Temptation Ridge (Virgin River #6)(31)

“Thanks. Luke.”

“You’re welcome, Art.”

Luke went back to the house and dug around in his things. Luke was a big guy, but his waist was trim, so nothing of his would fit Art. He finally settled on a bathrobe he never wore, and with towels, soap, pillows and a sleeping bag, he went back down to number six. It was empty. He hoped Art hadn’t panicked and run, because the guy needed a little assist.

But Art had gone, as he was told, to the trailer. The shower, barely warm and tiny as hell, was running. Luke knocked on the door. “Art? Hey, Art?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I hand you over some soap? Leave you a bathrobe and some towels?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t look at me.”

“I won’t. You put on this bathrobe and I think I’ll wash these clothes for you. They’re nasty, Art.”

“They’re dirty,” Art corrected.

They were way past dirty. Luke handed a bar of soap into the shower and left the towels and robe hanging on the hooks right outside. Then he gingerly plucked the clothes off the floor and, leaving the shoes, carried them to his house. But before he entered, he changed his mind. They were so awful and probably infested, he didn’t even want them in his washing machine. They were also threadbare, the underwear gray…yet the bruise was new. Suddenly Luke realized this was how Art had been dressed in the group home. So, Luke dug around in his toolbox for a tape measure and went back to the trailer. He walked in to find Art in his blue terry robe. Art jumped in surprise.

“Don’t worry,” Luke said. “I looked at your clothes and they seem to be in bad shape. I don’t have anything that will fit you, but since you’re going to work for me, I’m going to buy something in your size. Any chance you know your size?”

“Forty.”

“What’s forty, Art?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay, no problem. Let me measure your waist. I bet it’s your waist. But I’ll need—” He stopped. He couldn’t measure the man’s inseam. Art had asked not to be looked at and Luke had a momentary concern that maybe something uncomfortable, if not horrible, had happened to him. He’d measure the inseam of the discarded pants. That would do.

Art stood still for him while he put the tape measure around his waist. Forty—the guy was fairly competent. Time would tell how competent, but Luke had made his decision. He was going to give him a chance to not be homeless or beaten. He’d work out the details later.

“What size are your shoes?”

“Ten,” Art said. “Wide. Very wide.”

“Good. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to get you some clothes because yours are ruined. Then I’m going to make sure you have dinner. And tomorrow we can talk about your chores. Can you stay here, inside, until I get back? It’ll be more than an hour.”

He looked at the rolled-up sleeping bag on the bed in the trailer. “Can I open that? It’s okay?”

“Sure. Have a nap if you want to.” Luke smiled at him. “You look good all cleaned up. How long you been on the road, buddy?”

He shrugged. But it couldn’t have been too long—the bruise was still fresh. He must have had some rough experiences in a short time to get so filthy.

“I’ll be back. Stay inside. I don’t want you scaring anybody in your bathrobe.”

“It’s your bathrobe,” Art said. He was clearly very literal.

“I’m giving it to you, pal. I never once put it on. I think my mother gave it to me. I think she gives me one every Christmas. Maybe she’s trying to keep me from walking around naked.”

“My mother’s gone now.”

Luke reached out and squeezed his upper arm. “Yeah, you told me that. I’m sorry, man.”

“I have a group home. But I don’t want to have that job anymore.”

“I understand, Art. You don’t have to do that job. No one on this job will hit you. You clear on that?”

He smiled a small smile. A small, tired, hungry, beaten-down smile. “Clear. Luke.”

Two hours later, Art had new clothes. Functional clothes. Loose blue jeans and soft denim shirts, new tighty-whities and clean socks, new tennis shoes—black, because his chores would get him dirty. He also had a toothbrush, paste, comb, disposable razor and shaving cream. Luke made him a hamburger for dinner, made sure he knew where everything was in the trailer. Then he observed the shaving to be sure Art handled the razor safely. “You’ll be okay here by yourself tonight?” he asked.

“I like it,” Art said. “I wished it was mine when I first saw it.”

“That right? You won’t run off, will you?”

“I’m helping you now, Luke.”

“I got you some bottled water and a few protein bars in case you get hungry before morning. If you have a problem, you know where I am. I’m in the house. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, sitting on the small bed and circling his chubby knees with his arms, rocking.

“You need anything else, Art?”

“No.”

“See you first thing in the morning, then. We’ll have some breakfast together.”

“Okay. Thanks. Luke.”

Luke went back to his house. He was staying in tonight, in case Art needed anything, even though it meant not running into Shelby. He felt briefly disappointed; another fifteen or twenty minutes of feeling her pressed up against him, kissing him, that wouldn’t hurt. But now he had another project, one he hadn’t prepared himself for. If Art proved at all competent, it could turn out to be a good decision for both of them. If Art needed more assistance than Luke could provide, he could find him some help. But for now, at least he’d found a home for one of his mother’s many bathrobes.