Wild Man Creek. Робин Карр
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had all come running, stuck by him for six months while he tried to get his head and body back and here he was, just being an asshole. He threw Luke a bone. “Hey, any chance you have a little time this week? I got permission to install a satellite dish at that cabin. I can pick it up, but the installation is going to require some climbing.”
“You don’t want to be climbing,” Luke agreed.
“No,” Colin said, shaking his head. “I hear the only thing worse than getting a titanium rod shoved into one femur is when they do it to the other one.” He grinned. “But, I think I’m going to need internet. Stuck out in the woods, it’s my easiest way to stay in touch and buy things I need.”
“Sure. Just say when,” Luke said, clearly pleased to be allowed to do something to help.
“And with all my stuff in storage, any chance you have an extra gun? Mine are with my household goods.”
“Worried about bear?” Luke asked.
“Not necessarily. Might be a little worried about growers. I heard there are pot growers around.”
“Been a long time since we’ve had any trouble with pot growers—they tend to stay away from Virgin River and hang closer to Clear River. But, you should have a gun—bear are coming out with the cubs. Man, you get between a bear and her cub and it isn’t pretty. I have a rifle I never use.”
“Um, any chance you have a high-caliber handgun?” Colin asked, trying to stretch out his left arm and wincing at the pain.
“Still can’t get the best out of that arm, huh?” Luke asked, nodding toward the affected limb.
“It’s coming along. It’s the elbow, man. It might never be right. The breaks in the humerus seem okay now, but I went through a shoulder problem from—never mind all that. I’ll take the rifle if that’s all you have.”
“I have a Magnum locked up, but the thing is, if you shoot a bear with it, you might only piss him off.”
“The noise could scare him away, though,” Colin said.
“Hmm, yeah,” Luke said with a tilt of his head. “I haven’t fired it in a while. You’ll have to clean it, fire it, make sure—”
“Great, thanks, uhh …” Colin said. Then he smiled a bit lamely and said, “My buddy Brett seems to be very relaxed, sitting here on my lap. I think he’s going to need a little change. You might want to brace yourself.”
Colin had rented himself a pretty good little cabin. Furnished, but not fancy; electricity and indoor plumbing. It was lacking a few things—good, natural light, for one. When Colin had looked at it with Aiden the previous month, he lamented the dark shadows in the cabin, but he could live with that. He brought bright lights with him to illuminate the place for those days when it was too wet to paint outside. He looked forward to taking his painting, his easel, canvas and paints to a higher spot outdoors, to a clearing, and taking advantage of the good, natural light when the weather permitted. What the cabin did have was a quiet, secluded space in the forest with a creek. Or brook. Or whatever you called a baby river. That meant wildlife. And wildlife was what Colin wanted.
Colin had always been a gifted artist, but it had never interested him as much as flying and sports. He’d always doodled; in high school he was the one stuck with all the posters, signs, lettering, even chalk renderings of team players. High school counselors and art teachers wanted him to go to college to study art, but he’d been after something a lot more exciting.
It was ironic that Colin had wanted to fly since the first time he looked into the sky and saw aircraft above him, and yet Luke was the first in their family to do it. Luke always remarked that Colin followed him into Black Hawk helicopters, but that was not so. Luke had gone into the Army ready for any assignment from artillery to KP when he was offered a Warrant Officer School slot and from there flight school. Luke had stumbled into a flying career. Colin had dreamed of flying jets or helicopters since he’d been about six years old; he had enlisted with that as his single objective. He couldn’t wait to get off the ground!
Art was his sideline, just as it had been in high school. He was good at caricature and entertained his Army buddies with his drawings. He’d done an oil portrait of the five Riordan boys, ages ten to eighteen; he’d copied it from a photo and given it to his mother. He’d painted a huge, wall-size mural of a Black Hawk in a house he’d owned about ten years ago and when the new owner bought it he swore he’d keep it on that wall forever. But all that had been for fun. While in treatment—all kinds of treatment—he’d been drawing and painting. Ballroom dancing or squash certainly weren’t options for rehab.
The injuries Colin sustained from the crash led to addiction to Oxycontin, which led to being arrested for buying from a dealing doctor, which led to addiction treatment, which led to depression, which led to … Put all the pieces together and he’d been in one form of therapy or another for six months. Colin had been painting with oils, watercolors and acrylics for a few months now, one of the only parts of his past he’d been able to hang on to and something that was now part of his therapy. It slowed him down enough to let his mind move easily rather than crazily. He’d painted all the bowls of fruit and landscapes he could stand, but the thing that got his juices flowing was painting wildlife.
He was frighteningly good at it for a man who hadn’t been professionally trained. He could replicate some of the best wildlife portraits he found; then he discovered his own images through the lens of a camera.
He had taken one, and only one, professional art instruction in his life after high school and that was in the nuthouse. He went from the hospital to physical therapy to drug rehab to depression rehab—and it was in the third rehab that some wise guy counselor suggested a bona fide art instructor, since painting had become so crucial to Colin’s recovery.
The art instructor had said, “The hardest part of training a painter is showing him how to introduce emotion into his work, and you do it naturally.”
And Colin had said, “Don’t be ridiculous—I don’t have emotions anymore.”
After repeating this to his assigned counselor, they had decided to slowly reduce and eliminate the antidepressants and increase the group therapy sessions. To that idea Colin had said, “Can’t you just shoot me instead?”
It had worked in spite of Colin’s dislike of those touchy-feely group-hug sessions. He must have been ready to come off the antidepressants. Now he was glad; his senses were no longer dulled by drugs of any kind.
He’d never even considered art as a career. But why would he? He was into fast, edgy living; he was a combat-trained Black Hawk pilot who lived hard. He drove a sports car too fast, occasionally partied too much, played amateur rugby, had too many women, went to war too often. And then it all came crashing down on him, literally. In slowly learning to pick up the pieces of his lost life, he reclaimed his art. Art moved slow and exercised feelings he had been able to ignore for a long time.
Now, after many long months, he was released to pursue his continued healing and his art. He had a good digital camera with an exceptional zoom lens. Obviously wildlife couldn’t pose for him—but he could catch them in the wild, get several photos and work from them.
Though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, Colin was looking forward to really getting into his art and to reclaiming the life he had nearly lost.
As promised, Luke helped Colin get the internet up and running, talking a little more than he used to. It was probably the influence of living with a woman. Colin recalled that most women had that talking gene hardwired.
Colin spent the next couple of days cautiously prowling around the forest, confirming to himself that he’d made a good choice. He liked the quiet; he enjoyed the sounds in the woods. He liked to sit on his rough-hewn porch at dawn and dusk, still and quiet, camera at the ready, and watch the wildlife that would gather at the creek—everything from a black bear fishing for trout to a puma looking for a drink. He caught a good shot of a fox; a distant photo of a buck; the head of a doe peeking out of the brush; an