Temptation Ridge (Virgin River #6)

Temptation Ridge (Virgin River #6) Page 4

“You don’t taste bad,” she whispered, letting her eyes fall closed.

“Any special requests?” he asked her.

“Everything you do is special,” she whispered.

“Fair enough,” he said. “We’ll just do everything….”

When Luke pulled up to the house and cabins in the dark of night, he used a big flashlight to illuminate them. The electricity had been shut off last year when old Mr. Chapman passed. All he could really make out was a house black as pitch and a few cabins with peeling shingles and some boarded-up windows. A closer inspection had to wait until morning.

But the sound of the rushing river was awesome. What a great locale this was for the time being. He remembered how much he’d liked this place the first time he’d seen it—the sound of the river, the owls, the wind through the pines making that whistling sound, the occasional bark of a goose or quack of a duck. Although it was cold, he pulled out extra blankets and planned to sleep with one of the camper’s windows open so he could hear the river and the wildlife.

At the first light of morning, he pulled on his jeans and boots and went outside to a morning that was just turning pink, the air crisp and damp. Just down the bank he could see the river rushing over natural waterfalls where, in fall, the salmon would be jumping upstream to spawn. On the opposite side of the river were four deer having a drink. And—unsurprisingly—the house and cabins looked like hell. What a pimple on the face of this beautiful landscape.

Exactly what he expected. A lot of work ahead, but great potential. They could sell it right now for the value of the land, or he could improve the structures and get a much better price. And he needed something constructive to do while he plotted his next move. He could scout around for a helicopter flying job. There were news choppers, medical transport, private industry. He took a deep breath. But for right now, this little piece of river land was perfect.

He went first to inspect the house. The porch out front was nice and big, but would have to be reinforced, sanded and stained or painted. The door was stuck and he had to force it, splintering some of the rotting wood around the jamb. Of course the place was filthy—not only had it not seen a good cleaning in a long while before Mr. Chapman’s death, in the year since, a couple of animals had burrowed in and taken roost. He heard the sound of scurrying, saw footprints on the dusty floor, and the countertops suggested a menagerie. The place would be full of mice, raccoons, maybe opossums. Hopefully the bear didn’t have a den in here. He’d be sleeping in the camper for a while.

It didn’t have a good smell, either. Everything was left as it was the day Mr. Chapman passed—the bed was even mussed as though he’d just gotten out of it. Dirty clothes littered the floor, there was rotten and petrified food in the kitchen, all the furniture was still in place. Nasty, musty, stained furniture that was on its very last legs. The appliances also seemed to be about a million years old and the refrigerator had never been cleaned out before the electricity was shut off. It was completely destroyed by odors that would have to be blasted out.

Right inside the front door was a decent-size living room with a good-looking stone hearth. To the immediate left was a large, empty dining room separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar that was sagging. The kitchen was big enough for a table and four chairs or, better still, a butcher-block island.

Straight ahead was a short hall—on one side a big bathroom with a clawfoot tub, on the other, a utility room. Straight ahead was a bedroom. No walk-in closet here—this was an old-fashioned house. The old man had left large, man-size bureaus and wardrobes. The bed was a big, wooden four-poster. Luke didn’t much like the furniture, but he thought since it was solid, heavy, durable ash, it was probably valuable.

He made a U-turn and went back to the living room. There he found a staircase to the second floor. He went up cautiously, not sure of the reliability of the steps. Plus, it was dark up there. If he remembered, there were two good-size bedrooms and no bath. More scurrying. He ran back down the steps. He could look up there after the exterminator had paid a visit.

Standing in the living room, he did a mental inventory. The good news was, it didn’t appear the place had to be gutted and completely remodeled to make it livable. The bad news was, what had to be done was going to be expensive and time consuming. Everything but the ash bedroom furniture needed to go away. Far away. It wasn’t even up to secondhand standards. The floors would have to be sanded, the cupboards torn out and replaced, new countertops would have to be installed, the old wallpaper stripped, windowsills, doors, frames, baseboards sanded and stained, or maybe just replaced.

But first, the amount of trash hauling and pest removal was going to be a giant pain in the butt. At least this was work he could do, with the help of an exterminator. He’d inspect the roof later.

He walked out of the house and pried open the door to the first cabin. More of the same. The furniture was rotting, the floor was covered with debris. The cabins were all one-room efficiencies that hadn’t been used in years, so the small stoves and bar-size refrigerators were outdated and probably didn’t work. He was good with wood and paint, but he didn’t trust himself with gas and electricity. He was looking at six empty cabins, all in need of new hot-water heaters, stoves, refrigerators and furniture. He’d have to get up on the roofs and see how they had held up through the years, but from where he stood, it looked as though the shingles were mostly missing or rotting. And the wood on the outside of the cabins, all in need of scraping, sanding and painting. Every window would have to be replaced.

He did a mental calculation. It was nearly September. From January to June, before the summer people came for camping and hiking, things were slow and wet around this part of the world. If he could get the house and cabins in shape by spring, he could put them on the market or open them up for rent to vacationers. If it turned out he was bored with the mountains by then, he’d lock the whole business up and make tracks to either San Diego, where his brother Aiden was stationed and there was plenty of beach and swimsuits, or to Phoenix, where his widowed mother lived and would be forever grateful for his presence. He could always chase a flying job if he wanted to.

He unhooked the camper from the truck, unloaded his Harley from the truck bed and parked it up on its stand in front of the house. He grabbed a pair of work gloves, broom and shovel from the bed of the truck, got his toolbox out of the trailer and began scooping out the house. He could at least fill the back of the trunk with trash and, on his way to Eureka to have the utilities turned on, hire an exterminator and rent a big Dumpster; he could also dispose of a big load at the dump.

By noon he had a huge pile of trash in front of the porch. He got to work on loading the trash into the back of the pickup. The bright afternoon sun had warmed up the air and he was sweating like a farmhand, so he took off his shirt. He was just hefting a big three-legged overstuffed chair into the back of the truck when he spotted her. Holding it over his head, he froze.

She was sitting in the clearing astride a big American paint. She smiled at him. Pure, innocent honey. Luke couldn’t move. The horse was beautiful, at least fifteen hands. She was wearing khaki shorts, rolled up high on her tanned thighs, a pair of what appeared to be laced hiking boots with white socks rolled over the tops, a white short-sleeved T-shirt and a khaki fishing vest. With that long, pale blond braid down her back and a Stetson on her head, she could be fifteen, tiny and built solid. The thought that she looked like a statutory offense came instantly to mind and he felt every day of his thirty-eight years.

The horse danced and pawed at the ground, snorted and reared his head, but this little girl in the saddle didn’t even notice. She handled him with ease and finesse.

“I just had to see this for myself,” she said. “You’re doing it. You’re at work on this mess. Wow,” she laughed. “Looks like you’re going to be busy.”

He tossed the chair in the back of the truck and took a rag out of his pocket to mop his sweating face. “Maybe you can’t see the potential here,” he said. “I’m going to impress you, in that case.”

“I’m already impressed,” she said. “It looks like a monumental job. Where I grew up, there were a bunch of old cabins just like this, out on the beach. I was a teenager. They were almost never in use and the local kids used to sneak in. To smoke pot and…other stuff. Then one day they were gone. Razed.”

“When you were a teenager,” he said, shoving the rag back into his pocket. “Last week?”

“Hey,” she laughed. “I’m talking ten years ago.”

“In which case, you don’t age.”

“Why don’t you just ask?” she challenged him.

“Okay. How old are you? Exactly?”

“Twenty-five. And you?”

“One hundred and ten.”

She laughed again. When she did, she threw her head back and that braid rippled down her back. “Yeah, I thought you were probably really old. How old?”

“Thirty-eight. Pretty well out of your range.”

“That depends,” she said with a shrug.

“On?”

“On whether I have a range.”

Oh God, he thought weakly. She liked him. Not a little teasing, but private flirting, just between the two of them. Luke was a man with few scruples and even less control. It wasn’t a good idea for her to do this. She was too alluring for her own good. “You’re pretty good with that horse. He’s a beautiful paint.”

“Chico,” she told him. “All little boy. Uncle Walt adopted him as colt—you’d think he’d be better behaved. You know your horses.”

“I’ve flown over a lot of horses running wild in the desert. Incredible creatures.”

“You ride?” she asked.

“Haven’t been on a horse in years.”

“You fish?” she asked.

“When I get a chance. You hunt?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d never shoot anything. But I shoot skeet, and I’m good, too. Lately I garden and babysit. And I read a lot.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping toward her.

“In Virgin River? I came to spend some time with my family for a while before going back to school. Uncle Walt, Vanessa and Paul, my cousin Tom—he’s at basic training, soon to have leave—they’re my family.”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Here. Checking me out.”

“Get over yourself, I’m checking out the cabins,” she said, returning the smile. “I rode here a few times last summer. I really thought these cabins would disappear someday. Wouldn’t it be easier to build new ones?”

“It might be easier, but it wouldn’t be cheaper. And I was looking for something to do.”

“Why? You get fired from your job or something?”

“I retired from the army.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Like my uncle!”

“No, not like your uncle. Like a warrant officer, helicopter pilot. Jack said your uncle is a retired three-star. A whole different thing, kid.”

She grinned at him, but her cheeks took on a little flush. “Just remember, he’s retired. He really isn’t in charge anymore.”

He took note of the pinkened cheeks. She wanted to do this, obviously, this flirting. But it wasn’t natural for her, he could see that. He could make it easier for her. He knew how to calm a woman down, put her at ease. In fact, he enjoyed it.

He was having an attack of pure lust and he told himself to nip it in the bud. She said twenty-five, but he thought there was a good chance in any bar other than Jack’s, she’d be carded. He grabbed his shirt off the porch railing to shrug into it.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “Not for me—I’m not staying. Just dropping by to see your project, that’s all. I was in the neighborhood.”