Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
With the stew slowly cooking on a low heat in the oven, Ru wandered into the living room, glancing up at the wide set of heavy wooden stairs leading to the forbidden office.
He paused and cocked his head, listening for any sign of Jake, but there was nothing.
Ru might well have been alone in the farmhouse.
So far, he’d barely moved from the kitchen, not comfortable exploring further despite Jake telling him he had the run of the house, bar the restrictions Jake had laid down.
Ru smiled as he entered the living room because it was exactly the kind of room he’d imagined Jake would hunker down in, waiting out the winter storms.
A big, chunky, iron wood burner sat in the brick fireplace, its flames gently flickering.
The room was large but the combination of the warmth, the off-white lumpy, bumpy walls and ceiling, just like in the bedroom he’d been given, and the two huge squashy sofas, gave the room a comfortable and lived in feel.
Ru’s gaze fell to the mismatched bookcases taking up almost all of one of the walls.
What kind of man chose to live such an isolated life? Perhaps the bookshelves would provide the answer.
So many books, crammed on the shelves. Some crime fiction, some biographies of past political heavyweights.
Books about famous military campaigns. There were also books by popular wilderness gurus he’d seen on the telly, but most were by people he’d not heard of.
Ru ran a finger along the spines. Book after book on extreme survival in the mountains, in the jungle, in the desert, in the snow.
He huffed at that one; perhaps he should have bought a copy.
“Oh.”
The author name on a book caught his eye.
Jake Whitby. The name that was on not just one book but several.
Ru tried to pull one out, but it was wedged in tight between its neighbours.
Giving up, his gaze fell to an open box nestled on the floor, next to the bookcase. He pushed up the cardboard flaps.
Brochures. Looking at books on bold display on a bookcase was one thing, nosing around in a box was another. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. Was he snooping? It felt like snooping, but Jake had given him almost total free run… He pulled one out.
The brochure showed a muscular arm gripping a climbing rope against what looked like a cliff. Bold text proclaimed ‘Whitby Survival: Test Your Limits.’
He threw a quick glance at the door before flipping through.
Glossy photos of men and women navigating rugged terrain in extreme weather conditions, building shelters, crossing frozen streams, and scaling sheer walls of rock.
And there was Jake, looking stern but confident, those impressive muscles of his on full display, demonstrating various techniques.
The back page listed Jake’s credentials, along with a stony faced headshot; Ru’s brows arched.
Fifteen years’ military experience, including the Special Air Service.
Certified instructor in extreme environment survival techniques.
Ex-army. And Special Air Service. Ru’s brow wrinkled.
God, the man had been in the SAS. Wonder if he’s still got the uniform…
Ru sniggered. He’d always liked a uniform.
Armed forces, firemen, airline pilots, even paramedics; he drew the line at traffic wardens and bus drivers, though.
But Jake’s background certainly explained a few things.
Brusque and to the point, not wasting a single word.
Aggressive, even. Along with the air of strict self-control, and competence.
No wonder he felt so off-balance around him, because Jake was unlike anyone he’d ever met.
He carried on flicking through the brochure.
The isolated farmhouse on the edge of Dartmoor was the perfect location from which to run a survival skills business.
The back page listed a handful of public courses and their prices.
Ru whistled. Honing survival skills on the moor didn’t come cheap.
A website address and contact details were listed to discuss tailored and more specialised requirements.
Ru put the brochure back in the box. On the wall there were a couple of large photos, in the same style as the ones in the bedroom.
Black and white, bleak moorland against heavy skies threatening rain.
In each, a small but vibrant flash of colour drew the eye.
But they weren’t the only photographs on display.
A younger version of Jake, dressed in uniform, stared out at Ru.
Hard looking, confidence bordering arrogance, but the crooked smile lifting his lips and the laughter in his eyes showed the man rather than the soldier.
Where had that man gone? Perhaps one deployment too many had doused that light.
Jake may have been in uniform, but it wasn’t an official photograph.
Others on the wall were. Some of just Jake but many with his squad, face unreadable, every inch the hardbitten fighter.
There was one photo, slightly set apart from the others, that captured Ru’s attention.
Jake, again in uniform, and no more than his very early twenties.
His arm was slung around the shoulders of another young soldier, hugging him close into his body, whose softer features contrasted with Jake’s harder edges.
Jake was gazing at him, almost in wonder, the intimacy between them deep and clear, and for all to see.
A tingle crept its way along Ru’s spine, the photo revealing far more than the camaraderie of brothers-in-arms.
Who and what Jake was, it was crammed into the bookcase and spread out over the wall.
Or as much as Jake wanted to reveal. Jake the former elite soldier.
Jake the survival business owner. Ru’s gaze flicked back to the photo of the two young soldiers.
Maybe even Jake the lover. The books and the brochure showed the public face of Jake Whitby, but the photos offered a glimpse of the private man. Who and what else was he?
Ru puffed out a breath, dislodging the rogue lock of hair that fell across his eyes.
He’d never know because bad as the weather was now, snow ploughs would be out soon and so would he.
In just a couple or so days, his and Jake’s paths, converging briefly, would diverge as each of them headed in different directions.