips. “Don’t you even want to compare it to the others?”

  “Nah.” He smiled, but didn’t meet her eyes. He really didn’t want her to see how excited he was to be here and how relieved he was she’d taken him on.

  “Do you want to go inside?”

  “Oh, sure.” She was trying to figure him out. That he could tell. They stepped in and right away he noticed the artwork. Some of it was fantastic; some was, well, really crude.

  Charlee chuckled. “You want to play poker later?”

  He forced his eyes from the walls and stared at her. “What?”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “I think I just read about fifteen expressions on your face, everything from joy to horror.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. These are . . . well, some of them are . . .”

  Charlee stepped over to one. “You don’t like them?” It was both a question and an answer.

  “No. I like this one.” He touched the edge of a black-framed beach painting where massive waves crashed on a shore that was barren save for one rainbow-colored beach umbrella. Off in the distance the sky changed from bright blue to a murky gray.

  “It’s called The Storm.”

  They continued to look at it.

  “Makes you feel something, doesn’t it?”

  His eyes left the painting and settled on her. “Yes,” Ian whispered.

  “I love it too. It was done by Mr. Gruber. You’ll meet him later.”

  Shock came in a quick rush. “He’s here? The artist who did this is here?”

  She laughed. “What did you expect? Finger painting? Amateurs? Some of the best artists of our time have wandered into the Marilee Artists’ Retreat.”

  For some inexplicable reason, watching her say that, the proud tilt of her head, the fact she’d named the retreat after her mother—another woman he’d been told about—made Ian want to reach down and take her hand while they studied the piece. Like something about it caused them to have a connection.

  “Oh, come look at this one.” And then she did it. She reached down and closed her delicate fingers around his wrist to pull him over. Ian’s skin turned both hot and cold at the same time. His nerve endings flickered to life.

  Her fingers lingered there for a few seconds as they stood staring at a blotch of red on a white canvas. Other than a little drop of yellow, the red splotch was the only thing on the canvas. “Can you guess what it’s called?” she said, her soft words echoing in the otherwise quiet cabin.

  “The Palette?”

  She giggled, a deep rumbling sound that clawed its way over Ian’s skin. “That’s funny, but no. It’s called Blue.”

  He pointed. “Of course it is.”

  She shot him a look, so he winked. “Why not call it Green?”

  She bit back a wickedly sexy smile. “Well, that would be stupid.”

  Ian turned from the painting and gave the cabin a quick once-over. “At least I won’t need to buy anything for the walls.”

  “We can remove all of these. Or you can keep a few if you like.” She crossed the smallish living room and opened the blinds of the big picture window. “They’ve all been donated by artists who’ve stayed here.”

  The cabin was laid out perfectly for a bachelor. The A-frame roof sat above a second-story loft. The bulk of the downstairs was a living room and kitchen. One doorway led into another room. When his gaze fell on it, she moved there and opened the door. “Bedroom and bath.”

  “Got it. How soon would you like me to get to work?”

  She sighed. “Yesterday.”

  “Ah.”

  For the first time since they met, Ian saw the stress. She’d looked so light and happy gazing at the paintings; now a heaviness settled on her at the mention of work. “Do you have other help?” He hadn’t meant to ask that, but it slipped right out of his mouth.

  “Who? Like a landscaper or lawn service or cleaning person or anything?”

  “Yeah, this would be a lot to take care of on your own.”

  “Well, the artists each keep their own places clean.” Her shoulder tipped up. “Mostly. And we take turns fixing dinner each night.” Something devious entered her silvery gaze. “So King Edward is cooking this evening. You’re gonna love it.” But her eyes rolled and he watched her bite into her cheek. That dimple again.

  Charlee moved to the front door. “You can get to work today if you’re game. I’ve got a hot-water problem that needs to be fixed. Settle in, then come find me. I’ll get you started.”

  He was slow to nod, wanting just another second to look at the woman he’d been told so much about. When she started down the steps, he hollered after her, “I’ll keep The Storm.”

  She paused at the foot of the steps and turned to look back at him, a smile of approval lighting her face. When she didn’t move, it was Ian’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’ll keep Blue too.”

  Charlee nodded and started back toward the hub, her denim-clad rear end swaying as she moved.

  When she was gone, Ian took the backpack from his shoulders and rested it on the table. Zipped inside, wrapped first in a gallon-size Ziploc bag, was the real reason he’d come. The solitude of a cabin in the woods surrounded him. He could sense the overwhelming power of a world unscarred by man just beyond the property borders. The thought was both exciting and terrifying because he’d spent his fair share of time in quiet places that in an instant erupted into chaos. That needed to not happen here. Outside, birds chirped, reminding him he wasn’t really alone. The plastic bag crinkled as he withdrew the contents. It was an expensive journal, leather and worn down by time. The kind purchased by those willing to invest in the written word, those who knew its power. Black corners were frayed like a favorite pair of jeans and the binding opened easily, as if inviting one to step into its world. Ian pulled a long breath and opened to a random page in the middle. His one hope was that he could read through it without breaking down and crying. So far, each attempt had failed. But now he had a mission. There was an objective and that made the circumstances different. He had a job to do. Failure wasn’t an option and there was no room for compromise. Ian worked to muster everything within him. He could do this. He had to. He had a promise to keep.

  But he hadn’t counted on Charlee affecting him the way she did. He hadn’t counted on that dimple in her cheek or her fierce desire to maintain her independence. He hadn’t counted on her being everything he’d imagined.

  Ian was in over his head. And the one person he could always count on to point him in the right direction was gone.

  Heart hammering in his ribs, Ian touched the page as if he could still see its author, pen in hand. He forced the image from his mind when his nose tingled. Ian sniffed and began to read.

  Dear Charlee,

  Below me is a dry, dusty landscape scarred by mortar shells and interrupted by the indentations of a thousand army vehicles that cut a pa
th to the base. This is a war zone unlike any other. And yet, all are the same in so many ways. Different enemies, same bloodshed. Different faces, same injuries. A new set of recruits has come out and they are exercising on the ground below my high perch. They are the best my country has to offer and they are ready and willing to lay down their lives to defend its freedom. They humble me. They remind me that life is precious. They remind me about the unstoppable human spirit. Each one has touched my life already and only now am I first seeing them. If I can leave them with one truth, it would be this . . .

  Life is a river. It flows, turns, gives nourishment. It twists, spins, gives hope. It is a home for those who will step in; it is a shelter for those who cannot breathe the air.

  Life is a river. It changes the world it touches and it heals the parched land. And if you open your banks and invite the world, you will forever alter it. It will carry a piece of you forever. Life is a river, Charlee. Never forget that.

  Ian pressed harder onto the page. Only teary-eyed this time. That was good. He swallowed the lump in his throat. The one that always settled there, sneaking up from his heart. He pulled out a picture from the back of the journal. When the image blurred, he blinked several times and put the journal back in its plastic bag and into the backpack. He’d unpack later. Right now, he needed to get to work.

  Before leaving the cabin, he took a few moments to look at the painting, The Storm. When he tugged the door open, he spotted Charlee immediately, standing at the edge of the hub and dumping something onto the ground. He hustled over and asked if she needed help.

  “I’m good. We’re being invaded by ants and this stuff is supposed to get rid of them.” It was hot outside and she’d been working. Dirt smeared her white tank top. She returned her attention to the task at hand. Charlee gave the bag a shake. “Take that.”

  Ian swallowed a laugh.

  “I’m usually all about live and let live, but ants . . . they get into everything. If we don’t stay after them, they invade the cabins and it’s impossible to get rid of them.”

  He took the large bag from her. It seemed to be growing more difficult for her to grasp as contents flooded the ground. For once, she didn’t fight him. “You don’t have to make excuses for killing the ants. You have a right to defend your property.”

  Every muscle in her body seemed to screech to a halt when he said this. Her jaw cocked, reminding him of a curious bird. “I’m not making excuses.”

  Ian hauled the package to the next anthill and dumped some of it. White powdered the mound. “Well, you do have a right to defend—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Charlee brushed her hair back with the back of her hand. “So, you want to tackle the hot water?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s the water heater. What I don’t know is if it can be cleaned out or if we’ll need to replace it. Well water here. Hard on the water heaters; fills them with lime.”

  He followed her as she traversed the lawn and across the edge of the big wooden platform in the center of the hub where patio tables and chairs made it almost feel like an outdoor restaurant. Ian stepped up onto the six-inch rise and stopped. “Question?”

  She’d already stepped down, but turned to face him.

  “Did you build this platform here in the center of the cabins? And why? Also, what’s that big rectangle building?”

  Charlee took the ant poison from him. “Give me two seconds and I’ll answer all your questions.”

  He watched her put it in a small building that sat beside the larger one. As she returned, she gestured to the small outbuilding. “All the garden stuff is in there. Lawn mower, weed eater, bug sprays and such. Got it?”

  He nodded.

  “So, this used to be a kids’ camp. Years ago. I even came here one year when I was eight.”

  He tried to imagine her as a child. Bright eyes, long hair, probably into everything.

  “The large building was the main gathering place—you know, if it rained or anything. There’s a full kitchen with an industrial dishwasher, long stainless steel counters, the works. We cook dinners in there, but always bring the food out here and eat alfresco.”

  Ian coughed. “You mean in the nude?”

  Charlee’s perfectly arched brows winged up. “No, alfresco, not au natural. It means outside, in the fresh air, under the stars.”

  “Whew.” A hand went to his heart. “I was worried there for a second. I think seeing the kilt wearer naked would make me lose my appetite.”

  Charlee shook her head, sending curls scattering in the breeze. “So, we eat dinner together. It’s nice. The wooden platform was for the kids’ camp, but we put it to good use. There are four people staying here right now, but it always changes.”

  “So, the people I met earlier?”

  “Yes, King Edward—who, by the way, you’ll be sitting for—Wilma and Wynona—”

  “Sisters, right?”

  “Wilma has the short, spiky, rainbow hair. She’s one of the most brilliant watercolor artists alive. Wynona doesn’t paint, but she decorates sunglasses and glues rhinestones and bobbles to just about anything. So keep your bike covered.” She took her sunglasses off and showed him Wynona’s handiwork. “And she was a dancer. You’ll meet Mr. Gruber in a few minutes. He acts like a cranky old man, but inside he’s soft as mashed potatoes.”

  “Are they always old?”

  She considered this. “No, and don’t let King Edward hear you call him old. He’s only fifty. I guess it may be easier for older artists to have the freedom to come here. Not as encumbered.”

  “And they stay for how long?” Really, Ian just wanted to keep her talking.

  “Up to a month.”

  “So how long has King Edward been here?”

  “A year and a half.”

  “Uh-huh. And the sisters?”

  “Going on two years.”

  “Mr. Gruber?”

  “Almost three.” Charlee started to open the door of the toolshed, but Ian’s hand on it stopped her.

  “How do you do it?”

  She slid the sunglasses to the top of her head, trapping her hair. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He motioned with a hand. “This is a lot to maintain. How do you keep up with it?”

  She squared her jaw, and some little bits of fire shot from her eyes right into him. “Your paycheck is secure. You don’t have to worry about it.”

  Ian’s gaze dropped. That wasn’t what he meant. “I just meant all the work,” he mumbled. When he looked back up, her eyes had softened too, if only marginally. Standing face-to-face with her, he wasn’t sure if he should apologize or just go on into the toolshed. When he started to move, she stopped him by placing a hand on his chest.

  Ian swallowed, followed her gaze down to the place on his shirt where her fingertips touched a spot just below his collarbone. Could she feel his heartbeat quicken? He hoped not. After a few more moments, Charlee dropped her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I assumed you were referring to the cost of a place like this. I realize a twenty-five-year-old woman running a money pit of a business and having no other means of income is an unusual sight. My mother bought me the property before she died. There was a trust set up by my grandparents. It became available to me after I finished college. It funds the retreat.”

  Ian took a step closer to her. “Charlee, it’s none of my business. I didn’t mean for you to explain.”

  A smile tilted one side of her face. “It’s okay. I’m your livelihood now; you have a right to know.” A gentleness framed her eyes that, to him, looked perfectly right on her. A softness that hinted at the real Charlee McKinley, a woman who wasn’t constantly fighting a money pit and trying to keep quirky artists in line.

  His study of her intensified. “Is it worth it?”

  Cha
rlee looked out over the grounds and he could easily see two conflicting emotions running the gamut in her mind; they both played across her smooth face. “It is. But—”

  “But?”

  She sighed. “It’s hard too. I didn’t expect it to be quite so challenging. Almost four years in, I don’t know. I thought it would get easier.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He’d thought that too, about being deployed. Thought one day he’d wake up and it would all just fall into place. But he’d never fully acclimated. Every day was too different from the last. And yet, sometimes it felt like they were all the same. It was such a weird, conflicting blend of feelings.

  “But I love it.” Her words were final and held more determination than passion. “It’s all I ever dreamed of.” Charlee’s fingertips disappeared into the pockets of her jean shorts.

  Ian watched the nostalgia appear, first in her gaze, then in the tilt of her head, finally, on her lips.

  “My mother was an artist,” she whispered. “When she got sick, we’d spend hours drawing together. All my best memories of her are wrapped around art. Besides, if I didn’t do this, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  He wouldn’t push the fact that not knowing what else to do wasn’t a viable reason to continue something that had run its course. “I had a commanding officer who used to tell me that fear of the unknown was the second most powerful force on the planet.” With that, Ian tucked into the toolshed and began gathering tools.

  He was aware, shockingly aware, of Charlee still standing at the door chewing on his words. Atop a small cabinet, he found a tool belt. He placed it low on his hips and adjusted the strap. “Fits,” he said.

  She stepped into the shed and for a moment he thought he saw a tear in her eye, but it must have been the dust he’d kicked up inside the small metal building, trapped by the movement of air. She retrieved a hammer from the counter. “Here you go.” No, there was something there, a mistiness, a glassiness. He tried to meet her gaze, but she dropped her eyes, hooding them with long, dark, half-moon lashes. The air around him actually felt thicker.

  He stepped back and raised his arms. “How do I look?”