The Road To Echo Point. Carrie Weaver
the veranda, her gaze lighting on new and wonderful discoveries. Wild flowers in big terra-cotta pots. Two antique branding irons, crossed like swords, anchored to the wall.
She laid a palm against the adobe, absorbing the warmth of reflected fall sunshine, admiring the coarse texture. The weathered mud brick looked like it had been there for years. And would probably last for many, many more. It was stable, unchanging, safe.
Patrick would have loved it. He had loved all things western. Probably because of the old cowboy movies he’d watched when they were kids. Where the good guys always won, and the bad guys were easily spotted in their black hats.
Vi swallowed hard. She would not cry. It didn’t accomplish anything. And it wasn’t what Patrick would have wanted.
Laughter and joy were what he had brought to her life. And at the first sign of trouble, he’d whisk her off to their special fort and tell her jokes until she’d forgotten her fear.
God, how she missed his smile. The mischievous twinkle in his eye. The absolute goodness in his heart. The bravery he shrugged off as brotherly duty.
Vi fingered the heavy wooden door. Splinters nipped at her, but the core was solid. The bulky expanse was attached to the hand-hewn door frame with cast iron fittings. It might be old, but it looked strong enough to hold off an army. Or one really pissed-off SOB.
Yes, Patrick would have loved it.
Someday, she’d have a place like this. If she worked harder and smarter than everyone else.
Vi slipped into her favorite daydream. The one where she possessed the security only money could buy.
What would she change if the adobe house were hers? Definitely not the massive mesquite tree shading the flat roof, its gnarled black branches stretching protectively toward the house. And not the prickly pear cacti that lined the gravel drive. The ocotillo would stay, too. It looked almost like an upside-down octopus as it reached for the sky, the long, skinny stems undulating with the slightest breeze. The blooms added just the right touch of orange, breaking up all the tans and sages of the desert.
It was quiet, hushed almost. Except for the occasional call of some sort of bird, a dove maybe. What did someone do with all this quiet? No sirens, no neighbors, just quiet.
Vi shook herself out of her reverie. She didn’t avoid challenges anymore, she took them head-on.
Her knuckles stung as she rapped on the striated surface of the door. Her efforts hardly made a sound. She pounded with her fist the second time and was rewarded with a dull thud.
She swore under her breath as she blew on her bruised hand.
The door swung open instantly, silently. Plenty of oil on those old fittings.
“You’re here. Good.”
The Ian guy stood in the doorway, his massive arms folded over his chest.
Vi took in his scruffy, stubbled jaw. She raised an eyebrow at his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair—short, dark-blond spikes here, mashed flat to his head there. And to think she’d envied guys with their wash-and-go cropped hair. Apparently, the “wash” part was critical to the whole ’do. He looked like a shower and a dab of shampoo might work wonders.
The view improved once her gaze got past the stubbled jaw. His Phoenix Coyotes hockey jersey, though badly wrinkled, outlined a very nice set of pecs, then hinted at a muscled stomach before neatly disappearing in to his jeans. No doubt about it, he was devoted to his hometown teams. The teal and purple presumably brought out the green in his eyes, but today they were just too bloodshot.
It had to be one hell of a hangover, judging from the way his hand shook where he gripped the wrought iron door handle.
Wariness twisted her stomach. This was more than she’d bargained for. Vi let her suitcase down with a thunk. The laptop case remained firmly on her shoulder.
She stuck out a hand. His grip was strong, but with a tremor she could have named in seconds.
“Too much partying?” It was more of an observation than a question.
Ian scowled in response. His shoulders straightened. He had to be six-three or six-four. No wonder he’d scared the hell out of her.
“Look, lady, I don’t know where you think you’ve landed, but there isn’t too much to celebrate around here.”
Vi shot him a glare. “I know a hangover when I see one.”
“You do, huh? How about sleep deprivation, you familiar with that?”
She raised her chin a fraction. “I’ve read a bit. And my secretary has a colicky baby. She says that’s why she’s always late.”
He looked her up and down, his gaze attacking her neatly pressed khakis, polished loafers, cotton sweater set. He shook his head. “No, you’ve never missed a moment’s sleep. Your poor secretary.”
The laptop strap bit into her shoulder. His words bit into her pride. She was a good boss, dammit. She’d come up the hard way—won a scholarship for inner city teens. She knew what it was like to struggle, to fight.
Vi took a deep breath and reminded herself that getting along with the guy might mean all the difference. “Look, we got off to a bad start. Why don’t we try again? You could begin by inviting me in.”
He grunted in reply, shoving away from the wall. He turned without a word, leaving her to follow like a helpless child.
She grabbed her tweed suitcase and trotted behind him. And she never trotted behind anyone. One or two steps ahead at the very least.
“I’d like to get unpacked right away. Get my computer set up….” Her mind was off and running, calculating how she would keep her finger on the pulse of the office, while stuck out here in the boonies. She shuddered to think that Echo Point was the closest outpost of civilization. It was a good twelve miles away.
“Yeah, we better get moving. The witching hour is almost here,” he muttered.
She barely heard him. “What was that…witching hour?” she mumbled, still mulling over office politics.
VI JUMPED at the sound of an insistent knock at her door.
She shoved her socks and underwear into the top drawer of the distressed pine dresser and slammed it shut.
“Vi?” came the deep voice.
“Just a minute,” she called, stowing her luggage under the bed. As she stood, she adjusted the pile of pillows, smoothed the lovely chenille bedspread. Unbleached cotton, maybe even organic. It felt heavenly, soft, under her fingers. It’d taken years to educate herself about the finer things in life. And soon, she’d be able to afford them. Even with the big chunk of her paycheck she sent to L.A. each month.
Another knock. This time louder. Desperate almost.
Hurrying to the door, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She pasted on a confident smile.
“Ready…lead the way,” she said as she opened the door. She was talking to a hulking back moving down the hallway. Vi jogged to catch up with him.
The Mexican tile blurred beneath her feet—the stark white walls glowing in contrast. Migraine-inducing bright. But at least it lightened up all the colonial Mexican stuff.
Just when she thought she might go blind from the glare, the hallway opened into a great room. Large, low-ceilinged, with a big screen TV in the corner. Spare, to the point of being scary. No homey pile of magazines. Just a remote and a TV magazine—
Vi frowned. Was the remote actually chained to the coffee table?
It was.
“Mom, this is Vi.”
Ian nudged her forward until they reached a leather sofa. The high gloss and buttery tones promised soft calfskin. A colorful Indian blanket was draped across the back, right behind an old woman.