Loved Either Way, page 16
“Sweets, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
Which one of us is lying now, she thought, but better yet, how did he do it so easily?
Delaney saved that question for later and pinned it in the back of her mind. For when her teeth didn’t chatter on every word, of course.
*
Considering the location, Delaney wasn’t sure what to expect of the hunting cabin, but the quaint cottage, positioned side by side with a similarly sized shed that had large double doors, took her by surprise. Pleasantly.
She passed the electricity wires connected between the shed and cottage a look, taking a safe guess where she could locate the generators and truck Lucas mentioned, before she took the three wooden steps leading up to the brown wooden front door. She found it unlocked when she tried the door and could almost feel the heat seeping through the thick wood. She gave the covered veranda—that seemed to wrap around the entire building—painted the same brown as the door, one more look before heading inside.
Someone had started a fire.
She shut out the cold as soon as her boots hit the hardwood floor of the cottage. What was to find and see inside the small cabin welcomed Delaney the moment she stepped inside. A kitchen with limited counter space from a single island that doubled as a table if the stools along the side were any indication. Natural stained, oak cupboards made up a pantry framing the stove and oven with only one burner on top and a tiny bar fridge off to the side sat open, and off, in the side corner. The sink basin, larger than even the stove, took up all the space beneath the window overlooking the front property that currently appeared to be a winter wonderland of beauty.
From the safety of the warmth inside, obviously.
The power and amazement of winter could actually be appreciated when one could hear their thoughts between constant shivers and mind-numbing cold.
An open-concept layout welcomed guests to the largest section of rooms with the kitchen first. Beyond that, and the ticking wood chief currently pumping out all the heat sat in the very middle between the rooms, blocked up on a circle of red bricks with a black pipe jutting up from the stove and through the ceiling to the roof outside where the smoke left the chimney in tendrils.
A stairwell, with a smooth, stained railing led up to a loft that couldn’t be properly viewed from downstairs, but that she could make out the legs of what appeared to be twin beds. Just beyond the stairs and using the back end of the stairwell as an enclave entry for the sitting room, sat an old couch that looked comfortable and two worn recliner chairs facing a rear bay window that peered into the quiet, cold forest.
The wood paneled walls greeted Delaney with picture frames filled with images of a young boy, and a man she knew on sight. The similar features in their smiling faces reflected one another and didn’t escape her notice, but also remained the same in the age progression in the many photographs filling the walls as she moved from one side of the cottage to the other.
One, in particular, had the younger boy holding a large trout while a gentleman behind him, who she didn’t recognize but shared the same smile and cleft chin, stood behind him in shorts and a polo. He’d smiled for the shot with a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
A younger Lucas kneeled in the background of the photo, clutching to fishing rods and smiling like he hadn’t expected the picture.
A lot of the photographs had a similar theme—woods, nature, and the great outdoors. Not to mention, the people within the photos remained the same, with only a few different guests between the many framed shots, mostly candids, that appeared to span years.
Lucas’ family?
The age gap between Lucas and the boy in the photos made her question who he could be, if only because her mind didn’t go straight to a sibling at first. That was possible, though. Was the younger boy his br—
“See, not so bad inside,” Lucas muttered as he lumbered into the cottage, bringing the cold air with him. He slammed the front door shut, scuffed his snow-dusted boots off on the entry rug of faded, woven colors, and dropped their bags just beyond the danger of any melting ice they bought in with their travels. His gaze found her across the cozy cottage where she stood haloed in the afternoon light spilling in the rear window. “I guess the Smith boys got my call after all.”
“Good thing, huh?”
Lucas let out a hard breath, nodding as his stare drifted around the place he had tried to call a hunting cabin. “In my head, it’s always bigger. Like when I was a kid.”
Delaney smiled, hearing the memories he held back. “I could see how you could really be just a kid, way out here.”
He cleared his throat, and his wistful grin wobbled for a split second. Not lingering on whatever pain he’d felt, Lucas pulled the gloves from his hands and nodded toward the kitchen. “Did you check the stove?”
“Why would I?”
“You wouldn’t.” Lucas winked. “The Smith boys, their mom—well, she always sends something to get us through the first night before we can drive into Arthurette for whatever we need.”
“I’ve never actually been inside that store,” Delaney said as Lucas made a beeline for the stove.
A good twenty-minute drive out of the deep, quiet Birch Ridge sat a small county of a couple hundred residents that called Arthurette home. Located between a desolate stretch of raw, rural New Brunswick that connected The Flats where her friend called home, and the nearby town of Plaster Rock, it had exactly one general store that doubled as a gas station.
For people making the long trek from one side of the mountains to the other, and needed to stop for gas, of course. Or a pack of smokes.
“You haven’t missed much,” he said, grabbing hold of the oven’s handle. “We may need to take the truck into town.”
She had yet to even see the truck.
Her disinterest in the chilly outdoors kept her from asking important questions about the vehicle—like if it was even licensed or legal to drive. Way the hell out in no man’s land, maybe nobody fucking cared.
At the moment, she didn’t.
“Aha,” Lucas proclaimed, stepping aside to show Delaney what waited inside.
Two, white plastic shopping bags sat on the oven racks, with one filled to the top with containers meant for food storage. Lucas grabbed both, but only one clinked interestingly.
“Liquor?” she asked.
“And food,” he told her, pointedly.
Like that was what mattered.
“What does she put in there for you?” Delaney questioned, making a slow trek across the cottage floor.
“Whatever Mack’s got on the shelf, usually,” he muttered, hefting the bags onto the island.
He pulled out a pint of scotch first.
“Mack?”
“Mack Smith,” Lucas said, gesturing broadly at the front of the cottage that faced the hill leading them into the gully. “He owns that half of the Ridge, practically. That lot of fir trees we landed in keeps him going in the winter.”
Ah.
“Christmas trees,” she said.
“They do sleigh rides and all sorts of things. They make a whole season out of it, anyway,” Lucas said, distracted by the second bottle he’d pulled from the bag.
It wasn’t liquor.
The amber gold, a sweet favorite for every Canadian’s breakfast table, filled the tall glass bottle with a corked and wax-sealed top.
“Maple syrup?” Delaney asked, reaching for the bottle to look at the homemade label on the front.
The best kind.
Deadpan, and suddenly frosty, Lucas handed over the bottle without a word before yanking his gloves back out from his parka’s pockets. “I’ve got some things to do on the outside. You’ll want light, running water, and a working fridge by tonight, I imagine.”
“You okay?”
His back, ramrod straight as it faced her where he stood at the front door, hunched a little. At her question “Yeah, I’ve just got things to do to get the camp up and going. It won’t take me long.”
He disappeared into the cold in the next breath. Only the slam of the door and the icy wind that swept across the cottage broke the silence and kept her company once he was gone and only his snowy footprints remained on the rug.
On the one-liter glass bottle filled with maple syrup, a note had been taped to the middle of the label.
For Jacob, it read in neat handwriting. Under that, the person had added, Hope that’ll do him for the year, friend.
Chapter 17
I won’t be long.
A lie, and he knew it, the second the words left Lucas’ lips. Maybe it wasn’t as devastating of a lie as his assurance that he was, in fact, fine, but it just piled his dishonesty higher on the mountain that had become his most recent days.
Pretty soon, that mountain would crumble. Or Lucas might find himself breaking under the massive weight.
Not if he could help it, though. Lucas would hold himself together, by ripped seams, if need be, until he absolutely couldn’t anymore.
Life had not taught him how to manage, or keep on, otherwise. He didn’t have a choice.
The rural cabin did require quite a bit of set up work upon arrival, so heading outside to get a start on those duties gave him something to do. Getting power running and clean water coming up from the well dug beneath the cellar were easier tasks in the summer when cold and snow wasn’t a factor.
One didn’t have to concern themselves with clearing the driveway leading out of the gully of snow outside of the winter months. A requirement, really, because the old truck with all season tires that he used to travel in and out of Birch Ridge when needed couldn’t get up the hill without a clear path. Which was often why Lucas didn’t find himself this deep in New Brunswick’s countryside during the harsher times of the year.
More work.
For the moment, he didn’t mind it.
Even if his hands ached and shivers kept him jittery as he flipped on the switches for the generators before pulling their start cords to get the gas engines running after filling both with the gas left by one of the Smith boys. He barely considered the cold; his focus stayed on the work of getting the cottage usable and safe to leave, if needed, instead.
He couldn’t let his mind wander.
Lucas couldn’t go there yet.
The two generators, one hooked up to the main lights and the out-building’s electricity, and the other, wired directly to the kitchen appliances and submersible pump down in the well, used a good thirty liters of gas between them a day to keep the place livable. By modern standards, anyway.
Given the constant consumption of gas, trips out of Birch Ridge had to be regular. Every other day, or so, during a stay. Hence, the need for a vehicle.
Or, in the unlikely case of an emergency.
Things happened.
His grandfather, who had left the property to Lucas after his death because the Dalton brothers had enjoyed it for years alongside him, had made sure both his grandsons were equipped and capable of maintaining and living in the cabin. Including an education on running and maintaining the generator system, and closing the cottage down, essentially, at the end of any given season.
Dropping the empty gas jug in front of the garage doors he’d pulled close to help with the chill while he readied the generators, Lucas waited as the bare lightbulbs overhead came on one by one. A good sign that at least one of the generators, and wiring, hadn’t suffered in the last two years that it had been left to the wayside.
Life got in the way.
Lucas didn’t have time.
Jacob … well, he wouldn’t have come without his brother.
Sure, the Smith family a few kilometers down the road kept an eye on the place and exchanged out the gas to keep it fresh and usable if the Dalton brothers showed up unexpectedly, but a house was not a home without a heartbeat. A long stretch of time with no movement inside could certainly leave the cabin in disrepair after a while.
He was happy to see things working.
Even if it was bittersweet.
After uncovering the old Chevy truck under the worn painting cloth and adding what remained of the gas from the second jug that had been left in the corner of the building for Lucas to find, he grabbed one of two shovels hanging from a large nail sticking out of the wall. The smaller scoop, easier to push through heavy snow, was his preference.
When clearing snow was required.
Not a job he particularly liked.
Cold hands and feet were a better option than a broken heart and mind, though. So, he kept that knowledge at the forefront of his thoughts as he headed out of the garage and back into the cold to begin the long, hard, and tiring work of clearing the massive driveway.
He didn’t care that it would take him hours.
That already, his fingertips and toes were numb.
Lucas would rather shovel snow until his limbs turned black and fell off from frostbite than listen to thoughts in his head, or the memories playing on constant repeat there.
He just needed time.
Anything except—
“Can I do something inside?” came the soft question from his left as he stalked across the drive. Lucas came to a halt, his boots crunching against the snow, and turned to find Delaney where she had come to stand on the front veranda. Her unzipped parka made him think she had come outside as soon as she noticed him leaving the garage. “The lights are working, and I found the linen closet in the bathroom where all the quilts and stuff are packed in totes, so I pulled them out and got some stuff out … I wondered if there was anything else, that’s all.”
Right.
Good to know things worked inside, too.
That saved Lucas an extra five minutes.
“It’ll take the hot water tank in the cellar a bit of time to fill and warm up,” he said, “but otherwise, you could run the water in the bathroom taps for a bit. It cleans out the pipe and gets any shakiness from the ground out of the water as everything settles. Unless you don’t mind a bit of dirt at the bottom of your drinking glass.”
Delaney’s nose, pinked from the cold, scrunched up sweetly. “No, thanks. I’ll run the water, then?”
“That’ll help.”
“How long?”
“Maybe a half hour. You can check, and see what a glass of water looks like, but it should be good,” he explained.
History told him a half an hour would do the job to clear any sediments sitting in the well water that the pipe might bring up. Once the water ran clear, nothing tasted better than mountain water pumped from a water vein a hundred feet in the ground.
“Okay, sure,” Delaney said with a nod. “I can do that.”
Figuring the conversation had come to a natural end with that, Lucas started his trek toward the bend in the driveway that would lead to the hill going up to the road. The fact that he didn’t hear the front door of the cottage close behind him should have been a clue.
“What are you doing?”
Lucas came to a stop again and glanced over his shoulder with the shovel held out where she could plainly see. “Clearing snow. Unless you don’t want to make a trip to town for gas tomorrow. I’ve got lots of wood piled behind the garage to keep the furnace going, but only so much gas.”
And practically no food.
They had to go, really.
Delaney’s head bobbed up and down as she hugged her jacket closed and shivered on the step. “Do you want me to help? I can.”
On another day, maybe he would have taken her up on that offer. No doubt, she had experience clearing snow or dealing with the weather of their country. Nobody’s hands were too soft to shovel snow when a storm rolled through.
“I got it,” he said.
“If you’re sure …”
He continued heading for the long work ahead, saying only, “I need to do something.”
Lucas couldn’t just stand there and think.
That would kill him.
*
Lucas didn’t time himself once he started shoveling at the top of the hill, but if he had to make a safe guess, it took him close to three hours to reach the bottom of the drive again. He couldn’t be totally sure, but the movement in the sun told him a significant bit of time had passed, and the growl of his empty stomach suggested it was about to revolt after missing breakfast and lunch.
Hell, did he even eat yesterday?
Lucas couldn’t remember.
He’d been struggling with other things.
“They said if the family is insisting on writing the piece for Jacob,” his secretary’s last message had said on his phone before he boarded the chopper in Freddy with Delaney. “The Telegraph’s editor can give you until Wednesday night at the latest for it to still make the run on Friday, Lucas. Otherwise, they’ll run a standard notice.”
Christ.
He still had things to do.
Lucas tried not to think about it.
Even if he was running out of time.
Goddammit.
Hadn’t he done so well, too?
His arms ached and protested with the last ten or so shovelfuls of snow that he had left to clear away from the front of the cottage, but he worked through it.
His back hurt like nothing else, as well, but at least the pain gave him something to keep his mind on instead of trying to process the unimaginable pain building there. Even if that same pain had started to bleed into the rest of his nervous system because he could no longer pretend like it didn’t exist.
It was real.
Worst of all?
He couldn’t change a thing.
No one got to rewrite the past.
In his boots and thick ski gloves, the cold had eventually seeped through the fabric to leave his appendages numb and tingly with every shift and movement of his body. The nice thing about physical labor in the winter was that it kept the body warm as long as the person continued moving.
So, he did.
Until he felt every step rattling his spine, and each breath he pulled into his lungs worked to cool his internal temperature down so that he didn’t sweat himself into a fever by the time he did finish the job.
