Lady Luck (Colorado Mountain #3)(77)

He made it to the top floor feeling that squeeze return in the left side of his chest.

But taking a shower knowing Lexie was in her kitchen downstairs, ready to go out with him for dinner, he let it go.

* * * * *

Walker was on his back, head to the pillows, his wife’s na**d body using his as her mattress.

Her finger was gliding along the thick swirls and slashes of the design of the tat that inked his left arm from the top of his forearm up his upper arm around his shoulder partially up his neck and across his left upper chest and pectoral. The position of her body did not allow her fingers to roam down along the part that inked across the left side of his abs and middle, curving around his side to his move across his back, meeting the ink that coiled over his shoulder, the design continuing down nearly to his groin at the front, on the top of his hip at the side and along the small of his back.

“This is a lot of ink,” she whispered, her eyes on her finger.

“Yeah,” he agreed because it was. It took five visits to get that work done and cost a f**kload of cash.

She looked to his face. “What is it?”

“Maori,” he told her and she blinked.

“What?”

“Maori,” he repeated. “Indigenous people of New Zealand,” he explained.

“I know who they are but why do you have Maori ink? Do you have Maori in you?”

He shook his head. “Not by blood.”

When he said no more, Lexie asked, “What does that mean?”

He had an arm wrapped low at her waist, his fingers trailing aimlessly on the soft skin of her hip.

When he spoke, he stopped trailing and curled them around.

“When I was growin’ up, there was a Maori mountain man, lived a fifteen minute bike ride away in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. He was an old f**ker, bad attitude but mostly he had a bad attitude ‘cause the kids in town knew he lived up there, alone, didn’t come into town often, wasn’t social and those kids thought it was a kick to f**k with him. I was one of those kids. Was up there doin’ shit to f**k with him when he caught me, dragged me to his cabin and laid me out. I was eight. He looked about eight hundred. He still laid me out, no hesitation, smacked me down.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her finger stopping its trailing too so all of them could curl into his shoulder.

“No, Lex, once he got done layin’ me out, he talked to me. Never had that. Did have a Dad who didn’t hesitate smackin’ me down but didn’t take the time to talk to me after about the shit I was doin’ wrong and how to pull it together. Had the time to take his hand to me but not the time to teach me lessons. Tuku was not like that.”

“Tuku?”

“Yeah, Tuku. That was his name. After that, found myself peddling my bike up there not to f**k with him but because he demonstrated he gave a shit and I didn’t have that. I wasn’t wrong. He gave a shit. Didn’t make a big deal about it but the next time I came he gave me his time, he gave me his company and when I kept coming he gave me his wisdom. So I peddled up there a lot. He was in this country because he married a white woman, an American, came here to be with her so she could be with her people. Got here, she lived long enough to get pregnant and die havin’ their baby. Baby died too. He loved her, that f**ked with his head, he checked out, stayed in his cabin, lived and breathed and ate and worked but other than that, life yanked away the only good thing he had in it at the same time takin’ the beauty they created together. He couldn’t deal so he didn’t.”

“That’s awful,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” Walker agreed because it was and knowing Tuku for fourteen years it was worse because he was a man who didn’t deserve that. Not even close.

“So he took you under his wing?”

Walker nodded. “I went up there a lot, any time I could. I did my homework up there because, when he knew I was gonna keep coming, he made me bring it with me. He taught me how to hold a hammer. He taught me how to use a drill. He taught me how to change oil, fix brakes and switch out a clutch. He taught me that any man worth anything works hard and he does it usin’ his hands. He creates shit. He fixes it. Although the folks who could afford his stuff were lawyers, stock brokers, he had no respect for them. That was just his way, his opinion and he taught me a man should form opinions, do it for a reason, stick by them but keep an open mind. He was an artist both in New Zealand and here. That’s how he made his living. He gave me a pen and ink. This,” he lifted his left arm then dropped it back to the bed. “After he died, I had it inked on me. Took what he gave me to a tattoo parlor right after the funeral and got it started.”

Her voice held a tone of light dawning as she whispered, “So he was your Ella.”

Her light dawned clear for her and for Walker because she was right.

“Yeah, he was my Ella.”

“So it was Tuku who brought out my Ty.”

My Ty.

My Ty.

Christ. Fuck.

Christ.

Two words. Just two words. Walker had no clue until that moment that two words could mean so f**king much. He’d never belonged to anyone. He’d never belonged anywhere. Never thought he wanted to.

Until he heard those two words.

He couldn’t keep the thick out of his voice when he confirmed, “Yeah, it was him.”