Laura Drake - Her Road Home

“Well, then I’m glad you’re buying it. Fighting over the estate, the family priced it out of the market. By the time they got real, it was in such bad shape, it wasn’t worth much. I’ll bet they just jumped at the chance to unload it.”

Jesse started to fill Sam’s coffee cup, but paused, midpour, looking off with an unfocused stare. “It used to be such a beautiful thing. I went to a Christmas party there once when I was a kid. You should have seen it. White lights strung along the eaves, huge Christmas tree in the front windows. It sure was pretty.” Jesse finished pouring, then raised her voice. “Hey, everybody—this is Samantha, and she’s just bought the old Sutton place. I expect y’all to make her welcome.”

Embarrassed to be singled out, and unsure of her reception, Sam glanced around to see smiles and some curiosity, but none of the suspicion or animosity she expected. Being a woman, traveling cross-country on a motorcycle, she was used to people not knowing how to react to her. A few customers raised their coffee cups in salute.

Jesse smiled down on Sam. “Well, honey, anything we can do to help, you just let us know. That hunky guy in the kitchen is pretty handy. And I can help you plan the housewarming!”

“Whoa up a minute, Jesse. It’ll take me close to a year to complete the renovation, since I do most of the work myself. I think it’s a little early to be planning a party.” She smiled. “But I appreciate the support. It can be hard to fit in to a new town.”

It is, usually. But a tiny dust bunny of contentment had nestled in her chest, the past few days. It felt odd there, but she thought she liked it.

* * *

SAM CONTACTED THE storage company in Telluride where she’d finished the last project and arranged for them to send her meager furnishings, the Jeep and her father’s precious tools to Widow’s Grove. She planned to bivouac in one of the rooms while she worked on the rest of the house.

One morning a few days later, she glanced out her cabin’s window to see the old manager shuffling by, huge wrench in hand. His attire hadn’t improved, except he now wore mirror-shined brogans.

Sam stepped onto the porch. “Excuse me, Mr. Raven?”

He stopped and squinted at her. Sam was relieved to see he’d put in his teeth.

“Could you tell me where I’d find a lumberyard or a hardware store around here?”

“Well, there used to be Lincoln Hardware, downtown.” He frowned, and his lip curled, just a bit. “But they cancelled Dave’s lease last year. Guess the landlord thought he’d make more money off another antique store. Now there’s just Coast Lumber, on the way to Solvang.”

Sam stepped off the porch into the morning sunshine. “Mom-and-pop yards can’t compete with the big chains anymore. But it’s the local builders that suffer, since the smaller places catered to their localized needs. The box stores couldn’t care less.”

He extended a gnarled, arthritic hand. “You’ve been here a week and a half—the name’s Tim.”

Those fingers looked painful. She shook his hand gently. “And you can call me Sam.”

“Sam it is, then. Give Coast a try, they’re better’n most. I traded with them when I had my plumbing business.” His blue eyes twinkled as he hefted the iron wrench. “That’s a’fore I retired, you see.”

Sam smiled. “Thanks, Tim.” She turned and walked to the borrowed car where it sat looking like a tavern slut in a church pew.

The drive to Solvang only took twenty minutes.

Sam had the same emotional connection with hardware stores that many women had with lingerie boutiques. She stood in the tool aisle, inhaling the clean scent of cut pine, debating the quality of power saw brands with a clerk.

She noticed a man eavesdropping. He examined a band saw, but glanced at her often. As her conversation ended, he approached.

“Excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I overheard you say you’re a contractor, starting a large project. Do you mind if I ask what it is?”

Sam eyed him. He was short and round, a fringe of dark hair around the edge of a bald head. His demeanor didn’t seem threatening, but there was no reason to announce that she’d be living alone, way out of town.

“Let me explain why I’m interested. Then you can tell me to get lost if you’d like.” His smile was harmless, anyway. “I’m Dan Porter, the shop teacher at Widow’s Grove High. I teach occupational programs to give the kids usable skills. I’m always looking for sites for my kids to get some real-world experience.” He extended a broad, hairy paw.

After a brief hesitation, Sam shook it. “So you stalk the aisles of lumber stores, springing yourself on contractors?” She smiled, imagining this little Friar Tuck in his Hawaiian shirt, stalking like a big-game hunter.

“Yeah, something like that. I’ve approached several about my idea, but haven’t had any takers yet.”

“Fear of lawsuits, right?”

“No, I’ve worked that out with insurance through the school. They just don’t want to be bothered. Not that I blame them. They’re in business to make money. But I know they’d see a benefit to their business as well as the kids if they’d give it a shot.”

That’s all she needed—a bunch of left-footed teenagers, falling off her roof. “How much experience do these kids have?”

“Some of them are really good. They’ve gotten all the classroom experience I can give them and they’re familiar with all the tools from my class.”

She thought of the deep-grunt demolition work ahead. And her damned collarbone. Much as she hated to admit it, she needed help. “I’d need a lot more information. By the way, I’m Sam—Samantha Crozier. I bought the old Sutton place outside of Widow’s Grove.”

He let out a low whistle. “Now, that is an ambitious project. Are you planning on subbing out the work?”

“I’ll do most of it myself.”

“Not for a while, you won’t.” He eyed the sling. “Why don’t you stop by the school sometime, to see our setup? You’ll get an idea of the kids’ skill levels, and I could introduce you to some of them.”

“Let me think about it.”

“I only teach shop classes, so you could stop by anytime during school hours.” He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and handed her a business card. “You have no idea what this would mean to these kids. And remember, you’d be getting young muscle, cheap!”

Sam didn’t notice the products on the shelves as she wandered the aisles. The hardware store ambiance was a soothing backdrop to the battle waged in her head. She liked working alone. The projects took longer to complete, but at the end, she could admire the quality result and know she’d left a mark on the landscape as she passed through. She’d know she was more than an anonymous biker in leathers. She liked working in peace, no one talking, interrupting or getting in the way.

Oh, sure, she usually subbed out plumbing, and an occasional electrical job. But teenagers? They were a seething batch of hormones with big feet. Unsafe, unfinished, unknown.

When she lifted her shoulders to shrug off the idea, her collarbone shot a bolt of pain down her arm.

Dammit. She didn’t have six weeks to wait to heal. Every day, money was trickling out of her account. She could hire professionals, but they came dear, and had opinions about how to do things. With kids, she could be sure it was done her way.

But was she prepared to take on a babysitting gig?

* * *

SINCE WORK COULDN’T begin on the house until the deal closed, Sam found herself once more, with too much time on her hands.

Late afternoons, she usually walked to the Farm House Café. During slow hours, she and Jesse would sit drinking coffee and “shooting the poop,” as Jesse called it. Sam got acquainted with the town through Jesse’s stories. Sam considered it research, learning more about the market without having to meet the people.