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Authors: Robin Lee Hatcher
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roof. I ought to be back in an hour or so.” He strode out of the studio.
For a moment, Shayla stared after him. Then she turned toward the paintings again, her gaze drawn to that third, darker portrait.
She had a feeling the canvas told a lot more about him than she understood as yet.
The usual group of men were hanging around the hardware store that afternoon. Ian nodded to them before walking to the counter.
“How’s it going, Ed?” he said to the owner.
Ed Clark was an obese man in his early sixties with three chins and a head as bald as a bowling ball. Years ago, liquored up on a cold Saturday night, he’d put gasoline into his stove to help the wood catch fire. He was lucky all he’d lost in the resulting explosion were his eyebrows. He hadn’t tasted a drop of whisky since—nor had his eyebrows grown back,which accounted for the surprised expression he always seemed to wear.
“You back so soon, O’Connell? That gal’s oven didn’t go out again, did it?”
“No. She says it’s working fine. It’s roofing supplies I’m after this time.”
“Sure thing. Gonna be fixing your roof this summer, huh?”
There was no point in trying to keep one’s business to oneself in a town this size. Ian learned that long ago. It was easier to answer folks’ questions from the get-go. Caused a man less grief in the long run.
“Not mine. I’m making repairs to Miss Vincent’s roof. On the old Erickson cabin. We’re working an exchange. She’s giving my house a good scouring, and I’m going to make a few repairs to hers.”
“Cedar shake, isn’t it? Her roof?”
“Yes.”
“Leaking when it rains?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”
For the next hour, the two men talked roofing supplies and techniques. Ed might be a man too large to move quickly and too heavy to climb a tall ladder, but he had a sharp mind and he knew about construction, lumber and hardware. He was a virtual font of information.
By the time the order was written up and they’d exchanged a bit of town gossip, Ian noticed the storegrowing dark. He turned toward the storefront windows, only to discover roiling black clouds had arrived while he was inside.
“I’d better get a move on. Don’t like the looks of that sky.”
“Sure thing. I’ll have all these items you ordered by Monday.”
“Thanks.” He said his farewells to the other men in the hardware store, then hurried to his pickup.
He was driving out of town when the first bolt of lightning flashed toward the ground, followed by a deafening crash of thunder. It was too early in the season for any real danger of forest or grass fires, but all the same, he preferred to be at home and watchful when a storm like this blew into the valley. Better safe than sorry.
He pressed down on the gas pedal.
When what sounded like an explosion right above her head shook the big house to its foundations, Shayla let out a shriek, then rushed to the nearby window to look outside.
She’d never seen such an ugly, angry sky before. Clouds as black as night swept over the mountain peaks, churning like a storm-tossed sea. A fork of lightning lit up the valley, connecting sky to earth. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as a loud crack assaulted her ears.
“Honey Girl!” she cried, remembering the puppy in the kennel.
She raced from the guest room, down the stairs,through the kitchen and out the back door. The sheltie cowered in a corner, whimpering in fear.
“It’s okay, girl,” she said as she opened the gate. “It’s okay.” She picked up the quivering puppy. “Oh, you poor thing. You poor little thing.”
Another flash of lightning. Another crack of thunder. Shayla squealed again, then hightailed it back into the house, feeling as frightened as the young dog in her arms.
She hated thunderstorms.
She took shelter in an overstuffed chair in the great room, as far from the window as she could get. She cuddled Honey
For a moment, Shayla stared after him. Then she turned toward the paintings again, her gaze drawn to that third, darker portrait.
She had a feeling the canvas told a lot more about him than she understood as yet.
The usual group of men were hanging around the hardware store that afternoon. Ian nodded to them before walking to the counter.
“How’s it going, Ed?” he said to the owner.
Ed Clark was an obese man in his early sixties with three chins and a head as bald as a bowling ball. Years ago, liquored up on a cold Saturday night, he’d put gasoline into his stove to help the wood catch fire. He was lucky all he’d lost in the resulting explosion were his eyebrows. He hadn’t tasted a drop of whisky since—nor had his eyebrows grown back,which accounted for the surprised expression he always seemed to wear.
“You back so soon, O’Connell? That gal’s oven didn’t go out again, did it?”
“No. She says it’s working fine. It’s roofing supplies I’m after this time.”
“Sure thing. Gonna be fixing your roof this summer, huh?”
There was no point in trying to keep one’s business to oneself in a town this size. Ian learned that long ago. It was easier to answer folks’ questions from the get-go. Caused a man less grief in the long run.
“Not mine. I’m making repairs to Miss Vincent’s roof. On the old Erickson cabin. We’re working an exchange. She’s giving my house a good scouring, and I’m going to make a few repairs to hers.”
“Cedar shake, isn’t it? Her roof?”
“Yes.”
“Leaking when it rains?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”
For the next hour, the two men talked roofing supplies and techniques. Ed might be a man too large to move quickly and too heavy to climb a tall ladder, but he had a sharp mind and he knew about construction, lumber and hardware. He was a virtual font of information.
By the time the order was written up and they’d exchanged a bit of town gossip, Ian noticed the storegrowing dark. He turned toward the storefront windows, only to discover roiling black clouds had arrived while he was inside.
“I’d better get a move on. Don’t like the looks of that sky.”
“Sure thing. I’ll have all these items you ordered by Monday.”
“Thanks.” He said his farewells to the other men in the hardware store, then hurried to his pickup.
He was driving out of town when the first bolt of lightning flashed toward the ground, followed by a deafening crash of thunder. It was too early in the season for any real danger of forest or grass fires, but all the same, he preferred to be at home and watchful when a storm like this blew into the valley. Better safe than sorry.
He pressed down on the gas pedal.
When what sounded like an explosion right above her head shook the big house to its foundations, Shayla let out a shriek, then rushed to the nearby window to look outside.
She’d never seen such an ugly, angry sky before. Clouds as black as night swept over the mountain peaks, churning like a storm-tossed sea. A fork of lightning lit up the valley, connecting sky to earth. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as a loud crack assaulted her ears.
“Honey Girl!” she cried, remembering the puppy in the kennel.
She raced from the guest room, down the stairs,through the kitchen and out the back door. The sheltie cowered in a corner, whimpering in fear.
“It’s okay, girl,” she said as she opened the gate. “It’s okay.” She picked up the quivering puppy. “Oh, you poor thing. You poor little thing.”
Another flash of lightning. Another crack of thunder. Shayla squealed again, then hightailed it back into the house, feeling as frightened as the young dog in her arms.
She hated thunderstorms.
She took shelter in an overstuffed chair in the great room, as far from the window as she could get. She cuddled Honey
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