Return to Virgin River (Virgin River #19) - Robyn Carr Page 0,15
was. He was about six feet to her five-foot-four. He had light brown hair to go with his blue eyes, paint splatters on his boots and jeans, tanned forearms and, she couldn’t help but notice, broad shoulders and big hands.
“Does the house come with a gardener?” she asked, giving him a smile.
“If you want,” he said. “I was just trying to clean it up a little to make a good impression. I take it the Realtor didn’t have any winners?”
“Well, there’s one I liked.”
“Good, then look at this one and see how it compares.”
“So, tell me about this house?”
“I had been living in the city—San Francisco—but it was crowded and expensive and my dad was here, so I came up to stay with him for a while. It wasn’t long before I decided this was a better place for me, but I wanted my own house and shop. We built this little house together. We did it in one summer and I finished the inside in the winter. It’s not very big. It was meant to be a small one-bedroom house with a kitchen and a large shop in back. I make things. Sculptures and pots and artsy-fartsy things. I meant for it to be more of a shop than a house, but you know how plans are. I’d been here a few years when my dad passed away. I moved into his house, knocked out a bedroom wall and recreated the shop in the back of his house.”
“My mom passed away,” she blurted out and immediately regretted it. It was a reflex, that’s all. It was her life now, after all. She felt defined by it.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Thank you. And I’m so sorry about your father.”
“Thanks. I fixed up this house so it could be used if anyone came to visit, like family or friends, and moved into my dad’s house. I moved everything from my shop into my dad’s house and restored the guest room in the smaller house, but I never furnished it. So, it’s still small, but...”
“You’re an artist?” she asked.
“I try,” he said. “I dabble in clay, ceramics, metal, glass. I think I’m more of a craftsman than artist, but sometimes I surprise myself with something I think could be considered art. And I build. When my work slows down or doesn’t sell, I work construction. I’m basically unemployed,” he added with an engaging grin.
“It sounds like a wonderful life,” she said.
“It’s not nearly as expensive to live here as in the city. In the city I had to live in a small flat and rent space to work—it was inconvenient. I have to be flexible. I also do cabinets, trim, just about anything. I’ve even worked as a framer. And I train dogs.”
Her eyes got very big. “Dogs?” she said.
He frowned and peered at her. “Dogs,” he said. “I’m only working with a couple right now but I’ve had as many as eight at once. It’s not a big business, not full-time. I’m just kind of hooked.”
She gulped. “Do you train them to be attack dogs? Guard dogs?”
“No,” he said. “Hunting dogs or support dogs or just plain nice family dogs. I trained a PTSD support dog once—he was amazing. I’d love to do more of that...”
“So, you have dogs?”
“Hey, you have a problem with dogs?”
“I’m afraid of them,” she said. “I was bitten when I was six. Badly. I don’t think I got over it.”
“If I have dogs in training, they don’t run free. I have a fenced area where they train or play and I have my own dog, an English setter named Otis. He’s an amazing partner and helps with the training. I usually bring an extra dog who’s in training into the house at night to be sure they cohabit, and Otis is less okay with that every year. He’s ten. I guess he’s entitled. He’s been with me a long time.” He frowned again. “I manage the dogs very carefully. You’re in absolutely no danger. Ever. I can’t have a trainee get loose—can you imagine the terrible mess if I lost one?”
“Hunting, huh?” she asked. “Support dogs?”
“All kinds of support—for owners with anxiety or diabetes or phobias or, like I said, PTSD. If you decide to stick around, I can help with that fear thing, though can I stress to you right now—you should never trust a dog you don’t know. They’re animals, after all.”
So, he could help her, she thought wryly. It was universal, that desire