The Caretaker’s Son

THE CARETAKER'S SON

PROLOGUE

In a secluded area of the Rocky Mountains, there are a series of expensive homes and retreats for the very wealthy. On the subject property of this story, 120 acres of pristine forest which backs up to a National Forest, there is a large, beautiful, well-cared for home; and below it, at the entrance to the property, is a caretaker's cabin. These days, that's home for me.

I am Nicholas. I'm 6'-3" and 220 pounds. I have a solid build and am well-muscled -- the result of hard work, not exercise. I wear my slightly wavy, medium-blond hair a little long -- just over my ears, and over the collar. I am clean shaven, and people say I have a handsome face. I'm 34 now and divorced -- no children.

Over the last few years, I've had some turmoil and upheaval in my life. In the present, I'm just kind of existing, day to day. As far as my future goes, I'm not looking that far ahead, but it's not looking great, anyway -- at least in the happiness department.

I'm live alone now. With my father's passing, I have no family left. Currently, I'm trying to tie up some loose ends and move on with my life, though I don't know where to.

DAY ONE -- A RICH OLD BIDDY

I was driving back to the caretaker's cabin in an old work truck which had been on the property as long as I could remember. It was a 58 Chevy half-ton with a flatbed. The steering wallowed and you had to rock the steering wheel back and forth to keep it going straight. The seat springs were worn out at the driver's and passenger's spots, and you sat in a hole at both positions. But the engine, which had been overhauled several times, was strong, and the drivetrain had been kept up, including the old four-speed manual transmission with its floor-mounted, stick shift. Also, it had oversized tires with aggressive tread that gave it extra traction. I was currently driving up the mountain in six inches of snow with one-foot drifts every so often. The tire chains on the rear wheels beat out a steady, jangling rhythm which filled the otherwise silent landscape around me. The property was only about ten miles ahead and I had made my last run of the day, and probably for at least another week. More snow was coming in and it was unlikely I would be able to get off the mountain anytime, soon.

I had hauled off most of the stuff I needed to. Anything left could be picked up in one more load when the weather cleared. About five miles from the cabin, snow started coming down again in big, fluffy flakes. It would take me a while to get there but I figured I had time, so I relaxed and kept my speed at a steady 18 miles an hour, which was in the sweet spot of second gear for the old truck, and which assured me good traction and control on the steep grade.

The snow had come several days earlier than the weather-guessers predicted, and they had upgraded their original forecast of 'up to twelve inches' of total accumulation to 'up to three feet'! But they were close...Not. It caught a lot of people by surprise, and the rich and privileged had been scrambling to leave their multimillion-dollar mountain retreats in droves over the last couple days. Besides the few permanent residents, I was likely the last person up here at this point, which was fine with me. Lately, I enjoyed the solitude.

About three miles from the cabin, I came upon a car off the shoulder and in a ditch. Judging by the snow accumulation, it had been sitting there for close to an hour. I had come down the mountain about two hours ago, and it wasn't there then. There was a cloud of steam and exhaust coming out the back, so the car was running and there was undoubtedly someone inside. I pulled up beside the forest-green Jaguar XJ6 sedan, probably a late 80's model -- a very sweet ride and a true classic. The windows were fogged over and I couldn't see inside. I expected somebody to get out and say they needed help, or at least lower a window. But nothing.

I honked my horn a couple times, reached across the seat and cranked the passenger window down. Over the chugging, rumbling sound of the old straight-six, truck engine, I hollered across at the person in the car. "Hey, can you hear me, lower your window." There was no response. I could see the shadowy figure of a person through the fogged driver's window. Maybe they were dead. That would simplify things...

But I could see slight movement -- bummer. I was going to have to get out and check on them. I worked my way around the back of the truck and up to the driver's door and rapped on the window. It appeared to be a woman inside and she jerked with a start.

"Ma'am, lower your window so I can talk to you. You can't stay here. More snow is coming."

I was freezing my balls off and this rich, old biddy was sitting in her warm Jag, shining me on. I almost said "To hell with her, let her freeze," but I knew I couldn't.

I tried again, "Ma'am, you can't sit here. Your car is going to run out of fuel, then you'll freeze to death."

Finally, the window came down a couple inches. I could just see the woman's eyes, and could see fear in them. She was scared to death -- afraid because of her situation, or maybe afraid of me.

"Can you call a tow truck for me, please? My cellphone isn't working," the shaky voice on the other side of window pleaded.

"Ma'am, there's no cell service up here -- cell tower's on the fritz. And I don't have phone service at the cabin. Besides, a tow truck couldn't get to you before this road becomes impassable. Look, you're going to have to leave your car, but we have to go now, while I can still get up the hill and get you to shelter."

"No, I'll just wait it out here," she replied, obviously not understanding the seriousness of the situation.

I tried once more, "I can help you, but we have to leave now or I will be stuck here and we'll both freeze to death. You can't wait it out. In a few hours, there will be close to three feet of snow and it'll be at least a week before a road-clearing crew gets to this road; and that's only if another storm doesn't come through. Tonight, it's going to be in the teens or lower. You have to come with me."

No response.

"Ma'am, I'm freezing. I can't stand out here any longer. Get out of your damn car, get in the truck and I will take you to a warm cabin which is just three miles further up. But I'm leaving now, with you or without you."

She close the damn window.

"Fuck it," I said to myself, then heard her engine go silent. She cracked her door open and peered out at me. I was taken aback. She wasn't an old biddy, she was young, late 20's, near as I could tell, and she was beautiful, at least her face was. I couldn't make out anything else. She was bundled in a heavy coat.

As we made eye contact, her voice still shaky, she asked, "Can I trust you? You're not going to, um..."

"No, no. I'm not an axe murderer, lady," I interrupted her, a little peeved, but then realized I probably didn't look all that great. I was probably dirty and disheveled-looking. I was wearing dirty, worn jeans and an old, paint and grease-stained coat.

"Sorry, ma'am, I've been hauling junk today and these are just old, work clothes. Please don't be put off by my appearance. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm trying to help you."

I quickly glanced up the road. Shit, it was getting deep, fast.

"We have to go now or I won't be able to make it," I repeated, pleading with my eyes.

"Okay, I, I'm sorry. I'm just scared," she replied as she finally opened her door and stood. Her feet started to go out from under her and I grabbed her, almost falling, too. She gasped. As soon as I steadied her, I directed her to my passenger door.

"My luggage," she started to turn.

"No, I'll get it. You get in. Where is it?"

"The trunk."

"Where's the release?"

"On the dash," she pointed.

As she reluctantly climbed into the truck, I popped the jag's trunk, grabbed her suitcase and travel case and threw them on the back of the truck, then made it back to my side as quickly as I could.

As soon as my butt hit the seat, I put the old truck in gear and slowly let out on the clutch pedal. The chains grabbed and we lurched forward. The snow was already close to ten inches deep. Pretty soon I would be high-centering and we'd be screwed. I was going to be pushing some soft snow, as it was. It felt like it took forever to make the last three miles to the cabin, but it finally came into sight, and I was able to relax.

We hadn't spoken the whole way up. I guess she was too scared to talk and I was too busy trying to keep on the road and out of the ditch to chat her up. It was getting impossible to tell where the road was. Fortunately, I knew the roads twists and turns like the back of my hand.

The snow was coming down heavy now and you could only see 20 feet in front of you.

As I pulled up in front of the cabin, I turned to her, "Get inside. The door's unlocked. I'll get your luggage. Be careful, there's ice on the ramp under that snow."

She got out and headed up the long ramp to the cabin, trudging through six to eight inches of fresh snow. I had shoveled it off at lunch, and that much had accumulated in the last three hours; and it was coming down heavier now than at any time before.

She was standing inside the door when I came up the walk and opened it to let me in. I stomped the snow off my feet in the ante-room, and walked past her into the wide hallway which functioned as a foyer. She closed the door behind me, then stood by it, arms folded across her chest.

I started, "I'm Nicholas. This is the caretaker's cabin. Come in and get warm. You can hang your coat up there."

She removed her coat and overshoes. I was completely surprised for the second time -- stunned, actually. First, she pulled her hood back and a cloud of long, chestnut-brown hair cascaded down her back. It had shimmers of natural auburn highlights running through it. Then she removed the bulky coat and hung it up; and I got my first look at her body. She was tall and slender, at least 5'-11" and probably weighed no more than 130 pounds. She was wearing an expensive, well-tailored, pinstriped, blue and gray pantsuit. Her very long hair fell around her upper body, perfectly framing her shoulders and finely featured, oval face. She was really lovely -- her body reminded me of a 'runway' model. I quickly turned and headed to the kitchen to avoid staring -- pretty sure that wouldn't help to put her at ease.

"How about a cup of coffee to help you warm up?" I asked as I headed to the kitchen.

"Yes, please. I am a bit chilled," she answered as she followed me.

As I got the coffee started, she introduced herself, "I'm Hannah. Thank you for helping me. I'm sorry about...how I reacted...I didn't know if...if...you were...um, dangerous. I felt very vulnerable."

"Nice to meet you, Hannah," I said turning towards her. "And I understand. I guess my appearance didn't help. I guess I look pretty sketchy," I laughed.

She smiled, "Yes, a little...and you are kind of a big guy, strong-looking, so..."

"Intimidating," I finished for her. Then I saw my reflection in the kitchen window. My hair was askew, and my face and clothes were smudged with dirt. I was a sight.

"While the coffee's brewing, I'm going to clean up and change. Pour yourself a cup when it's ready. There's milk and half-and-half in the fridge, and sugar and sweetener on the table."

I went to my room, grabbed some clean clothes and went down the hall to the bathroom. At the sink, I looked in the mirror, my face was smeared with dirt and I was covered in dust. No wonder I scared her -- I looked like a big, filthy bum.

When I started to change clothes, I realized I didn't smell too fresh either, so I jumped in the shower. I cleaned up quickly, dried and dressed, ran a comb through my hair and splashed on some aftershave.

When I returned to the kitchen, Hannah was sitting at the table, drinking her coffee and fidgeting with her phone.

She looked up as I approached and gave me the oddest look.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"What? Oh, sorry. I was just surprised. I didn't recognize you. You look so different...I mean, you cleaned up nice."

"I don't look like an axe murderer, anymore?" I joked.

She laughed, nervously, "I'm so sorry, um, Nicholas?"

"Nick, please."

"Nick. I feel like such a fool. And thank you again for helping me...rescuing me. I would have frozen to death, wouldn't I?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Then I actually owe you my life," she stated, seriously.

"Well, the important thing is, you're safe now. And I have to ask, what were you doing up here, in this weather, alone?"

"I was meeting someone -- my husband, actually."

"He must be worried sick about you..."

"Oh, if only! But no, we're getting divorced. I have the papers with me. He's been dodging me for weeks and finally agreed to sign, so I came straightaway before he changed his mind, and I didn't check the weather."

"So, he doesn't want the divorce?"

"Oh, he wants it, just, well, it's about money, and him trying to get his hands on more -- it's a long story."

"Sounds familiar," I said, sympathizing.

"Personal experience, if it's okay to ask?"

"Sure, it's fine. And yes, my ex and I went through a very contentious divorce four years ago," I revealed.

"I'm sorry. It's terrible what people who once loved each other, will end up putting each other through. I'm sick of the whole thing. But enough about that. How long were you married?"

"Almost six years."

"And you've been divorced four years? I guess you got married very young?"

"No," I replied, "not too young."

"May I ask how old you are?" she questioned, looking perplexed.

"I'm 34."

"No!" she exclaimed, "You don't look...I mean, I would have guessed no more than mid-20's."

"Yeah, I get that a lot. I still get carded for alcohol, occasionally. I've always been 'baby-faced' -- younger looking than I am...which I used to hate. But as I get older, I kind of like it," I smiled.

She replied, "You're almost as old as me."

"You're saying I'm younger than you? No way!"

"How old do you think I am?" she asked.

"Under 30, for sure."

"Well thank you, Nick. I'm 37."

I lifted my coffee cup in a mock toast, "Well, one compliment deserves another in return. But I'm afraid I need to see some ID, because I don't believe you," I kidded.

She laughed, and when she did, her eyes lit up. I noticed they were a dazzling emerald-green.

She studied her coffee cup a moment, then looked up, "That was one of many issues in my marriage. My husband went younger, much younger. He shacked up with a 23-year-old," she frowned, shaking her head, "Can't compete with that."

"Your husband's an idiot," I said, bluntly.

Shyly, she replied, "Thank you." Then she grinned, "And I agree. He's a major idiot!"

"He'd have to be. I don't really know you, but I can tell you are a woman of quality, and quite beautiful...Um, sorry, didn't mean to be...forward...but you are...beautiful, very...I'll shut up," I stumbled, trying to extract my size-12 foot from my mouth.

She blushed, "No, that's fine, thank you. I appreciate it. It's nice to hear a compliment. You probably know what it does to your ego when somebody you love, rejects you."

"Yes, it makes you feel less than worthless," I said, almost to myself, old feelings surfacing -- feelings I had worked hard to bury.

I quickly snapped out of it, "Hey, you must be hungry. What kind of host am I? Why don't I rustle up some dinner?"

"Please don't go to any trouble..."

"No trouble, and I have to eat. I have plenty of food, but a lot of stuff is in the freezer. Will eggs, sausage and potatoes suffice for now? Oh, and I have some grapefruit."

"Sounds, great. I guess I am pretty hungry. Thank you. And you're a wonderful host," she added, sincerely.

I started dinner and Hannah pitched in, working beside me like we had done this many times before. It felt very comfortable. And for the first time in a long time, I was enjoying having company. For quite a while, I've been keeping to myself, living a pretty solitary existence. This was a refreshing change.

We ate and chatted. Hannah told me a little about herself. I learned she and her husband had a very successful business, which they had built up together from nothing; and now, he didn't want to share the spoils, so to speak, wanted to keep the largesse for himself. In the end, he was forced to buy her out and he didn't like the price tag, hence the delay in signing.

As we talked, I found myself daydreaming, "Why couldn't I have met someone like Hannah, long ago, instead of my ex?" I lamented.

After cleanup, I asked if she would like a drink. I had some brandy and some red wine. The brandy was my dad's. I had brought the wine.

"Wine would be nice."

"I'll get the fireplace going and we can relax in there."

"Um, I'm feeling a little rumpled. Would it be okay if I changed out of these clothes and got comfortable?" she asked.

"Of course. Would you like to shower, too? There's no rush."

"Actually, a shower sounds divine. You sure you don't mind waiting?"

"I have no place to go," I joked.

She laughed, "I guess we do have a bit of free time on our hands."

"I'll set you up with towels and turn the heater on, show you where everything is."

I led her down the hall to the main bedroom, where I had put her luggage, "The bed linens are fresh. The closet and the dresser are empty, so make yourself at home."

As I turned to leave, Hannah threw her arms around me, hugging me fiercely, "Thank you, Nick. Thank you for showing up when you did, for saving me, for your kindness," the last spoken in a choked-up voice.

I gently hugged her and patted her on the back, "You're more than welcome. I'm thankful you're okay...and that you didn't have a gun. I think you might have shot me," I ended with levity to lighten the mood.

She released me and took my hand between hers and patted it, "You're a good man, Nick. And I did have a gun. It was in my purse, and I had my hand on it when I opened my car door." She grinned, "I'm glad I didn't shoot you. I couldn't have driven your truck!"

"I'm glad I was indispensable," I replied. "Holler if you need anything."

I left her to shower and went to start a fire. The house has a gas furnace, which I use as necessary, but I have a shed full of firewood, and if the power goes out, the generator runs on the same propane as the furnace, so, as much as possible, I reserve the propane supply for emergencies.

I was relaxing by the fire when Hannah called from the bedroom, "Nick, um, I have a small dilemma."

"What's up?" I called back, getting up from my chair.

"I packed in a hurry and forgot my robe, and, um, I was going to put on sleepwear, save my clothes for...Anyway, I only have negligees, no pajamas -- don't wear them. I would like to join you by the fire for wine, but...I'm feeling a little uncomfortable. I mean, I don't want to...give you the wrong idea...wrong impression. I could put regular clothes on..."

"Hannah, whatever makes you comfortable, but I can promise you, I'll be a gentleman."

When she came into the living room, I thought, "I may have misspoken." She was wearing a dusty-rose negligee which ended at mid-thigh with the bodice having a deep 'V' neck, revealing a hint of her small, mounded breasts, just the inside curves visible. Her prominent collar bones and long, slender neck combined to give her an elegant bearing, very Princess Di, I thought. Her legs were long, slender and shapely. Her body looked as young as her face, belying her actual age. Her beautiful skin was a light tawny-brown, like a well-tanned person's color, but appeared to be her natural skin tone. Her long legs and long, narrow torso combined to present a lithe, willowy figure. When she walked in, I could tell she felt self-conscious, so I did my best to not stare and tried to act casually.