Page 6 of Chasing Dreams
A log house stood in the clearing, a massive garage off to the side. An open porch stretched around two sides of the house, a door on each side. Assorted rustic furniture lined one porch wall.
Surely he’d heard the Jeep and knew someone was out here. Unless he had his television on loud and was hard of hearing.
She’d been envisioning this moment ever since she’d decided to come. She’d imagined Allen with a wife, maybe a few grown and married children. But maybe his wife had died. Living way out here, he might appreciate a visitor. Praying he would, she approached the house.
There was no doorbell, no knocker. She garnered her courage and determinedly pounded the rough wood with the side of her fist. Nothing happened.
She tried again.
Nothing.
A huge pent-up gust of air escaped her lungs. She turned and surveyed the clearing. A stump sat at one corner of the house and several chunks of tree lay nearby. Someone must chop wood for him.
No sound came from inside. Hesitantly she tried the door, and it swung inward. Her heart raced at her unexpected intrusion. She peeked at the open rough-walled room and dominating gray stone fireplace and couldn’t make herself go any farther. Pulling the door shut, she walked around the house.
Again, she noted the smoke rising from the chimney, assurance that the old man was indeed here, and took comfort in the wires running to the corner of the house.
Out of breath, Shaine walked back to the porch, brushed off one of the dusty wood chairs and sat, wondering why he hadn’t answered the door. The air felt chilly after a while, and she tugged her jacket around herself more snugly.
She hoped he wasn’t ill. Or hurt. If he didn’t show up soon, she’d go in and make sure he was okay.
The nearby woods had a life of their own, birds twittering, and small rustling sounds came from the dry grass and weeds. She listened and found herself relaxing. Her eyes closed.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when a rhythmic pounding startled her. The dry ground cover off to her left was being disrupted by something or someone moving fast and breathing hard. Shaine sat forward on the chair and gripped the arms, straining to see into the dense forest. Her heart pounded with apprehension.
A figure shot out into the sunny clearing fifty feet from the house. It was a dark-haired man wearing a faded Super Bowl sweatshirt with a dark trail of perspiration down the center. A pair of gray shorts exposed long muscled thighs that flexed with each step carrying him closer to the house.
At the sight of her, his steps faltered, and he walked the rest of the way to the porch, stopping with one Nike-clad foot on the top step.
Shaine stood. “Are you here to see Mr. Allen?”
“Who are you?” The hair at his temples was damp. Breathing hard, he ran a hand through one side and splayed his long fingers on his hip.
“I’m here to see him,” she went on. “I knocked, but I didn’t get any answer. I was wondering if I should go in and check to see that everything’s okay.” She glanced back the way he’d come. “Are you a neighbor?”
The man advanced to the porch. He was head and shoulders taller than she, his broad chest and rugged frame touching her with a sense of unease. From the top of his head to the bottom of his running shoes he was a formidable example of health and male virility. He must be the one who chopped wood for Mr. Allen.
Austin Allen took stock of the girl’s suede hiking boots, her long legs in faded jeans and the denim jacket that hinted at a tantalizing air of indifference about her appearance. “What do you want with him?” he countered.
“I need to talk to him. I’ve come a long way to find him.”
“You a reporter?”
“No!” she said, obviously surprised at the question.
“A cop?”
She shook her head.
“That leaves one possibility.” Austin turned, looking for her vehicle, and discovered the suspicious pile of gear several hundred feet from the house.
“What possibility is that?” she asked.
Without replying, he turned back and eyed her. “He’s not here.”
“When will he be back?”
Her straight hair parted on the side and fell to her shoulders in a sleek curve, bangs that the wind had becomingly arranged, complementing her topaz eyes. “What do you want him for? And how did you get here?”
