Font Size:  

A chattering family huddles around the elderly woman, speaking over one another and fighting to take her bags. My chest warms at the sight, and I move on. The teenage boy stands with a middle aged man, staring at the ground and answering all questions with grunts, but there’s a family resemblance there, too. The same tawny hair; the same sloping nose. That leaves…

My employer stands apart from the rest of the townsfolk, and they shoot him nervous glances. As soon as my eyes land on him, my heart thumps harder; my breaths quicken. The breeze brushes against my overheated cheeks, and I stare, rooted in place.

Because Rufus Grangemoor looks terrifying. He’s huge, for starters, towering head and shoulders above everyone else, and he looks as harsh and unforgiving as the landscape. Thick, dark hair tugged by the wind; eyebrows lowered in a permanent frown. A weathered, scarred face and a short beard, peppered with silver, and thoseeyes.

Those eyes pierce right to the core of me in one glance. I’m skewered to the spot, trembling.

Rufus Grangemoor raises one eyebrow, as if to say: “Well?”

I stumble forward, boots scraping against the gritty stone. My duffel bag bounces off my shins. The other greeters are drifting away, truck doors slamming as laughter echoes in the air, and I wish I could snag one of them by the sleeve. Maybe beg them to stay with me for five more minutes.

“Mr Grangemoor?” I ask instead, my voice hoarse.Be brave, Helen.He won’t bite you. Probably.

Although there is something beastly about my new employer. He’d be at home surrounded by panthers or grizzly bears; with brawn like that, he could probably take them in a fight, too. Wrestle them bare-handed onto the ground.

Rufus Grangemoor nods: a severe dip of his chin. “Come on,” he rumbles, “before the light fades. We’ve still got a way to drive.”

More driving? Oh, god. And my employer must see me sag with despair, because his beard shifts. It’s not quite a smile, but heisamused.

When I reach him, he takes my duffel in a callused hand and loads it into the backseat of his truck, and I feel like a giant idiot because I only realize now that Mr Grangemoor walks with a cane. It’s solid as an oak tree—it’d need to be, to supporthim—and it’s as scarred and beat-up as its owner.

“Thank you,” I say. Mr Grangemoor nods, slamming the truck door and limping around to the driver’s side. It’s a banger of a truck, dented and scratched with peeling blue paint.

“And thank you for collecting me.” The truck cab is silent once I’m settled, engine rumbling as we pull into the road, and I’ve always had a thing about silence. It’s like scratching an itch. Ineedto fill it. “I hope this isn’t too far out of your way, Mr Grangemoor. I’d have brought my own car if I could, but I don’t drive.”

He sighs and guides us around a corner.

“God, that last bus was crazy. I swear, it was held together with paper clips and string. Every time we rounded a bend, I thought bits might fly off and go crashing down a crevasse.”

Silence. The truck swings back out onto the mountain path, continuing the endless journey past the rock face.

I wince, stealing a glance at the harsh scars on his face. Is that what happened to this man? An accident in the mountains? Is that why the townsfolk all kept their distance?

“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve never met an artist before—a famous one, I mean. I went to an arts college after high school, but I’m sure you know that’s a one-way ticket into retail.”

More silence.

“I sketch, mostly,” I say, panic rising up the back of my throat, but short of pinching my own tongue, I don’t know if I can stop. I’ve always been a chatterbox, especially when I’m nervous, andthisman makes me near-hysterical with nerves. A dark mood has settled over his shoulders like thunderclouds.

“And I like charcoals. They get so messy, though, and I always find out hours later that I’ve been walking around with a giant gray smudge on my nose. Do you ever use charcoals, Mr Grangemoor?”

“No.”

I melt back against the seat, weak with relief that I got a reply. And I know I should quit while I’m ahead, but god damn me, I go on.

“Sky High Outpost. That’s a funny name, isn’t it?” I sound shrill, and I watch in horror as my hand reaches out, fiddling with the air con dials. What the hell am I doing? “I mean, I guess I see where they got it from. Wearepretty high up. Earlier, when we were driving higher and higher, I looked down and saw white mist clinging to the rock face, but I suppose that could have been a low-hanging cloud. Crazy, right?”

“It’s broken,” Mr Grangemoor mutters.

“Hm? What?”

“The air con.” When I steal a glance, his jaw is rock hard with irritation. “No point fiddling with it, because it won’t work.”

“Oh. Sorry.” My hand drops back into my lap, and I’m so on edge my stomach aches. Outside the truck, the sun sinks below the horizon, painting the sky with lavender hues. I’ve been traveling non-stop all day, and I’m thirsty and aching and tired. My clothes are rubbing against me, and I smell musty as hell.

Mr Grangemoor flicks on the truck headlights. Chewing on my bottom lip, I watch the ghostly beams swoop over endless rock.

“I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like