“Perfect.” Oshun executed a fist pump that would have made a Packer fan proud. “This is going to be so much fun.”
“Just tell me you aren’t going to turn a pumpkin into a coach or anything like that.”
“A Lexus, maybe. A coach,” she wrinkled her nose, “not in a million years. Okay, let’s see what you have in your closet so I’ll know what I have to work with.”
Destiny hopped off the stool and looked down at Oshun’s shoes. Shoes that easily cost seven hundred dollars—on sale. There was a limit to the amount of fun Destiny could afford. “I have money, but not a black card.”
“If you don’t stop, I may turn you into a real mouse,” Oshun replied, walking to the back of the house without missing a step.
Destiny felt like the walking dead, but followed Oshun down the narrow hall. Maybe this was even less of a good idea than going to The Den last night. “You can do that?”
Oshun chuckled and kept walking.
“You know, for someone who’s supposedly helping, you’re kind of scary,” Destiny said, taking another sip of her coffee as they entered her bedroom. Whether it was the caffeine, the booze, or a hint of crazy, she was excited.
Well, she was excited until Oshun swung the closet doors open and shook her head. “Sweetheart, we’ll need a few days for this fashion intervention. Let’s do this.”
Chapter 6
Vulcan drove through the wrought iron gates of the Double R ranch. The sculpture sitting in the bed of his truck wasn’t due for another month, but the last week or so had been… well, less than ideal.
No matter what he tried, and he’d run the gamut from booze—didn’t work, to women—not interested, to exercise—he couldn’t run enough. Nothing he did erased the pained look he’d seen on Destiny’s face Saturday night.
When you’d walked this earth as long as he had, one was bound to have committed a transgression or four. But the hurt in Destiny’s eyes…
Nope. Not his problem. Vulcan shut the engine down, hopped out of the Ford F-150, and focused on the task at hand.
As he had for the last ten years, he walked onto the wide comfortable porch and let himself into the house that was sometimes used as a bed and breakfast but always the home of the Romero family. The Double R ranch had been in the family for four generations. Reynaldo III, the current owner, had transformed it into a successful five-star dude ranch, in addition to breeding and raising organic grass-fed cattle.
The other ranchers had laughed when they heard of Reynaldo’s plans, but when the money started rolling in it was him they turned to for advice. Which he readily gave.
“Vulcan.” Ynez, Reynaldo’s wife of forty years, walked into the room carrying a vase of wildflowers and wearing a welcoming smile. “Long time no see. How’ve you been?”
“No complaints.” Other than being an asshole. “And you?”
She harrumphed, as if she could see through his lie. Thankfully, she didn’t call him on it—this time. “If you’re looking for Reynaldo, you just missed him. He’s out in the garage.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you bring us something beautiful?”
“I’d like to think so.” Now that was something to smile about. He was a god, above petty feelings like guilt and remorse. Or that’s what he frequently told himself. But he’d managed to channel the last few days of discomfort into his art.
And speaking of art, his mind drifted back to Destiny. Why hadn’t she responded to his phone calls about the pieces he’d dropped off at the gallery?
His gaze drifted to the dining room window. The wood shutters were folded back, exposing a view prettier than any painting. Like flames, the streaks of red dancing across the darkening skies called to him.
“Ah, my sweet boy.”
Vulcan looked down at the handsome woman. Ynez had her own fire that the strands of gray she refused to color couldn’t hide.
“Someday a woman is going to break through that shell of yours.”
“You already have.” Which wasn’t a lie. Since their first meeting, she had been nothing but kind and accepting to a man most feared and avoided if they had a choice. She’d never have any idea how much that meant to him. Everything.
“Go save my husband. I’d like to actually see him tonight.”
“That truck again?”
“Of course.”
“For you, anything.” Vulcan kissed her on the cheek. Would that the universe had blessed him with a mother with a heart as kind as this mortal. “You like younger men?”
“It took me long enough to train Reynaldo. I don’t have time to go through that again.”
A smile tugged the corner of his lips upward as he headed outside. “If you change your mind, let me know,” he said as he stepped into the night.
After a short drive, Vulcan hopped out of the truck and walked to the bed to unhook the tarp. Like the woman who served as his inspiration, the piece was unconventional, untamed, and magnificent. Perhaps he should keep the sculpture and the woman.
No. He was already an outcast in his pantheon, a god to be pitied and occasionally scorned. The scorn he could have cared less about. But the pity? Not having it.
Vulcan snatched the tarp off the top of the piece, balled it up, and tossed it into the bed of the truck. Then he put the sculpture and, most importantly, all thoughts of Destiny behind him.
“Hey, old man,” Vulcan said when he saw Reynaldo. As Ynez had predicted, her husband was buried beneath the hood of a sweet ‘53 Chevy 3100 pickup. “Why didn’t you call?”
Reynaldo stood, and wiped his hand on a greasy rag hanging from his front pocket. “Mi amigo, it’s Friday night, you shouldn’t spend it with an old man.”
“I see why you won’t give up on her. She’s a beauty. I’m here now. Move and let me take a look.”
“I’m old, but I’m no fool.” Reynaldo chuckled and moved aside.
“Your sculpture is out in the truck.”
“Already? I wasn’t expecting it for a couple of weeks.”
“You complaining?”
“What did I just tell you about my infinite wisdom?” Reynaldo laughed and Vulcan joined him. Looked like a visit to the Double R was the cure for what ailed him.
“What’s up, Pop?” A younger Hispanic man said as he entered the spacious garage.
“J.R., I’d like you to meet my old friend Vulcan.”
“Please to meet you.” There was no denying the younger man was Rey’s son. They had the same build and facial structure, but the young man had his mother’s lighter eyes. J.R. extended a hand, which Vulcan accepted. He’d managed to avoid meeting J.R., because honestly, Vulcan envied the young man.
“Same.” Vulcan ended the handshake, then held his hand out for Reynaldo’s rag, which the man happily relinquished. “Heard a lot about you. Your father’s pretty proud.” There was no missing the fact that J.R. stood a little taller after that little tidbit. It was cool that his father’s approval mattered.
“Is that your work out there? It’s phenomenal.”
“Thanks.” Vulcan pretended to tighten a bolt for a few minutes and then knocked around with the screwdriver. All it took was a touch to get the old truck going and keep it going for another fifty years or so. “Reynaldo, see if she’ll start.
“No offense, but your talents are wasted beneath the hood of a car.” J.R. stood on the passenger side looking down at the engine.
“Sculpting, fixing a carburetor, blowing glass, they all give me pleasure.”
Reynaldo climbed in the truck and turned the ignition. The engine purred like a lazy lion fresh off a kill. The truck was a beast. Vulcan closed the heavy hood. “Bring her to the shop Monday and I’ll check her out.”
Reynaldo grinned, shut the engine down, and climbed out of the cab. “Will do. There’s no rush to get her back.”
“A truck like this should be shown off as much as possible. Let me know when you’re ready to get her painted. I can refer you to some people who specialize i
n classics. You don’t want just anyone touching her.”
“I have a few contacts.” J.R. handed him a business card. “You could make real money off those sculptures. That’s museum quality work.”
“I appreciate the compliment, but I have more than enough money.”
“Who says that?” J.R. actually looked pained.
“I’ve been around long enough to recognize the only thing that matters are the people you meet and the memories you make. All the rest is window dressing.”
“Even after ten years, you still manage to surprise me,” Reynaldo said, slapping Vulcan on the back. “Now, if you’d just find a good woman and settle down.”
“Why would you want to curse me like that? I thought we were friends.” Vulcan grimaced, but the image of a certain gallery owner in flowing skirts came to mind.
Shit.
“How much for the truck?” J.R. asked, pulling out his wallet.
“We’re good. It took all of five minutes.” Vulcan hooked a finger in a belt loop of his loose jeans. “Besides, I’m charging your father more than enough for that chunk of metal out there.”
“Ah, so you’re not entirely altruistic.”
“Hell no.” Vulcan laughed. If they had any idea who or what he was, they’d freak. Perhaps in a century or two, when their descendants figured out that none of the pieces rusted or aged more than a soft patina, they’d search unsuccessfully for the answer.
And Vulcan would have long moved on—alone.
“At least let me feed you. We have brisket, ribs, and all the trimmings.”
“That I won’t be turning down.”
“Let’s take the Suburban. I’ll have a couple of the hands unload the sculpture.”
“The key is in the ignition. It’s pretty heavy.” Maybe he should have just brought the piece while everyone was asleep. He could have done it himself. “I could use some food. Plus, I forgot to ask Ynez if she needs another sculpture for her garden.”
“Oh, she’ll be there when we get back. First group of the season arrived today. So we’re going down range. Once they get a look at sculpture, I might be sending you some business.”
“Sounds good. Just because I won’t take all your money, doesn’t mean I have a problem emptying their pockets.”
The three men hopped in the Suburban, chatting about nothing in particular and the upcoming tourist season. From May through September the town was filled with sun-loving fun seekers. The proximity to Yellowstone, fishing, hunting, and hiking made the town an outdoor lover’s paradise.
Once night fell or the visitors cleaned up, the town of Jackson itself was filled with plenty for the rich and foolish to spend money on—restaurants, bars, and art galleries galore. But none more special than Destiny’s for collectors of items both mundane and magical. And there he went again, with thoughts of Destiny. Was it too much to ask that she stay out of his thoughts? Unlikely, if the last week was any indication.
Reynaldo lowered the volume on the radio and flicked his gaze from the road to his son and back again. “So, am I going to see grandchildren before I die?”
“Really?” J.R. looked back at Vulcan.
Vulcan crossed his arms and settled in for the show. “Sorry buddy, can’t help you with this one.”
“Thanks,” J.R. said shaking his head. “Why are mom’s words coming out of your mouth?”
“My son, it’s because misery loves company,” Reynaldo said in a stern voice before bursting into laughter.
There was something about these simple human interactions that set off pangs of longing in Vulcan. Since their lives were over in the blink of an eye, packing in as many moments of joy as possible probably made their twilight years more tolerable.
Reynaldo slowed the Suburban and pulled off the dirt road, parking behind a food truck. “Here we go.”
“Looks like a pretty small crowd,” Vulcan said, unfastening his seat belt and hopping out. The scent of mesquite mixed with the smoky aroma of meat made Vulcan’s stomach grumble. This was definitely a great idea.
“A group of software execs rented all the cabins for the week so they wouldn’t be disturbed. Fine by me.” Reynaldo closed his door and walked to the front of the vehicle.
“And who is that?” J.R. asked.
Vulcan didn’t need to be a shifter to scent the increased arousal in the younger man. Looked like one of those computer geeks might find herself getting lucky.
“Fiona?” Reynaldo asked, sounding perplexed.
Vulcan looked up and realized who they’d been referring to. He had forgotten that Destiny’s friend was the ranch’s chef. He preferred avoiding the woman and her death glares. The feisty human couldn’t harm him, but sometimes he wanted to transport her to a desolate planet so she could chill out. Despite her level of menace, he respected her loyalty to her friends.
“No, the new one. Is she a temp? Please tell me she’s not here full-time so I don’t have to stay away.”
“This I have to—” Vulcan’s throat tightened, but he managed to wheeze, “What the hell?”
“Who?” Oh, she’s not an employee. That’s Destiny.” Reynaldo smiled. It was difficult to miss the tenderness in his tone. It wasn’t lustful, but filled with respect.
Vulcan looked away from father and son, who both watched the laughing Destiny. What the hell had she done to herself? The simple orange blouse hugging her shoulders showed way too much skin. He could see her cleavage from all the way over here.
The delicate silver and turquoise choker she wore reflected the light of the lanterns decorating the tables. He imagined wrapping his hand around her long slender throat, guiding her until her back was against the wall, then kissing her senseless.
“Other than your mother, she has to be the sweetest women I’ve met in a long time.” Reynaldo shook his head. “She’s a catch, and for the life of me, I can’t understand how someone hasn’t wifed her up already.”
No.
Not just no, but hell no. Vulcan had every intention of immediately beginning the ruination of Destiny Munro. “I know her, and she’s not…” his words died as a handsome Polynesian man approached the table where Destiny stood. From the big grin on his face and his puffed up chest, he was far more interested in Destiny than the ribs on his plate.
“Looks like someone beat you to it, son.” Reynaldo chuckled, but his words seemed more like a dare than sympathy. “This should be fun.” Reynaldo lowered his voice as his son strolled toward Destiny.
Vulcan’s glance shifted between the two men. J.R. would be a good match. He was well-educated, successful, and beneath the smooth exterior was a man who cherished family and home.
Vulcan knew these things because he couldn’t help but delving into the man’s thoughts. Yes it was rude, but so what.
Vulcan flicked a finger, and the earth rolled and rose enough to send JR flying.
Oops.
The amusement didn’t last long.
His gaze returned to Destiny in time to see her gift that surfer-looking nitwit a smile brighter than any she’d ever given Vulcan.
This was not going to happen.
Chapter 7
As resistant as she’d been to some of Oshun’s suggestions, Destiny had to concede that the pushy woman was right. She sat on the edge of her bed and slipped her feet into a pair of cute and incredibly comfy flats.
Thank goodness the woman wasn’t here now, especially since Destiny sat there grinning like a loon. She didn’t need a mirror to know that the woman looking back would exude confidence and a banging new haircut. Much to Oshun’s chagrin, she had passed on going full on Beyoncé, so they’d compromised with something Oshun called sexy bohemian.
After a fun but exasperating week with Oshun, Destiny was sure she could handle anything. Seriously, the woman was pushy, kind, mysterious, and hilarious.
Yet Destiny still had very little knowledge of where the woman came from or what the hell she even was—except a miracle worker.
It was offi
cial.
Operation Destiny was an unrivaled success. Even if no one noticed, it didn’t matter, because she felt renewed. Not because of the new clothes, which were amazing, or the delicate and oh so delicious new lingerie (which was wicked), or even the boatload of funky jewelry she’d purchased from crafters.
No, the fact that she’d decided to place as much effort into herself as her business and health made Destiny feel powerful.
Powerful enough to accept a date with one of the guests from last night. Turi Aheona was just the palate cleanser she needed to forget that jerk Vulcan. Was there no escaping him? Seriously, there was a pretty good chance she wouldn’t have even accepted the date with Turi had Vulcan not stared at the man like he’d planned to make a skin suit out of him or something.
Okay, that wasn’t true. Turi was hot. Like smoking hot. With his shy smile, glasses, and a great body that couldn’t be hidden by baggy cargo shorts, he looked like he’d be just as comfortable in the boardroom as on a surfboard. That was the kind of man she should lust after, not the one who’d shown not one iota of interest in her.
Yes, it was past time she moved on from the sex god who created magnificent art. Nope, their relationship was and would always remain strictly business.
The phone sitting on the dresser rang. Destiny dashed to answer it without looking at the screen. “Hello.”
“You aren’t even trying to play this cool are you?” Fiona said with a laugh.
“I knew it was you.”
“Liar. Hold on.”
Destiny put the phone on speaker, sat it on the antique pine dresser, and pulled open the drawer she’d converted to hold her jewelry. While she may have taken casual dressing to the extreme, she’d always loved vintage jewelry and regularly sought out unique pieces.
“Sorry about that,” Fiona said when she returned to the call. “So, what are you guys doing for your date?”
Haunting Hephaestus (Gods of Olympus Book 9) Page 5