by Kym Roberts
A little twitch of his eyebrow gave me the impression Stone was laughing at me as he turned back towards his tent and stuck his head inside. His movements purposeful and practiced, his body flowed with a grace I wouldn’t think possible for a man with one leg. It made me wonder how long he’d worn the prosthesis.
What did I know about this man — other than the fact that he was staying in the woods? In a sniper’s tent. Surrounded by a trip wire. That would do God only knows what, if I actually came into contact with it. Was I so stupid I couldn’t see the potential for a bad ending?
“I gotta go. Thanks for the tour of your campground.” I turned and headed toward the trip wire I couldn’t see and cursed myself for not counting off the steps between my location and the potentially deadly booby trap.
“Stop.”
My feet froze. Once again fear of wearing a target on my back trickled down my spine. Or maybe it was the potential for a land mine in front of me that caused my forward progress to cease with one foot balancing in mid-air.
“Is it my imagination, or did you just become scared shitless?” The humor was definitely there this time. I slammed my foot to the ground and turned around without the least bit of fear. Well, almost.
My breath hitched when I found Stone standing right behind me. The man could slink with the best of them.
“I – I need to get back to my shop.” My neck popped on its long journey up to meet his eyes.
“Dusty, your instincts suck.” His voice held mockery and disapproval all wrapped up in a tight little ball.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who says that?” He stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language.
“Says what?” Conversations with Stone confused the hell out of me.
“What woman in her twenties says, ‘I beg your pardon’?”
My body bristled, but I maintained my composure. “A woman raised with manners who has the good instincts to know when she’s overstayed her welcome.”
“If your instincts are so good, how come you haven’t noticed that I’m holding something that could be a weapon?”
My eyes betrayed me and shot toward his hands. Where he held a familiar green ball cap, with a white ‘O’ surrounded by wings. When I saw the word ‘Ducks’ embroidered below it in yellow, I nearly cried.
“Where did you find it?” I asked as I tentatively retrieved the hat he offered. It was the hat Jacob gave me on our first date. The hat I had lost in Tickle Creek. I turned it around to find the yellow ‘Dusty’ sewn on the back. The hat had lost some of its shape from the water, and a few dirt streaks marred the lettering, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t get out in the wash.
Stone’s voice took on a softer tone when he finally answered. “It was stuck in a tree branch a little farther down along the creek bed from the foot bridge. When I saw the name, I knew it was yours.”
“Thank you,” was all I could muster behind the lump in my throat. Holding the hat close, I turned to wipe the tears that slipped down my face. I thought my hat had been gone forever, like Jacob’s ranger jacket cut to shreds and lying over my shower rod. Fate had taken it away from me. And Stone gave it back.
“I knew Dusty fit you.” It was a whisper, and I wasn’t sure it was meant for my ears, but Stone needed to know.
“The only one who called me Dusty was my...” I hesitated with the painful acknowledgement of never having been married. But with Stone, the truth was my only option. “...fiancé. He gave this to me on our first date. He was killed in a forest fire a couple of years ago.” Two years, nine months and twenty-one days ago to be exact.
Stone seemed to understand my pain, my reluctance to move on with my life. I guess someone who had experienced the tragedies of war had similar difficulties ... on a broader scale.
“I’m sorry I cut his jacket. If I had to do it again, I’d probably do the same thing ... but I am sorry I ruined it.” That was the first hesitation Stone had shown. The first glimpse inside the man. The first glimpse of his humanity that made him more than just a soldier carrying out his duty. Stone had returned a gift of the heart, and with it he had opened up his own.
As if sensing he displayed a weakness, Stone warned me once more. “You shouldn’t be here. Go back to your shop ... and move on with your life.”
“This coming from a man who hides in the woods and won’t tell me his first name? What, or who are you hiding from, Stone?”
“I’m not hiding.”
I cut his denial short with a glance at his camouflage tent.
He actually expanded his explanation. “Old habits die hard. Once in the military, always in the military.”
I wasn’t fooled by his lie. Despite what Stone thought, my instincts about people were pretty good. His manner may have sent my system in a tailspin, but deep down, I knew the man in front of me was a good guy.
“So why won’t you tell me your first name?” My face took on a smugness I didn’t normally display, but Stone stood his ground and didn’t respond. “Should I guess?”
He remained silent. Watching me.
One hand on my chin — the other supporting my elbow, I pondered the possibilities. “Mike Stone,” I offered.
He stood and stared.
“No?” I rubbed my chin. “Steven Stone.”
Still no response.
“Yeah, you’re right. SS doesn’t fit you.” I glanced up, looking for any sign of his weakening and giving me his first name.
There was none.
“Stone Hinge.”
With my third guess, the rock cracked enough to twitch the slightest smile.
I found myself wanting to see more. “Kidney Stone.”
A full half smile spread across his face before Stone grabbed my arm and started walking me back to the perimeter of his camp. “Are you saying I’m a pain in your side, Dusty?” His voice was definitely mocking me now as I scurried to keep up.
“Wouldn’t a Gall Stone be more painful?” I asked enjoying the back and forth communication even if I was doing the most talking.
Stone gave one of those amazing smiles at that point, and I nearly fell on my face it was so damned appealing. But he caught me, ignoring my blunder, and lifted me off my feet.
I clutched my hat and said the next thing that came to mind. “Miles Stone.” His only acknowledgment as he placed me down on the other side of the trip wire that I’d missed for a second time, was a toss of my hair on top of my head.
I felt about ten years old.
Yet I couldn’t deny Stone had brought me to a turning point in my life. Miles Stone fit him … or maybe it was just the situation it fit. Two lonely individuals needing a breakthrough event to wake them up.
Nah. That was silly. I was content with my life. Committed to my vows. And if life took a few turns here and there, I was ready for the challenge.
“Thank you for finding my hat,” I held it up, then clutched it at my chest once more.
“You’re welcome.” Stone backed away and stopped Bogart from hitting the trip wire. Like the last time, the silly dog interpreted his attention as play and bound through the woods, leaving Stone’s trap intact.
We stared at each other for a moment, both of us wondering what the hell we were playing at, then Stone said, “If I find the other piece, I’ll let you know. Goodbye, Dusty.”
“Goodbye, Stone.” I walked away from the first man who’d tempted me since Jacob’s death, and called to my trusted companion. The one man who didn’t threaten my character. “Bogart! Let’s go!”
Chapter Twelve
We searched the woods for what seemed like hours, when in actuality Bogart and I spent maybe ninety minutes walking the tracks where Ryan had lost his life. There was no sign of the dark stains of blood I expected to find. No sign of the crime scene tape that had surrounded the area. No sign of the trash from the medical supplies paramedics use to save a life. Because from the moment I’d come across Ryan’s body, it was clear that he didn’t need any more hel
p in life.
But his loved ones did.
Unfortunately the one piece that might help give his bride closure — remained elusive. The girl with the anxious, loving eyes was nowhere to be found. My bride appeared to have disappeared with Ryan’s soul. Leaving questions and doubts as to what really happened that night.
A few tire tracks from the police and the medical examiners, leaves pushed into man-made piles from the crime scene technicians, and a few boot tracks smearing in the rain-soaked mud were the only giveaways that something had occurred. If I didn’t know better, I might have believed the disturbance was made by railroad employees working on the tracks in the area. They did that from time to time; that’s why our foot bridge had been made wide enough and strong enough to hold vehicles. Today, it brought me and Bogart home with my dirty Ducks hat snuggled close to me. Inside my jacket. Next to my heart.
Once back in the warmth of my house, Bogart laid down in his bed and I cleaned up to open the shop. As much as I wanted to continue looking for the missing bride, I had an obligation to my business and my customers. Carving classes were scheduled on Fridays, and today a new group was due to start. Nine people, some of them repeat customers, three of them new. Of course my Dad was always there to lead the class. He’d taught me to carve. And now he helped out by teaching classes at my shop. He said it gave him inspiration. I said he was still supporting his daughter, despite the fact that she owned her own house and business and was knock-knock-knocking on thirty’s door.
At twenty minutes to nine, Dad walked in my back door, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by my man, Mr. Bogart. Who, with all the recent activity, I’d forgotten to introduce.
“Wuff! Wuff!” I ran for the door wondering who would kill whom — Dad or dog. Bogart had Dad stopped dead in his tracks. Then he proceeded to look at my father as if saying, “I oughta chew you to bits for walking into Rilee’s house.”
I’m pretty sure my Dad was thinking along the same line but with some expletives attached.
“Am I going to need a bigger knife to come into your house?”
I pictured my Dad in his flannel shirt and jeans, wielding a KA-bar military knife while grappling with my big grizzly of a dog. The problem with that picture was — my Dad was in his seventies and my dog was scared of my porcupine. Neither one quite fit the mold.
“Bogart. Lay down.” He glanced back at me with an, ‘It’s your neck if he’s an axe murderer,’ expression on his face and then laid down and followed Dad across the room with his eyes.
I hugged the most important man in my life and waited to be bombarded with questions about why I hadn’t called to tell him about the body, or the dog. Instead he acted like nothing was amiss. Pulling out his hearing aids from his shirt pocket, he walked into the shop to get ready for his class — Santa Spoons for the Beginner. An easy project, the spoons cost under a buck apiece to make, and the only tool required was an Exacto knife. Granted if a student wanted to get creative they could buy several different size veiners, gouges, or V- tools to complete the project, but it wasn’t necessary. I liked the effect of a gouge myself, but that came with experience and a passion for the craft.
“So what’s this about there being a new man in your life?” My dad asked a little too casually as he slipped off his jacket and hung it up on one of the many hooks adorning the back wall of the classroom.
I nearly choked with shock. That wasn’t the question I was expecting. “Excuse me?” I sputtered.
“The man that carried you naked out of the woods.” He clarified, still not meeting my gaze.
Oh. My. God. Oh. My. Ohhh.
I couldn’t breathe. Mortification froze me to the spot, staring at my father who concentrated on rolling up his red flannel sleeves. Had he seen Stone carry me back from the creek?
No. My Dad was a stickler for details. He would have noticed I was wearing panties and a bra. And he wouldn’t have let his unconscious half-naked daughter be carted home by a stranger.
But that meant someone else had seen me. And gossip had reached as far as my father. Who had no time for rumors.
“Where did you hear such a ridiculous story?” Indignation took root in my spine. My reputation was spit-polish clean a couple of days ago. Sure, some people thought I’d gone a little nutty when Jacob died, but most people understood the depth of our love and respected my devotion to our relationship. Now the gossips seemed to be drooling more than Bogart. Woody’s stripper poles couldn’t compete with the town’s good girl falling out of grace.
“Let’s just say the women’s group couldn’t wait until I walked in for breakfast this morning. They were talking loud enough for the dead to hear them.”
They had to be. I understood this, knowing that my own voice frequently became hoarse after a visit from my father, who refused to wear his hearing aids most of the time. Luckily, I’d convinced him to wear them during our classes so his communication with the students didn’t suffer.
“Who’s spreading lies this time?” I asked with uncommon venom dripping off my words.
Dad glanced over the top of his glasses, “Does it matter?”
“Sorry. You’re right, it doesn’t matter. What does matter, is number one — I wasn’t naked and two — Stone’s not in my life. He rescued me from freezing to death in creek. That’s it.”
Dad set down the tools he’d picked up from the long butcher block work table, and for once I wished he wasn’t wearing his hearing aids.
“How did you end up in the creek?”
I seemed to have his undivided attention, so I busied myself with pulling out the supplies I hoped to sell to our students. “Mr. Bogart,” I cocked my head toward my new dog, who seemed a little embarrassed as he laid down and covered his snout with one paw, “spooked a moose who charged us and, well, I fell into the creek trying to escape.”
“Sounds to me like he’s more nuisance than he’s worth.” The wooden spoons smacked the table with a resounding disapproval. I was getting the impression Dad didn’t care too much for my new man.
“I’m fine, Dad—”
“This time. What about the next time, when he angers a bear?”
The jingling of the bell on the front door signaled the arrival of our first student, and saved me from answering his question. Mr. Bogart’s lack of ‘woods smarts’ actually was concerning. He’d already had run-ins with a porcupine and a moose, so battling with a bear was a realistic possibility. We made our way toward the front of the store in time to hear their private conversation.
“I don’t know if this was a good idea, Betty.” Myrtle’s voice warbled with uncertainty, but the response she received warmed my dad’s heart.
“Carving is an artistic expression of one’s soul.” The flow of Betty’s voice didn’t quite hold enough conviction for me, but my Dad beamed with pride, eager to meet the woman who understood his work.
He didn’t hear her follow-up whisper. “If we could get the ladies to carve instead of playing Bunco, we might earn enough money to pay for that cruise you want to go on with our poker partner.”
Exiting the side studio, I caught the tail end of a conspiratorial wink between the two women.
“Betty. Myrtle. I’m so glad you decided to take the class.” I wanted to add ‘As long as you don’t kill my father,’ but refrained.
“There you are. And this must be that drill-master you were telling me about.” Betty’s eyes held a familiar mischievous sheen.
“Galvin Dust.” Dad’s hand extended in greeting. Either he’d chosen to ignore her innuendo, or he was oblivious to her sexual reference. “I’m the Master Carver leading the Santa Spoon Ornament class.”
Betty took hold of my father’s hand like a victim of the Titanic clinging to a life preserver. For a woman not interested in a new sex partner, she seemed determined to find a new, if rather old, boy toy and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that.
“I’m Betty Armstrong, and this is my friend Myrtle.” Her head swung in Myrtle’s
direction, but her hand and body refused to give up the touch and proximity to my father, whose cheeks colored as his brain caught up to speed. Dad gracefully disengaged his hand, only to have his arm taken in a smooth move by Betty that made it appear as if Dad had proffered his arm to escort her to the carving room.
“Dad, I’ll, uhm, let you get the ladies set up with their safety equipment while I wait for the rest of the class to arrive.” I suppressed a giggle as Dad looked over the top of his glasses, completely at a loss on how to handle Betty, yet unable to stop the bulldozer guiding him into the classroom.
The bell jingled above the door and Mayor Bob walked in. “Good morning, Rilee. How are you doing today?”
“Morning, Bob. I’m doing just fine. What can I do for you?” After Bob took office, he’d led by example. He shopped locally and offered discounts to the residents of Tickle Creek in appreciation for their patronage. We all saw the business sense in the practice and followed suit. It was ironic that the man who saved our town from financial ruin was the one going out of business, all because of the new big-box bookstore in Sandy. And of course Woody’s...
“I need a new Exacto knife; the one I bought last week disappeared without a trace in that mass of boxes I have at the store.”
I laughed and reached for the twin to the knife Bob had purchased. “You better keep track of this one, I only have two left until the new shipment arrives next week, and our new students may need those.”
“I don’t plan on moving a collection of knives.” Bob’s mood was jovial, back to his pre-strip-club-political-run. “Who’s joined the class?”
The bell on my antique cash register rang as the tinkle above the door signaled another arrival. We both looked up to see bouncer Tommy’s large frame squeeze through the doorway. His smooth, dark complexion looked good in the yellow polo that stretched tightly across his muscular chest. It also accentuated strong biceps, muscles I’d never really noticed before.
Tommy smiled with gleaming white teeth. “I’m ready to learn how to make that ornament, Ms. Rilee.”