Along the Broken Road (3 page)

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?”

Charlee 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?”

“Fine, soldier. Just fine.” Slowly, she turned and walked toward the door. Once there, Charlee paused. “That was my dad’s tool belt. Take good care of it.”

Something in Ian’s heart snapped. Wrapped around his waist was the utility belt of Major McKinley. Ian’s hands came down and ran slowly over the smooth leather pouches. He swallowed hard. Charlee’s dad had died a year ago. For a moment he thought he should take it off, but he didn’t. Instead, he gently placed the hammer in its place, filled the nail pouch with a handful of trim nails sitting nearby, and hooked a wrench through one of the loops. It was a few more seconds before he could bring himself to leave the shed.

Outside, the sun was rising to the center of the world and chasing away every bit of shadow and shade. It was going to be a hot one. Charlee stood in the center of the hub waiting for him.

When he reached her, she asked, “What’s the most powerful force?”

“What?”

“Earlier you said fear of the unknown was the second most powerful force on the planet. What’s the first?”

Off in the distance, a crow split the silence with a piercing squawk. “Passion for the journey.”

Charlee’s brow quirked. Her face was the most interesting thing about her. Alive with determination one second, curiosity the next. She wasn’t used to being thrown off base, that much was evident.
Passion for the journey
. He could almost see her repeating it in her head, weighing it, seeing if she agreed. When neither moved, she nodded slowly and headed to Mr. Gruber’s cabin. Halfway there, a surprise breeze met them, coursing around the mountain and pushing against their backs. It drove Ian and Charlee forward. And in it, Ian could smell the scent of hope. His hands came down to his sides to the tool belt as he followed Charlee onto the porch.

She knocked a few times, but there was no answer. “Mr. Gruber?”

“I’m here,” came a voice, from the side of the cottage.

They both turned to see him coming around the corner. Confusion flickered in Ian.
This
was the man who’d painted
The Storm
? Couldn’t be. He was thin and frail and weak looking and the painting was nothing if not powerful and bold and commanding. The wide sweeps of the brush made for a violent oncoming storm. This man looked as if he could barely lift the canvas onto the easel.

“Mr. Gruber, this is Ian. He’s going to fix your water today.”

“I wish I’d known. I took a cold shower earlier. I could have waited.” His narrow blue eyes studied Ian. “Nice bone structure. Have you modeled?”

“No sir.” Oh Lord, here we go again.

Gruber reached up to his face as if he were a scientist and Ian a newly discovered species. “Look at his facial structure, Charlee.”

She reluctantly leaned closer.

“See how his cheekbone narrows here?” A cold, wrinkled finger grazed Ian’s cheek.

“Mm-hmm,” Charlee said, but it sounded forced. She cleared her throat.

“It would be garish if not for his lovely jawline. See how the squared jaw creates the uniformity?”

Charlee licked her lips.

“When I studied in Paris, we were often offered models of this quality. Not anymore, though.” There was a distinct nostalgia in his tone, sounding like the kind of man who gloried in days gone by more than the present.

“King Edward is going to paint him.”

Ian’s skin crawled at the thought. Had he really agreed to that?

Gruber poked him on the shoulder. “Don’t let Edward destroy you. He has no sense of true artistry. All passion, no training.”

Ian raised his hands. “I just want to fix the water.”

Charlee and Gruber took a step back, as if the strange inspection was complete. Charlee grinned. “Okay, I’ll leave you two guys to it.”

Mr. Gruber opened the door for Ian. “Go right on in. I’m going to sit in the swing for a bit. I’ll be back along in a while. Make yourself at home. If you need to move some things out of your way, feel free. But stay out of my loft. I have paintings in process up there.”

“Understood.” Ian gave him a salute and went inside, thinking he just might like Mr. Gruber. He did, at least, until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the cabin. “Lord Almighty,” he whispered, half in disgust, half in prayer for immediate deliverance.

Ian wasn’t sure where to rest his eyes first. The small couch was covered with clothes and papers. The coffee table supported a mix of plates and half-empty glasses crowded together; one cup sat so dangerously close to the edge, he couldn’t imagine why it hadn’t toppled off. “Ignore it,” he told himself. “Not your business.” Touching as little as possible, he looked for the closet that likely housed the water heater. There in a pantry separating the living and dining rooms, he found it. The door was blocked with an overflowing trash can and three bags of canned vegetables. Irritation whooshed up from deep inside, but he fought it. He was here to fix the water heater.

For ten minutes, he moved and moved again the items in his way. Maybe Gruber was a hoarder. He’d heard about those people. But when Ian pulled the cabinet doors open he found . . . nothing. “You gotta be kidding me.” Gruber had room to put things away; he just didn’t do it. When Ian stubbed his toe on yet another bag of unemptied groceries, he exploded. He sailed across the cabin and flung the front door open wide. “Gruber!” Hearing the tension in his voice, he took a breath before continuing. “Need a hand in here.”

Slowly Gruber stood from the swing and started across the lawn. Ian counted to ten while he waited.

When the older man stepped inside, Ian’s hands rose in question. “Are you kidding me?”

Gruber’s bushy brows tilted into a frown.

Ian gestured around the house. “You’ve got bags of groceries sitting on your floor where you have to step over them while your cabinets are empty.”

Gruber blinked, the lines around his mouth deepening.

Ian pointed toward the kitchen. “Don’t you care? Doesn’t it matter to you . . . the state of your home?”

When Gruber just stood there, Ian moved to the front window. “I can’t work in this.” Years of soldier training had done a number on him. This kind of irresponsibility was unacceptable.

The window groaned as he opened it. He pulled the curtains open, filling the space with light. Ian moved to the other windows with Gruber standing aside watching him.

“This morning Charlee showed me the most amazing painting I’ve ever seen.”

Gruber threaded his hands together, and though he looked a bit like a child being scolded, Ian didn’t stop his rant. “
Your
painting,
The Storm
. I can’t quite assimilate that to this. Where I come from, you take pride in your work.”

Gruber’s chin rose. “I do take pride in my work.”

“No. You don’t. Or you’d have more respect for yourself than this.”

Gruber’s eyes darted around the cabin. “I’ve . . . I guess it’s gotten a bit out of hand, but that’s just how I do things.”

“Look.” Ian knew his temper had taken over and that could just as easily get him fired as anything, but no one should be okay with this. “It just needs to be picked up. Let’s get it done. I can’t complete my mission until this stuff is out of the way.” Before Gruber could answer, Ian was gathering glasses and dishes and taking them to the sink.

Gruber carried a trash bag around and silently filled it with papers, crumpled potato chip bags, plastic cups, empty water bottles.

“While I was deployed, I watched some of the hardest workers in Afghanistan. Know who they were?”