Gentle Love, Tough Soul

Chapter Two

After listening to Christopher's directions, he quickly took a quick look at his watch. It was almost four o'clock. Lunch is too late to worry about. He should just get right to this and drop off his case in the Old Lodge. He would need to call Ava after he ensured that the deal had been signed.

He waited until just after four to maneuver the long bonnet of his black Mercedes, leaving the little village's constrained boundaries and traveling in the direction Christopher Anderson had told him to take.

It was already getting dusk in early December, with a little layer of frost whitening the hedgerows. Observing it with dismay, Brandon thought of the damage a harsh winter would do to his contract schedules, particularly the ones about the job they were doing for one of the bigger oil firms in the North of Scotland. He had the right of way, but he slowed down a little as the road split, cursing as a child on a bicycle suddenly appeared in front of his car on the side road. The same inner consciousness that had previously registered the frosty hedgerows and the temperature drop produced the automatic decision for him to swerve rather than brake. Now, one of them loomed ahead of him, its nasty thorns etched sharply in black and white, scratching horribly against his car's front wing. He wrenched hard on the wheel, trying to keep the car on the road and bring it to a stop, feeling the jolt as the front wheel struck the ditch.

"I say, I apologize for everything."

He was startled to realize how narrowly he had escaped running the bicycle over when the young man's voice suddenly broke the dense silence of the automobile. This realization was accompanied by a strong feeling of reactionary rage.

"Just what the hell do you think you were doing?" he gritted as he turned to the passenger door and leaned over to the half-open window, his eyes the biting cold of the polar seas that Christopher Anderson had so perfectly visualized they could be. "Have you never been taught any road etiquette? Damn you, do you not understand what a giveaway sign means?"

The boyish face grew alarmingly pale, and hazel eyes held his gloomy rage with an unwavering gaze, a slight tinge of color suddenly pushed out. With a curse, Brandon opened his door and walked to the passenger side. The boy had gotten off his bike and leaned over it, his expression hidden by his straight, tow-colored hair.

"Go easy on yourself." Come on, Brandon said as he opened the passenger door, partially pushing the child through it. Tall and lean, he appeared to be in his early teens. Brandon assumed that since he was dressed in his school uniform, he was headed home. Brandon felt as though he had traveled back in time as he brushed his fingertips over the paintwork of his ancient, well-maintained, and lit bike. Oh my goodness, he recalled his first real bike. It had brought him joy and pride. He had used it for school as well. With a small wince, he recalled the forbidden pleasure of riding it in the tail draft of a large truck. His wrath left him, replaced by a tired sluggishness.

With a stoop, he retrieved the bike and confidently walked to the rear of the vehicle.

The child was alerted by his actions, and he struggled to exit the automobile, his face pale with fright. He said, "Hey," in a voice that sounded as if he was about to become a man, Brandon surmised.

"It's alright," Brandon retorted sourly. "Although it wouldn't be more than you deserve, I'm not about to toss it into the ditch and throw you after it. Didn't your father always tell you not to rush out at a crossroads like that and not to look before you cross?"

Reluctantly he said "My dad passed away," and Brandon smothered the fleeting sense of shame that jabbed at him.

Then, he corrected himself sharply, "Your mother, or whoever the hell is in charge of you. I'll give you a ride back to where you reside."

The youngster started to get out of the car again, saying, "There's no need, I can walk."

Brandon swore immediately, realizing how exhausted and worn he was. "Stop being so stupid," he snapped. "I wouldn't trust you not to get back on that damned bike and try to give some other poor driver a heart attack; you're far too shocked to be walking anywhere."

He noticed the boy's muscles tensing up a little as he let out a grudging smile in the dim light. What could have been a deadly mishap was prevented: the boy's white face suggested that the shock of what had happened had taught him a lesson he would never forget, and he was too exhausted to spend any more time lecturing the boy; he would leave that to his mother.

"Where do you live?" as he slipped the bike into the spacious boot of the Mercedes and shut the cover, he inquired. "I am heading for a place known as the Old Lodge."

As he climbed back into the car, the boy's quiet nature caused his eyes to narrow in a contemplative examination of the young face. "Come on, tell me where you live," he curtly asked.

Reluctantly, Brandon admitted, "At the Old Lodge." He grimaced a little, trying to remember what Christopher Anderson had told him about his potential landlady.

"You must be Mrs. Abbot's..."

"Stepson," the boy said.

Brandon observed the child biting his bottom lip as a multitude of emotions vied for control. "Are you still planning to remain with us?" He asked a long question, startling Brandon a little with the intensity of his request. He was prepared for the youngster to ask him to keep the accident a secret from his stepmother.

When he didn't respond, his passenger bluntly stated, "Ma needs the money. She struggles to make ends meet because we don't receive many boarders in the winter. Mr. Anderson believes she ought to sell the house, but she refuses to because she believes I should own it since it has nearly always been in my family. I told her I didn't care," he said. "But she won't listen to me. Is it still your intention to remain?"

After a moment of silence, he added in a fairly harsh manner. "I have to ride my bike for my paper round, even though my mother doesn't like it when I do. I can use my money to cover any damage to your automobile. It could take a few weeks."

Based on the probable harm the thorny hedge caused to his paint job, Brandon surmised that the repayment would probably take months or perhaps years instead of weeks. Nevertheless, he remained silent, attracted to the boy now that his immediate rage had subsided.

"You're pretty safe on that score, Mr. Christopher Anderson told me I'd be lucky to find myself any alternative accommodation locally at this time of year."

The boy casually responded, "Well, all the big hotels will be booked up for the Christmas holidays now," as a look of relaxation crossed his face.

Holidays. Brandon had not realized how near it was. He had completely forgotten about Christmas and its celebration due to the hectic past several weeks in Nigeria.

"Take a left turn here," his passenger instructed, abruptly becoming more at ease. "It's not that far now."