Thunderboomed outside, and lightning flashed outside the window. “You oughta head back before the storm.”
A chill swept through her. “I hate storms.”
“Storms are in my blood. I’m from Kansas,” he said through a grin. “But I can’t fly in weather like this, so I hate ‘em, too.”
“Fly?”
“Chopper pilot.”
“Oh, so that’s what’s in the metal building.”
“Yep.” He grinned again. “Truth is, I earn a lot more money hauling water and hay with my chopper than I do selling my furniture and carvings.”
“That’s a shame.” She glanced around the cabin again. “Because this stuff is gorgeous.”
He blushed above his gray beard. “Thanks.” His tone softened. “Lorilee thought so, too. You know she was an artist—a painter?”
“I saw some of her work at the house.” Beth saw genuine grief in this man’s eyes, but he still seemed more than a little unstable. “Guess it takes an artist to know one.”
He muttered something unintelligible, and lightning flashed again. “You’d best get goin’.”
Beth wished she could stay longer, draw him out more. But there was a storm coming, and she sensed that if she pushed too hard too fast, this man could very well withdraw completely. She needed his trust and cooperation. One step at a time.
“I’d like to meet—have met—Lorilee,” Beth said.
Rick nodded. “She had her…problems, but she sort of took me under her wing after I got here, encouraged me to keep up my craft, even though I’m quite a bit older than she was.”
“Artist to artist?”
“Exactly.”
“So you’re from Kansas, huh?”
“Still a damn Yankee to these folks.” He walked her to the door. “And they don’t approve of my socalled hippie lifestyle either. Stir-fried sprouts are sinner’s food.”
Beth chuckled. “Even so, you’re a sprout-eating veteran.”
Rick stiffened. “Who told you that?”
She studied his expression for a few seconds. “Ty must have mentioned it.”
Rick’s gaze dropped to the floor, and he shook his head before looking up at her again. “I reckon Lorilee told him.”
“Why don’t you want people to know?”
His nostrils flared slightly, and she heard him swallow. “I try not to think about Nam. The only good thing the army taught me was how to fly a chopper.”
“I won’t mention it.” It was hard not to like this guy. She could easily see how he and Lorilee had become good friends. “Here’s my card with my cell number, and I’m staying at the Brubaker Arms. If you think of anything I should know that might help solve Lorilee’s case, give me a call.”
“Will do.” He tucked her card in his bib pocket, then opened the squeaky screen door and held it. The wind picked up, and lightning flashed in the dark sky. “I don’t think you’re gonna beat that storm back to town.”
Beth drew a shaky breath. “Won’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Country dark and city dark were two entirely different beasts. Once she’d left the comforting glow of the security light on Rick’s hangar, Beth drove through black ink, broken only by intermittent flashes of lightning.
“Great, Dearborn.” She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Just dandy.”
Her first day in Brubaker had turned into a marathon that would end in hell. And another thing—stir-fried sprouts didn’t mix well with violent weather.
Clenching her teeth, she steered her car along the curvy dirt road that led back to the highway. At least it had led from the highway to Heppel’s house. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed as far driving in the other direction in calm weather and daylight.
The road meandered along the creek, ducking into and out of the trees. Lightning flashed, transforming the blackness into a photographer’s negative. Blinded, she slammed on her brakes. Her heart thumped against her ribs, and she licked her dry lips.
It’s just a storm, you wimp.
“Just a storm,” she repeated aloud. Of
A chill swept through her. “I hate storms.”
“Storms are in my blood. I’m from Kansas,” he said through a grin. “But I can’t fly in weather like this, so I hate ‘em, too.”
“Fly?”
“Chopper pilot.”
“Oh, so that’s what’s in the metal building.”
“Yep.” He grinned again. “Truth is, I earn a lot more money hauling water and hay with my chopper than I do selling my furniture and carvings.”
“That’s a shame.” She glanced around the cabin again. “Because this stuff is gorgeous.”
He blushed above his gray beard. “Thanks.” His tone softened. “Lorilee thought so, too. You know she was an artist—a painter?”
“I saw some of her work at the house.” Beth saw genuine grief in this man’s eyes, but he still seemed more than a little unstable. “Guess it takes an artist to know one.”
He muttered something unintelligible, and lightning flashed again. “You’d best get goin’.”
Beth wished she could stay longer, draw him out more. But there was a storm coming, and she sensed that if she pushed too hard too fast, this man could very well withdraw completely. She needed his trust and cooperation. One step at a time.
“I’d like to meet—have met—Lorilee,” Beth said.
Rick nodded. “She had her…problems, but she sort of took me under her wing after I got here, encouraged me to keep up my craft, even though I’m quite a bit older than she was.”
“Artist to artist?”
“Exactly.”
“So you’re from Kansas, huh?”
“Still a damn Yankee to these folks.” He walked her to the door. “And they don’t approve of my socalled hippie lifestyle either. Stir-fried sprouts are sinner’s food.”
Beth chuckled. “Even so, you’re a sprout-eating veteran.”
Rick stiffened. “Who told you that?”
She studied his expression for a few seconds. “Ty must have mentioned it.”
Rick’s gaze dropped to the floor, and he shook his head before looking up at her again. “I reckon Lorilee told him.”
“Why don’t you want people to know?”
His nostrils flared slightly, and she heard him swallow. “I try not to think about Nam. The only good thing the army taught me was how to fly a chopper.”
“I won’t mention it.” It was hard not to like this guy. She could easily see how he and Lorilee had become good friends. “Here’s my card with my cell number, and I’m staying at the Brubaker Arms. If you think of anything I should know that might help solve Lorilee’s case, give me a call.”
“Will do.” He tucked her card in his bib pocket, then opened the squeaky screen door and held it. The wind picked up, and lightning flashed in the dark sky. “I don’t think you’re gonna beat that storm back to town.”
Beth drew a shaky breath. “Won’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Country dark and city dark were two entirely different beasts. Once she’d left the comforting glow of the security light on Rick’s hangar, Beth drove through black ink, broken only by intermittent flashes of lightning.
“Great, Dearborn.” She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Just dandy.”
Her first day in Brubaker had turned into a marathon that would end in hell. And another thing—stir-fried sprouts didn’t mix well with violent weather.
Clenching her teeth, she steered her car along the curvy dirt road that led back to the highway. At least it had led from the highway to Heppel’s house. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed as far driving in the other direction in calm weather and daylight.
The road meandered along the creek, ducking into and out of the trees. Lightning flashed, transforming the blackness into a photographer’s negative. Blinded, she slammed on her brakes. Her heart thumped against her ribs, and she licked her dry lips.
It’s just a storm, you wimp.
“Just a storm,” she repeated aloud. Of
Similar Books
