Page 3 of Guarded By the Lumberjack
The wipers are going full tilt and still not doing much good at giving me much visibility, which is why I don't notice the blurred shape of the unfamiliar car parked in front of my house, or the out of focus figure of a woman moving through the pouring rain as I roll into the garage.
Chapter Two
Penny
It was well after nine p.m. when I pulled onto the private road that led to a massive house built onto the side of a mountain. The rock had to have been blasted away and earth moving equipment must have been used to clear enough space for the wide expanse of level ground that stretches before the cabin-style structure before being handed back to nature where the rugged terrain resumes and plunges over steep drop.
This man isn't relying on military retirement money.
Of course, I read about Calvin Murdock and his brothers when I was trying to find the man my husband spoke of in awe. After retiring from the Navy, Calvin returned to his hometown of Moonshine Ridge where he helps run Murdock timber with his two brothers, Carver and Clinton.
Even through the rain-soaked dark of night, the house is impressive. Looks like the timber business is good in Moonshine Ridge.
No one answered my knocking when I arrived. I could see any lights on inside, and the porch light is lit, but dim. Maybe so it doesn't block the stars on nights with better weather. Maybe it's solar and the rain kept it from getting a full charge through the day.
Either way, this is the end of the road for me. If this isn't the right Calvin Murdock-- or if he refuses to help me-- I don't know where to turn next.
Whether no one's home despite the late hour, or not answering the door, I have nothing better to do than wait. Climbing back into my car, I put the seat back as far as it'll go and shiver in my rain-soaked clothes.
It's close to eleven when I'm awakened by the flash of bright headlights through my windows.
The lights flood the interior of my car and then turn, heading into the mountain. It only takes a second for me to realize the car is heading into one of the bays of the four-car garage.
Scrambling out of the driver's seat, wrapped in a towel I found in the back seat that I've been using as a blanket, I quickly rush to intercept the car before it can pull into the garage and close the massive door behind it.
"Excuse me." I stop just past the eves of the garage, out of the rain that's still pouring down. I'm not sure if I should go any further inside, at least, not until the person inside the sleek, black pick-up truck knows I'm here. But the automatic opener engages above me and the heavy, decorative door of the garage begins to descend, forcing me to make the split-second decision to move all the way inside the surprisingly warm interior of the space.
The driver's side door of the truck swings open and I resist the urge to run up to it and immediately accost the driver.
"Excuse me?"
I call a little louder, hoping not to startle the person still inside.
One long leg slides into view, a booted foot resting on the heavy-duty step rail before going still.
"Mr. Murdock?" I take a step closer.
That leg is long. It's thick, and wrapped in faded denim. It doesn't look like it belongs to a man in his fifties-- but it definitely belongs to a man.
I gulp.
Of course, Calvin Murdock probably has a family. A wife who's blissfully asleep somewhere in this mammoth cabin. From what Tyler told me when he was serving under his command, Calvin is several years older than I am. He could have grown children. This could be his son.
A hand reaches out and takes hold of the door frame above the window.
That hand is not the hand of a twenty-something man. It's large, and gnarled, the skin tanned and rough, and there's no ring on the third finger.
"Commander Calvin James Murdock?"
The hand on the door tightens and a head slowly moves into sight as the man peers from the driver's seat to look toward me.
He's not what I was expecting.
I was expecting an old man. Someone who might remind me of my dad. With thinning hair and kind eyes, maybe some paunch to his stomach.
The man that cautiously eases his way out of the truck until he's standing at his full height beside it makes my mouth dry. My knees feel unsure and I don't think it's from the days of driving, the freezing rain, or the hope that the man in front of me might be willing to help me when no one else has been able-- or willing-- to.
He's easily over six foot, with a broad, stocky build and muscles that fill out the worn jeans and flannel shirt.
