Laura Drake - Her Road Home

But time spent dreaming would be a waste if the owners didn’t take her offer. She had learned the hard way not to want things—it was less painful.

Pulling up in front of her run-down cabin, she shut down the engine and unbuckled the seat belt. She ran her hand over the sun-warmed leather seat. Someone spent a lot of time and money restoring this; even the eye-scorching yellow interior was spanking clean and perfect. Nick, obviously, but why? Clearly he didn’t take it out much. Why put good money into a garage-dweller? She stepped out of the car just as her cell phone belted out the first notes of an old Jethro Tull road song.

Her heart sped up when she recognized the soft voice on the line.

“Miss Crozier? It’s Honey, from Homestake Realty. I was able to contact the Sutton family this afternoon. I’ve been trying to get you for an hour.”

“I guess I couldn’t hear the phone for the wind.”

“Yes, well. I’ve been in touch with the family.” She hesitated. “Look, I know you don’t negotiate and I don’t mean to offend you. But the sellers find it hard to reach a consensus, and...”

From the undertone of frazzled in Honey’s voice, Sam could imagine what that conversation was like.

“The bottom line is that they won’t take less than their original asking price.”

Crap. This disappointment bit a layer deeper than most of her letdowns. She recalled the Victorian’s stately bone structure, peeking out at her from under years of neglect. Uncovering those bones would have been such a challenging project. Fun, too. She sighed.

“Ms. Crozier?”

She realized it was the second time her name had been called. “What?”

“Why don’t I call you in a couple of days? There’s no reason to make a hasty decision.”

Sam took a breath, fully intending to nix the deal. Instead, she heard herself say, “Let me think about it. I’ll call you.” She hung up, but continued staring at the phone.

This was business. Either a deal worked, financially, or it didn’t. This one didn’t. So why did it matter so much? Sure, it was a neat project, but she’d learned there were great projects scattered all across the U.S.

So what was with the soft tug in her chest?

* * *

FOR THE NEXT WEEK, Sam didn’t have much else to do but think. The rest was good for her battered body, but the forced inactivity wasn’t good for her mind. The distraction of staying busy had always been her first line of defense against dark thoughts and bad dreams. That, and traveling. Grounded and idle, they were catching up with her.

She’d taken to walking, stalking the country roads around the cabins. Something about the green rolling hills and live oaks calmed her, but today she’d gone farther than usual, and her feet dragged the dusty roadside.

In spite of repeated admonishments, her mind kept returning to the puzzle of the house. Somewhere in the country miles, she’d solved the problem. If she demolished the top floor on the water-damaged side of the house, along with the rooms below them, the entire right side would become a master bedroom loft, looking down into a huge great room. That would leave the house with only one bedroom, but what a bedroom! She imagined the fieldstone fireplace, and the firelight reflecting off a burnished hardwood floor.

There was the carriage house—the second story was one huge open room. It could be converted to guest quarters. There was enough room for two bedrooms and a bath, easy.

Damn, that would be nice. She turned in at the cabins.

But she’d done the math more than once. She’d always turned a good profit, thanks to sticking to strict budget guidelines. This one didn’t fit them.

But the location! Property values always skyrocketed near tourist towns. Maybe they hadn’t peaked yet. If she took this deal, she’d be betting on the come.

But Sam wasn’t a gambler. Gambling was for people who could afford to lose.

Screw it. I’ll just move on. After all, there would be another project down the road. She opened the hideous car’s door, gingerly lowered herself into the seat and fired it up.

Mind made up, she kicked the disappointment to a back corner of her mind. Maybe she’d head up the coast, see San Francisco. She liked the idea of working on a Victorian, and she heard they had a bunch of them up there.

I’ve got to pressure that mechanic to move faster on the bike. Without a project, she had no money coming in. She could have the Jeep sent from Telluride, but traveling was no fun on four wheels.

She turned at the Farm House Café parking lot. Listening to local gossip would be a good distraction from her thoughts. She’d just grab a cup of coffee. Her phone rang with the distinctive drum riff to “Radar Love.” Only having full use of one hand was getting old, fast. She zipped into a parking place, put the car in Park and picked up the phone.

“Ms. Crozier? It’s Honey, Homestake Realty.”

“I was going to call you, later today. I’ve done the numbers, and they just don’t add up. I’ll need to—”

“Would you still be interested if I told you the family would be willing to split the difference with you? It was a fight, but I got them to agree to accept ten percent lower than the asking price.”

Sam stepped out of the car, recalculating the spreadsheet in her head. That would work. Just.

“When can we sign papers?” She kept her voice deadpan, a hard task while grinning ear-to-ear.

“Would you like to meet me in the office in the morning, say nine o’clock?”

Sam hung up, and did a gingerly happy dance, complete with fist punch. “Unh.” Stabbing pain made her pay for forgetting her ribs. She grimaced, taking shallow breaths. But it couldn’t wipe her smile.

Sam hobbled inside, holding her ribs.

“Well, that looked like good news. I think.” Jesse stood watching, hands on hips, behind the counter. Her hair was in a different style than the last time Sam had been in, but it was just as big, and the short dress just as tight.

A book lay face down on the counter. Sam read the title. Mensa Sudoku.

“The best news. It looks like I’m going to be your neighbor for a while. I just bought the Sutton place.”

“You what? What would you want with that wreck?”

Sam’s stomach woke, growling to the delicious aroma of grilling meat and frying potatoes. “I’m a building contractor. That house has potential.”

“From what I’ve seen, the biggest potential that house has is to fall down.”

“Well, it will be a challenge, I’ll admit. My biggest to date. But I’ve renovated four other houses on my way across the country. I can handle it.”

Jesse glanced at Sam’s sling, but said nothing.

Sam claimed a stool at the afternoon-empty counter and dropped the DayGlo flower keychain on the counter.

Jesse’s penciled eyebrows shot up and she raised her head to look past Sam to the parking lot. “I heard about that.”

“Heard about what?”

“Nick must have thought a lot of you to let you borrow the Love Machine.”

“And here I thought I had the booby prize.”

Jesse’s solemn look stopped Sam midlaugh. In a quiet voice, Jesse said, “That’s his mother’s car.”

Before Sam could ask for that story, Jesse turned a sharp eye on her. “You are a surprise, sweetie. How did you ever get involved in that career?”

“I’ll tell you, if you promise to explain the math-whiz thing to me, sometime.”

When Jesse nodded, Sam picked up the menu in front of her. “My dad wanted a boy—bad. My mom was the love of his life and she died when I was born, so I was as close as he was going to get. He taught me what he loved. Growing up, partially built houses were my playground.” Sam perused the menu. “By the time I was old enough to realize that all kids didn’t spend their summers crawling around construction sites, I was hooked.”