Wild Man Creek (Virgin River #14)(26)

He went home. Where he wished he did have a beer!

He was no longer hungry. He turned on his bright lighting, brought out the four-by-four canvas of the buck. He attached two photos to the top of the canvas—one of the animal he’d caught on camera at the river and a second of a nicer-looking background. He was usually able to get a little lost in the painting, but not this time. And when he heard a car or truck engine about a half hour later, he steamed up all over again. How like Luke to follow him with the fight!

But it wasn’t Luke.

“We’d better have a talk,” Shelby said from behind him. She’d let herself in.

He turned, palette and brush in hand. “I thought you were Luke.”

Shelby closed the door and walked into his brightly lit cabin. “Some advice,” she said. “If you want to keep Luke out, it would be best to try the door locks.”

He put down the palette and brush. She was such a beautiful, tiny thing in her boots and jeans, suede jacket, hair down to her butt. She was twenty-seven, but she looked even younger. “Aren’t you afraid of a typical Riordan screaming match?” he asked her.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said. “Riordan men have a lot of flaws, but they’re always civil to women. Let’s talk. This has to stop.”

“Shelby, Luke had no reason to jump on me. I wasn’t using drugs of any kind. I just had a couple of beers, a few weeks apart….”

“Not that, I don’t care about that. This is about the conflict you have with Luke and he with you. He claims not to know how it all started, but that doesn’t matter. He’s your brother. He cares about you. Somehow you and Luke have to come to terms. There’s no reason to tear up the rest of the family over whatever it is.”

“The rest of the family learned to live with it by the time we were eight and ten,” he said.

“I didn’t,” she replied. “Brett didn’t.”

He was stunned silent for a moment. Briefly ashamed. “Aw, Shelby…”

“I can understand how it gets on your nerves to feel like someone’s always watching you. If we hadn’t nearly lost you, maybe Luke would go a little lighter…”

“Doubtful,” Colin said. “He has a tendency to take charge. Taking charge is fun for him. Not so much for me.”

“He loves you. He cares.”

“He’s a control freak,” Colin said.

“Also true,” she said. “And so are you or you’d just answer his concerns without a fight every time.”

Colin was suddenly deflated and he sat down in the nearest chair, hanging his head. When he lifted it, his eyes were sad. “Please,” he said to Shelby. “Sit down for a second.”

She sat in the chair nearest him, leaning toward him, her hands on her knees.

Colin took a deep breath. “I have been alerted about problems with cross-addiction. For several months I didn’t even gargle with mouthwash that contained microscopic amounts of alcohol. I’ve never been a big drinker. Oh, there were times I could overdo it with my boys, but I wasn’t irresponsible—no DUIs in my history, no bar fights, no issues. I don’t think a beer once a week or month is going to be a problem for me. But still—there isn’t any liquor of any kind in this cabin. Go ahead,” he said. “Check.”

“I’m not going to check.”

“I never had a drug or drinking problem, but over a month of lots of Oxycontin right after the crash is a whole different animal. It’s powerful stuff and I was having a lot of pain. I think it’s possible if I’d had my medicine flipped to a nonnarcotic after a week or two I wouldn’t have faced this problem, but that’s hindsight. I have to go forward with the knowledge that I tried to buy it on the street, I was that panicked at the thought of running out. That’s addict thinking. Trust me, I’m aware.”

“Why couldn’t you just talk to Luke about it?” she asked.

“It’s complicated,” he said. “First of all, Luke never listens. He never minds his own goddamn business. He’s real judgmental, which happens when you know everything. And I have bigger problems—I’m trying like hell to get some kind of life! This isn’t what I had in mind.”

“The paintings, Colin,” she said, letting her hand wave at the room, gesturing at all the paintings nearly done, leaning against the walls or up on easels. “They’re so good. Just amazing.”

“But this is not what I planned. I like to draw, paint, build… But I love to fly! I wasn’t going to stop—I was going to fly until the FAA stopped me. I knew the Army would force me out eventually, but I planned on doing civilian rescue chopper flying or news chopper or corporate flying. But now, with a history of drug treatment and hospitalization for depression, that’s out of the picture. Even I wouldn’t hire me.”

“I’m sorry, Colin. But I think it was the right decision. Treatment.”

“No argument there. I was only on the oxy merry-go-round for a month—I was in the pen with people who’d been addicted for years. To that and to even worse stuff. Multiple stuff. Now I might be just kidding myself, and we’ll see, but those folks coming out of long-term addiction to multiple drugs probably shouldn’t risk the occasional beer. I used oxy for thirty days and don’t really know how long my addiction was and, by the grace of God, I got caught the first time I tried to buy it on the street. My chances of getting beyond that? I’d say they’re good! To tell you the truth, that’s the least of my problems—I don’t even want a painkiller. I have aches and pains, but a life I didn’t choose was left to me. And I have a big brother who can’t back off and let me figure things out.”