Gambling On A Secret. Sara Walter Ellwood
and replacing flooring, undoubtedly there was bad plumbing and wiring, too. He looked back at her. She watched him with intensity again, stirring his blood.
He glanced back at the house. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to do some of the carpentry work on the house.”
Her eyes widened. “You would?”
Would he?
He took off his hat, only to reset it right back on again, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. I would. I’ll subcontract for anything out of my expertise, and I have a couple of guys in mind to help out with the repairs on the ranch buildings and fencing.”
“The work you did on Tracy’s salon is beautiful.”
He slid his gaze away and shrugged. “Like her place, this old house has good bones. Unfortunately, I’ll need tools to do the work. I have some, but not enough. I hope you have a business account with liquid cash or a bank willing to give you a loan.”
She simply nodded and sighed.
“Why on Earth did you buy this dump?”
“I wanted a place I could make my own.” She looked at the ramshackle mansion. “When the realtor showed me the ranch, I knew it could be beautiful.”
The sun played on loose coils framing her freckled, heart-shaped face and the deceptive youth of her make-up free profile. The rest of her long hair was pulled back into a snarled ponytail. With the overgrowth of spring green, bluebonnets and daffodils tangled around her feet, she reminded him of one of the fairy statues his mother collected.
Charli peered up at him with an ageless depth showing in her crystalline eyes. She had seen more than she should have for someone so young. He vaguely remembered the kids in the bar last Friday night and their conversation about her not having any friends. What had happened to her to make her so guarded?
He jutted his chin toward the house. “It was a beautiful place once. Built at the end of the eighteen hundreds, after fire destroyed the original place. The house was white and the shutters and trim were dark red–you know, like a brick color. And the gardens were spectacular until Jock’s mother died about fifteen years ago.”
“That’s how I imagine the house.”
The deep intensity of her eyes pulled him in as if he’d walked off the dock into the lake beyond the overgrown yard. He felt things he hadn’t felt for a long, very long, time. Charli Monroe’s appeal went deeper than attraction. What about her intrigued him so damned much?
When she spoke, her soft voice came to him like a whisper on the warm breeze. “I think of it like a caterpillar–a wrinkly, ugly worm with traces of dull colors on it. But when the worm metamorphoses, it becomes something truly beautiful.”
As if conjured by a fairy’s voice, a small blue butterfly fluttered by them. It lighted on a spire of bluebonnets. He stared at until it took off in flight to land on another flower. “Like a butterfly.”
For a moment, he let himself drift back to the day he’d carried Brenda over the threshold of the house he’d built for her, and the dreams that had died when he read her letter two days before the mission.
In a flash, the memory changed. He stood along the roadside aiming an M-16 at the man behind the wheel of a derelict car. After the man refused to get out, he had ordered his men to surround the vehicle, and the Arab driver sneered. Then it exploded.
Nothing in his life would ever be bright and beautiful again.
* * * *
Later that evening, Charli set two mugs of coffee on the table and took the chair across from Dylan at the kitchen table. He tapped a pen on the wood top as he mulled over something. On a sheet of paper before him were listed several things he’d need from the home center.
She sipped from her mug. “So, where do we start? The horses I bought will be delivered the Monday after Easter. Sheriff Cartwright bred one of the sorrels to one of his prized stallions.”
He stopped tapping and looked at her. “You’re not fooling around.”
She shrugged and looked into her cup. “Once I get the idea to do something, I jump right in and do it.”
“I can see that.” He leaned over his arms on the table. “The stables look pretty damned good, surprisingly. They’re not as old as the other buildings. Jock added them about twenty years ago when he decided to raise cutting horses to irk my granddad. The stalls need fixed and it needs cleaned out. I’ll take care of those first. I’d also like to call the men I told you about while we were on the grand tour.”
“The carpenters?”
“Yeah, Tom Miller and his uncle, Jesse Riley.” He picked up his mug. “Tom got out of the Navy not too long ago and worked for his father-in-law’s construction company, but he recently went out of business. Tom’s wife just had a baby, and I know he’d appreciate the job. He and Jesse have been doing handy work in the area, and both men have some ranching experience.”
“Okay. Call them. They can work on the fences and then the barn.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “I’ll get the storage barn in shape for holding feed and hay. It’ll be a mess to clean.” He lowered the mug and arched a brow. “But thanks to Uncle Sam, I’m no stranger to bullshit.”
She groaned and shook her head. “That’s just bad.”
His lips twitched into the rusty crooked grin, and as it had the other times she’d seen it, a quiver tickled her belly.
“I know. My jokes used to be funnier.”
Somewhere the real Dylan still lurked inside the shell. Would working for her bring him out?
“Tracy told me about what you’re planning to do with this place once you graduate.” He leaned back in his chair. “I think opening up your place to troubled teens is a great idea. Noble.”
Heat warmed her cheeks, and she looked down at the mug between her hands. “I hope I can get the support of the community. Without them, it won’t work.”
“Get the Cartwrights on your side and everything will be fine. If you haven’t figured it out yet, they pretty much run this county.”
She smirked at him. “They do seem to be pretty high up the food chain. The mayor’s nephew is the sheriff.”
“Not to mention Winnie Cartwright is the queen of gossip.” He picked up the pen and started tapping again. “Where should we start in the house?”
“We?”
“Of course, we. Tom and Jesse will be set to work on rebuilding the barn and stringing fencing. But I’ll need some help in here. I can teach you whatever you need to know. Mostly, I’ll need a gofer.”
“A gofer?” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Sounds boring as hell.”
He stopped tapping the pen. “Probably is. I can hire someone else if you’d like. I figured you’d be interested in helping, otherwise you’d have hired a contractor and been done with it.”
How did he read her so well? “Yes, I’d like to help. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun, huh?”
She shrugged and picked up her cup. “Sure. But let’s take it slow. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Besides, the gofer has classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
He grinned and set off the fluttering in her belly again. How did he do that?
“I suppose on those days I’ll kick back and relax.”
“Not if you want a paycheck.” She drained her mug. “Where did you learn to be a carpenter? Was it something you learned in the Army?”
Shifting in his seat, he looked down at his hands. “No, I didn’t learn carpentry or plumbing or electrical work in the Army.”