Down from the Mountain. Barbara Gale

it would have been an interesting moment. Well, at least now he knew why his ravaged face didn’t offend her.

      “How long have you been blind?”

      “You noticed. I wondered. Or were you trying to be polite and not say anything?”

      “Polite is not a word commonly associated with me,” David laughed matter-of-factly. “But were you seriously trying to hide your blindness?”

      Her smile was lopsided but she said nothing.

      “Oh, come on, did you honestly think I’d miss it?” he asked with heavy irony, trying to ignore the faint scent of gardenia that teased his nostrils now that they stood so close.

      “Of course not!” the thin girl laughed lightly. “It’s just that I prefer my blindness to be observed as late as possible. When people realize I’m blind, it sort of complicates things.”

      “Yeah, I’ll bet,” David said, disbelieving.

      But she took him seriously, and David watched, fascinated by the way her mobile face registered the smile in his voice. She might be blind but her eyes were a myriad of emotions. He didn’t even know her name, but the weirdest feeling came over him, that he would never tire of watching the play of emotions on the face of this lovely, sad woman.

      Generally she was resentful of this situation, of having to explain herself, but something told her that it was very important that this man understand her, from the first. So she steeled herself, took a deep breath and tried to speak patiently. “Look, people tend to build whole cloth out of the fact that I’m sightless. I hate when that happens. I’m just someone who had a run of bad luck, who, for a very short time, was very sick, as a child. My blindness was the result.”

      “And how did you end up here on an isolated mountain in the middle of Montana, in a museum of a mansion, with a seventy-five-year-old man?”

      “Oh, that was my good luck!”

      David clasped her chin gently, the better to look into her eyes to measure the truth of her words.

      “But it’s true!” she insisted proudly, and he believed her.

      “Then what does that make me?”

      “The prodigal son, didn’t you say?”

      David dropped his hand at that dash of cold water. “Well, hell, just look what happened to him, wasting his inheritance, crawling home with his tail between his legs.”

      “True,” she laughed softly as she shut the door behind them, “but then, it was never only about money, was it?”

      David turned slowly on his heel as she fiddled with the locks, his eyes half slits as he circled the huge foyer and tried to absorb all the old feelings that came surging back. Half a lifetime’s worth, he thought absently as he remembered how many times he’d been scolded as a child for sliding down the banister’s irresistible, gleaming curve.

      “You’ll be wanting your old room back, I expect,” he heard the young woman say. “I’ve had it aired—not that it needed doing, of course. Our housekeeper is a tyrant, you know.”

      “No, ma’am, I have no idea how demanding your housekeeper is,” he said, surprised back to earth by a vague surge of territoriality. But, after all, it was his home.

      With the acute hearing of the blind, she blushed to hear his irritation. Awkwardly she cleared her throat. “I guess you’re wondering who I am, since we’ve never met.”

      She was brave, he gave her that. “Actually, I thought you were the housekeeper, but I have a hunch you’re going to tell me otherwise.”

      “Yes, I guess I should explain. It’s like, well, your father sort of adopted me. Not legally,” she hurried to explain, “but he took me in, oh, it’s been quite a while, now. You could say that John was sort of my guardian. My name is Ellen Candler,” she announced, her hand thrust forward.

      Staring down at her small hand, David hesitated, then clasped it in his own with casual politeness.

      “Oh, you work outdoors!” Ellen cried, surprised by his calluses.

      “Very good, Miss Candler,” David said with a faint smile. “I’m a forest ranger, back east.”

      “Yes, I remember now. You live in New York and work up in the Adirondacks. John told me.”

      Abruptly, David dropped her hand. “I daresay he did.” Her apparent intimacy with his father struck an uncomfortable chord. Honed to a cordial detachment with the rest of the world, David had long since learned to keep his own counsel. But that didn’t stop him from wondering about the exact definition of guardian.

      Oblivious to David’s turmoil, Ellen chugged along. “You must be very tired after that drive, Mr. Hartwell, um, David, not to mention your long plane ride. Would you like to rest or would you prefer your dinner first?”

      “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d just like to take my bag upstairs and maybe think about food a little later.”

      “Of course, whatever you wish,” Ellen agreed softly, hearing his shoes tap the marble tile as he mounted the steps. “Oh, and Mr. Hartwell—David—”

      Ellen heard him pause. “I really am so sorry for…that John…your father…I really am sorry for your loss.”

      Half turning, David stared down at Ellen, her upturned face a delicate shadow in the early evening light. “Thank you, Miss Candler. I’m sorry for your loss, also.” He watched as her green eyes misted over with his quiet words.

      “Thank you,” she said softly. “John was very good to me.”

      “Yes, well…” David left off, unsure what to say. He was grateful when she walked away, disappearing through a side door. Taking the steps slowly, he studied the winding staircase, trailing a light hand along its polished banister. Reaching the upstairs landing, he fought an impulse to throw his leg over the handrail and hurtle back down to the ground floor. Older and wiser, his long stride guided him down the familiar hall to his bedroom. His hand on the doorknob, he entered cautiously, but Ellen Candler was right. It felt as though he’d been gone hours, instead of ten years, thanks to the vigilance of that efficient housekeeper. No doubt his father had given strict orders to have his room kept in readiness. Still, it was creepy to think that a stranger had been rooting among his possessions, lifting things, peeking into drawers, glancing through his books. But it was what he himself did now, feeling like an outsider as he discovered the treasures of his childhood. A battered copy of The Catcher in the Rye, his bottle top collection, pristine baseball cards still encased in their slender plastic cases.

      Noticing his frowning reflection in a nearby mirror, David leaned in for a closer look. Silky, raven hair drooped across his forehead, skirting the long-lashed blue eyes his unruly hair tried to hide, balanced against a fine straight nose. The Black Irish lineage of his ancestors stared back beneath a thick and unforgiving brow, eclipsed by a violent network of lines that mapped the entire right side of his face.

      He might have grown to be amazingly handsome, but he never thought about that anymore. Nearly fifteen years ago a cruel automobile accident had sent him flying through the windshield of a car and ended that possibility. The finest plastic surgeons in the country had done everything they could for the young teenager. The slim hope that modern medicine now offered with its newly developed techniques wasn’t remotely tempting to the man that child had become. David simply refused to endure any more skin grafting—and the excruciating pain that went with it—to effect only the slightest chance of change. Even now his right eye ached—nerve damage that no amount of surgery would ever repair. His raging headache he attributed to jet lag.

      He hardly noticed his scars anymore, they had become such an integral part of him. On the other hand, rubbing his stubbly, hard jaw, he realized that he desperately needed a shave, and a shower wouldn’t hurt any, either. Stripping down to the buff, David soon had the bathroom steaming, his calloused hands lathering a hard, lean body toughened