Along the Broken Road (20 page)

CHAPTER 12

Jeremiah McKinley stopped at the ice cream shop as he entered town. While deployed, he’d craved chocolate sodas, and when he got stateside, had scoured every ice cream shop to find one. None of them compared. The Dairy Flip was in a class all its own and he’d learned to appreciate the little things in life. Like the perfect balance of chocolate syrup, ice cream, and soda water. He stepped out of his brand-new Ford Ranger and slid the window open to peer inside the Dairy Flip. Just the same as he remembered. Some things never changed and for that he was grateful. Some things you could count on. “Rodman!”

Rodney turned, eyes wide, and Jeremiah realized his old friend hadn’t gained back the weight as quickly as he’d hoped. “Miah!”

He’d been called Miah by half the town for half his life. When he first went into the army, guys made fun of him for his girly nickname. But Jeremiah McKinley wasn’t above teaching respect when it was needed and soon no one joked about the name.

Rodney wiped his hands on a towel as he strode right past the window and out the side door. He grabbed Jeremiah in a bear hug. Miah grunted. “I gotta say, for being skinny, you’re still strong as ever. I think you cracked my ribs.”

Rodney laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a kick? Spend years in the military and come home to get injured at an ice cream shop. I hear you’re coming back for good.”

Jeremiah nodded. “Eventually, yeah. I think.”

“You here now because of the commotion?”

Jeremiah frowned. “What commotion?”

“At the artists’ retreat this morning?”

Jeremiah’s heart dropped into his stomach. He hated that his sister was alone out there with a bunch of crazy artists. He shook off the instant frustration. “What happened, Rod?”

He raised his shoulders and dropped them. “Don’t know exactly. One of the artists took sick and they had to call an ambulance.”

Jeremiah pulled his cell from his pocket.

Rod pointed down the road. “I’m sure they’re at the hospital.”

Jeremiah nodded and ran the few feet back to his truck. “Be back.”

“Tell Charlee hi for me.” Rodney continued to wave as Jeremiah pulled out.

Tall, wide shoulders, towering over six feet, he filled the entryway. Charlee sat up straight
when Jeremiah entered through the far door. Her mind must be playing tricks on her. He couldn’t be here. He was in North Carolina. She shook her head to clear it.

As his piercing golden gaze scanned the room and landed on her, she knew it wasn’t her mind. Long legs made short work of getting to her. And she knew, oh she knew the look of concern on his face. So many times as a kid she’d witnessed it. When she tumbled into a raging river and he’d stripped instantly from his shoes and shirt to rescue her, when the captain of the high school football team took her to Murder Rock—where all the kids went for drinking and make-out sessions and Jeremiah plucked the jock from his car like one grabs a suitcase from a conveyor belt. The captain of the team had dangled there, full of fear and all the testosterone of the game draining from him. Charlee remembered it vividly. She had climbed out of the car and silently gotten into Miah’s truck. Mortified, but also a little relieved. Rumor had it Brice, Mr. Football, had even wet his pants when dragged from his car by the infamous Jeremiah McKinley. Her brother, her larger-than-life big brother had wrestled a bear, for heaven’s sake.

“What happened?” he ordered as he grabbed her up in his arms. Trapped there, against his stone-hard chest with her feet three inches off the ground, she couldn’t speak if she wanted to.

Suddenly, Charlee became aware of another presence beside her. Ian. Oh. Oh dear. She gave her brother a quick hug and truly, it was great to see him, feel him. Alive, whole. Of course, he’d been in North Carolina for six months, but knowing and seeing were two different things.

When he finally released her, flicking a dismissive look at Ian, his golden gaze scanned her face.

“It’s Mr. Gruber. I wrote you about him months ago. He’s become like a grandfather to me and . . .” And Charlee’s eyes misted because she had a grandfather she barely knew, a man who was flesh and blood and lived no more than thirty miles away. But in the time Mr. Gruber had been with her, he’d been more like family than the man who’d raised her mother.

When her mouth opened to explain more but nothing came out, she felt Ian’s strong hand slide into hers. His other hand thrust out in front of him. “Ian Carlisle.”

Jeremiah blinked, frowned, eyes seeming unable to decide where to light, on Ian or Charlee. Finally, he pointed to him. “Is this the one who lied about knowing me?”

Charlee’s words came out in a rush as she tried to take a step in front of Ian. He sidestepped, of course. Stupid soldiers, always ready to go to war. “It was a misunderstanding, Miah.”

“Miah?” Ian whispered and Charlee cut him with an instant sharp glare.

Charlee’s grip tightened on Ian’s hand, but found his muscles slack. He was relaxed and not the least bit intimidated by her brother. Well, he got props for that.
Everyone
was intimidated by Jeremiah McKinley. “Ian knew Dad. They were pretty close. He was with him . . . right to the end.”

And now Jeremiah looked at him in a whole new light. Something flickered there, in his golden gaze, and Charlee knew he was considering how this young man might have spent their father’s last days with him. That tended to melt all the ice chips of anger. Jeremiah’s lip curled for an instant, as if his face were rejecting the thoughts that persisted. “You knew Dad?”

Ian nodded. “He was a really great man. The best. The best I’ve ever known.”

Charlee’s eyes went from Ian to Jeremiah, two men, two soldiers, both rejecting the emotions that threatened, and yet both understanding the other’s need to do so. Ian’s hand still hung in the air between them. Finally, Miah shook it. “Good to meet you.”

Charlee explained what had happened to Mr. Gruber and the prognosis, the risks; she repeated each word specifically, as if doing so would tip the scales and give Mr. Gruber the best fighting chance.

They sat for a while as Jeremiah told her how he’d come to know where they were and how he still hadn’t had a decent chocolate soda. Then he took hold of Ian’s shoulder and said, “Sounds like it’s going to be a while; why don’t you and I go for ice cream?”

There was a glint in Miah’s eyes Charlee didn’t like. And a smile on his face, too wide, too toothy. Good heavens, did she need to worry about her brother trying to scare the life out of Ian? She released a long exhale and pressed a hand to her newly aching head. “Gird your loins,” she mumbled.

Ian stood from beside her. “Huh?”

She cast a glare to her brother. “Nothing, Ian. You two be careful.” That was all the warning she’d give.

Ian would agree to go, of that she was certain because she knew how guys were. She’d raised four of them, three older than her. And guys didn’t back down from a dare. And this was most certainly that.

Ian pulled her up from the seat and planted a lingering kiss on her mouth—a territorial kiss—for her brother’s benefit. The air around Jeremiah filled with electricity born of annoyance . . . or frustration . . . or some unnamable sensation that men felt when protecting their own. Whatever. She really didn’t have the energy to dissect the male ego. She’d save that for Dr. Phil.

King Edward came scurrying over. “I’ll have a milk shake. Chocolate, extra whipped cream. No cherry. God help them if they put a cherry on my milk shake.”

Charlee watched Jeremiah’s gaze level on Edward, then drift down, down, down to the edge of his kilt, over his knobby knees, to the hairy shins and finally stopping at his ankles. Her brother’s face was unreadable, except for the tiniest spark of curiosity in his eyes and a smirk at the edges of his mouth. Jeremiah and Edward had never met. Edward was traveling in Europe when her father passed and hadn’t made it back for the memorial service. Which, in retrospect, could have caused a ruckus with all the army brass wondering why Charlee was being consoled by three crazy artists and a man in a dress. Edward had even offered to return from his trip to be there, but Charlee had told him no. She was surrounded by the other artists and her brothers. All was well.

Jeremiah’s tongue came out and moistened his lips. “Milk shake,” he repeated. Eyes, two glass golden balls, revealing nothing.

Ian cleared his throat. “Edward, you want to come along?”

Beside her, she felt her brother stiffen.

“No.” Edward waved a hand through the air, dismissing them. “I’ll stay here with Char Char Baby.”

Miah’s nostrils flared for a quick second. Ian bit back a smile. He was
enjoying
this. Evil, evil young man.

King Edward reached to the hem of his kilt and fanned it. “Besides, it’s scorching out there. And I’m chaffing a bit.”

Ian took orders from the rest and she watched him walk out, leading her brother who—in Ian’s own words—was now shell-shocked, thanks to King Edward. Miah’s presence helped fortify her. Though she wished she’d known he was coming. He’d probably been planning to surprise her. That’s how Miah was. Arrive, consume. But today he’d been derailed by a leg-flashing artist and the man she . . . the man she’d hired to fix her property and who was fixing her heart in the process.

Still no word from Ashley Gruber. Charlee almost hoped she wouldn’t call until he was out of surgery. Things were up in the air right now and she hated having to give Ashley so much noninformation.

Charlee froze when her phone rang. “Hello?”

“This is Ashley Gruber.”

Charlee swallowed; the woman sounded calm. Too calm to have received an emergency message about her aging father. Of course, she was an attorney and that had to create a stiff front.

“Ashley, I’m so sorry to tell you your dad has had a massive heart attack. He’s in surgery now.”

Silence.

Charlee counted to three. She needed to give the woman a bit of time to absorb, then she could offer her details, a place to stay while she’s here. Even could help make travel plans. Would Ashley fly or drive? Oh yes, Charlee was good in a crisis. It was
after
when she fell apart. But the silence became deafening and Charlee realized the woman should be asking questions by now. Had she lost the connection? “Are you there, Ashley?”

“Yes.” No emotion. No fear. No . . . anything.

“Uh, the nearest airport is about forty miles, but I’d be happy to come meet you there if you want to fly. It looks like you’re about a five-hour drive, so I can get directions for you if that works better. Just let me know your travel plans—”

“I’m not coming.”

Charlee must have heard wrong. “What?”

A long exhale. “I haven’t spoken to my father for eight years and now I’m supposed to just drop everything and come?”

Charlee pressed the phone to her ear. This was all wrong. Could it be the wrong daughter? “But—”

“I’m sorry, Miss McKinley. He’s a man I don’t know. And I buried him a long time ago.”

The phone went dead. Snippets of memories passed through Charlee’s mind. Mr. Gr
uber only had one daughter. One daughter and one granddaughter, Ashley and Vivi. Charlee would know them anywhere; they were in practically every painting Mr. Gruber created. A sickening feeling rushed through her system, one that knocked the world right out from under her, causing her to ease her body down onto the seat. Still, she couldn’t assimilate.

His daughter sent chocolates and candy and gifts from her Caribbean vacations. He frequently told them stories about Vivi, his granddaughter, after visiting with Ashley on the phone. How Vivi’d taken her first steps, their trip to the zoo where she repeated, “Muntee,” for weeks after watching the chimps in the monkey hut.

Wynona sat down beside Charlee. “Was that—?”

“She’s not coming.”

“What?”

Charlee looked over to find Wynona’s kind eyes wide with shock. “She says she hasn’t spoken to him in eight years.”

Wynona’s hand came up, fist resting against her cheek. “Oh dear. Oh no.” They were pitiful words because as the reality was settling in for Charlee, it also was for Wynona, a woman who knew Mr. Gruber perhaps better than any of them.

The older woman’s head shook slowly, sadly, as if she both understood and had known all along.

Charlee grabbed her hand. “Did you
know
he hadn’t spoken to his daughter?”

“What?” Wynona blinked as if trying to bring Charlee into focus, but Charlee could see her mind, her thoughts; her very heart was far away. “No, of course not. But Arnold is a proud man. And I don’t really know what to say except when you reach our age and you look back . . .”

“There’s a lot you would change?” Charlee supplied and wanted Wynona to stop talking, just stop because it hurt to see her in so much pain. Old. They were old. All of the artists except King Edward, who was in his fifties. And old meant years of ghosts and regrets. And Wynona—the woman who floated on clouds and slept in angel’s wings was allowing herself to look back and see the should-have-beens.

Wynona squared her shoulders. “I don’t regret my life. By the grace of God, I made it through some tough times, some hard times, losing a husband. I don’t know why God smiled on me, but I feel certain he did. Arnold . . .”