Along the Broken Road (2 page)

“Eh. It’s okay.”

“Was this from a picture your daughter sent with the candy?”

“Yeah. Had to make the baby thinner. She’s a porker.”

“Babies are supposed to be chubby.”

He grunted again and retrieved his cleanest dirty cup out of the small sink.

“Well,” Charlee said, turning her attention to the task at hand. “I’ll be going, but I just wanted to let you know, it’s going to be really hot today. A nice cool shower might make it tolerable.”

He pinned her with a piercing blue eye framed with wrinkles. “What you’re really saying is you haven’t gotten my hot water fixed yet.”

Charlee bit her lip. “Tell you what. You take a cool shower this morning and I guarantee I’ll have it fixed by the next time you need a shower . . . in a day or two.” If she had to call in a pro, she’d do it. But she’d really hoped she could hire a handyman. After a week, only three had answered the ad. And none of them sounded competent. But one offered to have his parole officer call her . . . as a reference.

She moved to the front door. “You really do have a beautiful family, Mr. Gruber.” He waved in answer, but before Charlee could escape, she watched his gaze fan to the painting. A deep longing filled his watery blue eyes. His hands came together at his waist, fingers fumbling with one another as if he wished he could reach into the painting and touch the subject.

“Good-bye,” Charlee whispered, not wanting to interrupt him as he stared at the image of his family. She understood that yearning, that emptiness left by those who’d once filled the now-hollow spaces of the heart.
I know how you feel.

When Ian saw the Jeep, he whipped his motorcycle into the lumberyard’s parking lot in River Rock, Missouri. He’d know that vehicle anywhere and just seeing it caused the first bits of tension to trickle down his spine. The familiar sense of a pending battle caused little sparks through his nerves. Though he’d been home from Afghanistan a couple weeks, the sensation seemed as normal to him as breathing. This could go well. Or horribly wrong. And there just wasn’t any way to know.

He parked, threw a leg off his bike, and listened to her engine tick as he inspected the three people in the Jeep. The driver was MIA. Probably inside the lumberyard.

It was a strange crew to be sure. In fact, Ian would call them downright bizarre. He knew the Jeep though, knew it from a photograph when it hadn’t been lifted, when the wheels and tires were more of a normal size and when it didn’t tote three of the most unusual-looking characters he’d ever seen. A man squirmed in the passenger seat, a hat on his head and a kilt around his loins. He suddenly went ape-crazy, screaming about a bee and flying out of the Jeep. A moment later, he crawled back in and made no effort to cover himself as he bent to retrieve something from the floorboard. “Whoa,” Ian muttered, turning to the side as he got the flash of white flesh beneath.

Two old women were arguing in the back, one with long white hair, the other with short spikes colored in an array that made her head look like a living firework.

Ian left his helmet on his bike and walked toward them, taking in the lumberyard and the tall, green mountains beyond. Surely, the driver would come out soon. And he hoped, one could even call it
prayed
, that it was whom he sought.

That’s when she emerged. Thick curls of blond hair, long legs, tan. Gorgeous. The mountain breeze caught her by surprise, causing her hair to cover her face. Her chest and torso were also covered by a large bag of . . . well, if he had to guess . . . manure. Or maybe potting soil. The man in the Jeep turned to face her just as she ambled closer.

“Come
on
, Char Char.” He lifted his skirt a bit and fanned it. “I’m roasting out here.”

Ian cut him with his eyes and wondered why Fancy Pants was too good to get out of the vehicle and take the bag. Rather than point it out, he sailed in, jogging the last few steps to her. When his arms encircled the load, easily lifting its weight, she greeted him with a curious frown, mostly hidden behind a pair of bling-y Hollywood sunglasses. Her cut-off jean shorts and tank top didn’t really go with the over-the-top shades, but so what? She was every bit as pretty as the photos he’d seen. “Let me help,” he said when she continued to hang on to the bag, the two of them chest to chest, separated only by manure in a strange face-off.

“I got it.”

He had to chuckle. “Yeah. I got it too, and we’re a little bit pretzeled right now. If you let go . . .” Ian shifted his weight.

The frown deepened.

“Look, lady, I don’t want to steal your manure, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His face was a scant few inches from hers, close enough to see the tiny dimple at the edge of her pursed mouth, a mouth that, though framed with tension, was still full and moist. A mouth he could kiss.
Whoa there.

Now it was her turn to shift her weight. She did, and the bag tilted dangerously to one side. His face broke into a smile. “Really, I don’t mind helping.”

She released her hold and Ian released the breath he’d drawn in, one full of the scent of vanilla and thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

He nodded behind him. “You in the Jeep?”

She moved to the back of it and opened the little minidoor behind the spare tire. “Just cram it in.”
Char Char
shoved a tarp and some other bags out of the way, making a hole half the size of the manure.

Ian frowned. “Cram it in
wher
e
?” He rested the edge of the bag on the Jeep, and she must have taken it as an invitation to work the thing into the too-small spot because instantly she started shoving. And grunting. And shoving some more, feet firmly planted, butt wiggling from side to side.
That
was difficult not to enjoy.

Finally, the manure was in and a bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face. She closed the door by bumping her shoulder against it. “Thanks for the help.” She flashed a white smile, spun, and headed toward the driver’s door.

“Wait.” He caught up to her. “Are you Charlee?”

Her foot stalled on the step, one leg up, hands gripping the handrails. She turned her head and looked at him.

Ian grinned. “I know your brother.”

Charlee slid the sunglasses from her eyes and tossed them on the dash. She inspected him for a moment, gaze narrowed.

Ian sucked a fresh breath. Her eyes were a mix of gray and blue. Neither shade, but somewhere between. They were a storm brewing on a clear day. “Jeremiah. Your brother?”

“Four brothers. Jeremiah, Isaiah, Gabriel, and Caleb.” She climbed on into the Jeep like she was going to leave, so Ian blocked her exit by positioning his body against the vehicle.

“I was actually headed out to your property.”

Charlee retrieved her sunglasses and slid them on. Hollywood bug eyes stared at him.

“Jeremiah said you needed a handyman for the summer.” He was pretty sure there was an eye roll accompanying her long exhale.

“There’s an ad on Craigslist. And a place to send your resume.”

When she started the engine, Ian reached in and placed a hand on the steering wheel. “I don’t really have a resume, ma’am.” Three sets of wide eyes watched the exchange from the passenger seat and backseat. The women had fallen silent.

The kilt wearer leaned forward and met Ian’s gaze with a snarl. “Are you an ax murderer?”

Charlee chuckled and punched him on the arm. “Goof, my brother wouldn’t send an ax murderer to work for me.”

Fancy Pants folded his arms over his chest, indignant. “He didn’t answer.”

“No sir. I’m not.”

The sunglasses dropped again, this time into her hand on the steering wheel as if she was ready to fight Ian for control if necessary. “No
si
r
?” she echoed. “Yes,
ma’am
?” Her gaze shot down to his shoulders, where the straps of a military-issue backpack rested.

Ian watched her chew the inside of her cheek. Something was happening there, deep in those stormy eyes. They were softening, barely, but it was unmistakable. And something he could use. He hooked his thumbs on the straps of his camo backpack, dragging her attention to it again.

A long exhale from his blond target. “You just get home?” she asked, and for the first time since he’d met her, there was the tiniest hint of warmth in her voice. Her brows—the ones that had been slashed into a frown—were now raised on the inside edges . . . like she was looking at a puppy or something.

“Yes, ma’am. Been deployed in Afghanistan for the last two years.”

She blew another breath into his face and he tried not to drag it into his lungs. He failed.

She pointed at him. “Stop with the
ma’am
. I’m not eighty. I’m twenty-five. You can call me Charlee.”

Ian smiled. “Oh, we’re about the same age.”

“Me too,” kilt man said. He was obviously at least twice that old.

The two women in the back piped up at that. “We’re all twenty-five.”

“I really could use the job, ma’—I mean Charlee.”

The spike-haired woman reached forward and shook Charlee’s shoulder. “Let’s keep him,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

Charlee turned, sending curls in an arc around her tan shoulders. “I don’t want my
brother
choosing who I hire. It’s none of his business.”

“Oh, come on,” firework lady pleaded. “He’s so sweet and handsome, and I just want to squeeze his cheeks.”

The kilt wearer checked his fingernails. “He’d be great for my nude study.”

Ian blinked, removing his hand from the steering wheel like it had burned him. He took a step back.

Charlee pivoted to face him, a devious grin on her face, and eyes dancing with mischief. “You
really
want the job?”

A tentative “yes.” But Ian’s heart was pounding.

“Enough to do a nude study for King Edward?”

Giggles from the backseat and Ian had to wonder if he’d fallen right down Alice’s famous rabbit hole. “Uh . . .”

Kilt-wearing King Edward nodded vigorously.

“I, uh, guess?”

“You know about building stuf
f
?” Charlee propped a foot on the gearshift and Ian kept his gaze from trailing down to her tanned leg.

“I’m not bad.”

“Minor plumbing, construction, a little wiring here and there?” She scooted around as if settling in to give him a thorough interview.

He nodded. “I’m pretty good. Worked with my dad all my summers growing up in his construction business. We did a lot of remodeling, lots of this and that.”

“See, Charlee. He’s a master this-and-thatter.” From the backseat. “Can we see him with his shirt off?”

Charlee bit her cheeks, causing the dimple on the left to deepen.

Ian’s mouth opened a little as his silent plea reached to her. He was pretty sure his face was blazing red.

Gray eyes sparkled. “Won’t be necessary.” But those eyes trailed over his shoulders and chest and dang it, it kind of made him feel like a piece of meat. It also sent a hot bolt shooting right into his gut. When the wind kicked up, Charlee gathered her mass of hair in a fist. “We’ll give you a try for one week. But I’m warning you, it’s not going to be easy. And I don’t put up with any crap.”

He nodded, for the first time feeling like he’d made progress and maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to honor his promise. He wasn’t too surprised when she poked him in the chest with her finger. “And I swear, if you’re here to spy on me and report back to my brother, I’ll burn your clothes and send you into town naked.”

Ian cleared his throat. Maybe this was the wrong Charlee McKinley. Oh, who was he kidding? She was everything he’d been warned about. And more. “Understood.”

“Or worse. I’ll turn you over to King Edward and he can paint you in the most
unflattering
and
smallest
of light.”

Okay, so there could be repercussions, but it hardly mattered. He got the job. It was the first step. Maybe the most important because if she’d said no, everything might have ended right here. “Thanks for taking a chance on me.”

An even stare was his answer. Without warning, she started the engine and popped the clutch on the Jeep. “Follow us.”

She peeled out of the gravel drive and Ian jogged back over to his motorcycle. The dust trail marked her direction. He followed, hoping he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew. Could he meet this challenge? He was a six-year military veteran with two years deployed in Afghanistan under his belt. And one conversation with Charlee McKinley had him feeling like a new recruit.

CHAPTER 2

They turned on the second dirt road and Ian couldn’t help but appreciate the rugged beauty of the land. Would be great for hunting, he decided when he passed a deer trail at the edge of the road. For what felt like the first time since being in the states, he took a deep breath. Finally, things that had to come together were. For Ian, it was the first step in a new beginning, complete with a dirt road leading deeper and deeper into the Ozark Mountains. The path was canopied by giant oaks and evergreens that towered above like sentries guarding the forest. He loved the woods. Loved being outside, loved being home from the Middle East where there was no sand and no one shooting at him.

When the property opened up before him, he tried to take it all in. It looked like it could have been a camp at one time, but everywhere—and he meant everywhere—there were signs of a much artsier handprint. The artists had claimed every inch of space, from the brightly colored tennis shoes hanging in one tree to the large metal animals resting atop spears in the front yards of really cool cottages. Giant metal flowers dotted the area where real flowers should have been planted. They ranged in size, but all were gigantic and whimsical and really, to him, a little bit creepy.

Charlee jogged over as he took his duffel off the motorcycle. “So, you can choose one of the cabins. I mean, I’m assuming you need a place; if not, that’s fine. You can show up each morning at eight and leave at five. I know it’s long hours, but there’s a lot I want to get done.”

Did she ever stop to take a breath? Ian readjusted his backpack.

“So, do you?”

He blinked. “Sorry. Do I what?”

She kicked a clump of dirt with her foot. “Need a place?”

“Oh. Yes ma’am.”

She speared him with her eyes.

“Charlee.”

“Better.” Her head tilted and she gestured in an arc.

“There are several cabins empty here in the hub.”

Ian’s heart dropped. The hub was close enough that if he woke up screaming, someone would surely hear and he’d get fired before even getting a chance to prove himself.

“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 path 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?”