Chapter 13 A Creature with Comforts
a creature with comforts
ROXANNE
The next morning, Rusty is waiting in the lobby to take me to Duke’s house and show me the library before Allie, Leo, and I start to scout areas for filming. Rusty’s eyes crinkle when he sees me, and it’s nice to be greeted by his kind smile. He tips his hat when I reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he says.
“Good morning,” I say. “Thank you for letting me use your library.”
“My pleasure.”
He gestures toward the front of the door, and I pass another man coming into the lobby, followed by another, and another who is coming up the ramp in front of the lodge in a wheelchair.
As I slide into the golf cart, I can’t help but notice more people starting to gather.
Rusty catches me staring as he turns on the golf cart.
“It’s a group support meeting,” he says. The golf cart lurches forward, and I instinctively grasp the handhold.
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to sit in on those meetings at some point?”
“That might take some convincing. Not sure the vets will like the paperwork involved, but I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
We drive along the paved drive that connects the main lodge to the caretaker’s house.
“You’ll have good Wi-Fi here,” Rusty says, glancing sideways at me. “And a little peace and quiet.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, bracing myself for a creaky porch, plaid curtains, and the distinct scent of soap and testosterone.
Instead, we round a bend and the trees part, revealing something I most definitely did not expect.
Nestled into the hillside like something out of Architectural Digest is a three-story, modern, rustic dream of a house.
Massive timber beams frame a glass-walled facade that reflects the sweeping mountains behind it.
A wraparound balcony juts from the top floor like a treehouse for billionaires.
Below, a sleek lap pool glimmers in the sunlight, flanked by an outdoor spa, a gourmet kitchen with a stone pizza oven, and a fire pit surrounded by Adirondack chairs.
“This … this is what’s called the caretaker’s house?” I ask as I exit the golf cart. “This is incredible.”
“That’s what the original owner, Logan Wolf, called it and where guests stayed when they visited.”
“The original owner was Logan Wolf, the television producer?” I ask.
“Yep, he’s a friend of my other stepson, Duke’s brother, Charlie Steele.”
I grab Rusty’s arm when we get to the top step of the front porch. “Say again?”
“Which part, ma’am?”
“The part where you … I thought you said … Charlie Steele, the Charlie Steele—”
“Is my brother, yeah,” Duke says.
My eyes flick to Duke. He’s wearing a worn green flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscled forearms. He’s leaning up against the doorframe of the house sipping coffee out of a mug that says First of all, I’m a delight.
My pulse skids like a record needle catching the wrong groove.
“Charlie Steele … the man rumored to be the next James Bond?” I ask.
“The same,” Duke says flatly. “Don’t let the movie star stuff fool you. He used to pee on the woodpile behind our childhood home.”
Rusty chuckles and I smile. “I would love to hear some of those stories.”
“Where’s Jameson?” Rusty asks as he leads me into the house.
“Out with Topper,” Duke says, barely moving as I walk past him. “Topper couldn’t wait to introduce him to Allie.”
“Good ol’ Topper, he’s already taken a shine to that cute little lady,” Rusty says.
For some reason, I’m sad to not be greeted by that slobbery torpedo, but I’m thankful Jameson is not licking my toes at the moment.
Once inside the house, I have to bite my lip to keep from gaping.
The open-concept great room stretches before me, a cathedral of exposed beams and sleek iron fixtures.
The towering floor-to-ceiling windows pull in the morning light, spilling golden warmth across polished hardwood floors.
Everything is rich but understated—deep leather sofas, a stone fireplace, an industrial chandelier casting a glow over the sleek but welcoming kitchen.
A grand staircase made of reclaimed wood leads up to a lofted second floor, a metal railing giving it a clean, contemporary edge. Even the air smells expensive, a mix of cedar, leather, and something subtly warm, like vanilla and spice.
“Are you all right?” Duke asks, closing the door.
“This is another surprise.”
Rusty heads to the kitchen cabinets and pulls out two coffee mugs.
“What, were you expecting a shack in the woods?” Duke asks, settling onto a leather high-back barstool.
I turn slowly, still taking it all in.
“Something like that,” I admit.
Duke chuckles. “Well, Trouble, I like my creature comforts. Just ‘cause I live in the woods doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about style.”
“How do you like your coffee, ma’am?” Rusty asks.
“A little cream and sugar, please and thank you.”
Moments later, Rusty hands me a toasty mug. I catch Duke staring at me after I take a sip, and a prickle of warmth ghosts down my spine, traitorous and unwelcome. “Uh, Rusty, may I see the library?” I ask.
Rusty sets his cup down. “Of course, right through here.”
I can still feel Duke’s eyes on me as Rusty leads me out of the room. Thank goodness Duke’s phone rings and he answers it instead of following us into the library.
The library is just as cozy and comfortable as the rest of the house.
Built-in bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling, their deep, moody gray interiors making the warm glow of recessed lighting feel even cozier.
The shelves are packed. Not with western novels or ranch manuals like I assumed, but with poetry, history, philosophy, first editions, and dog-eared paperbacks.
I catch a glimpse of Baldwin, Rilke, Austen, even a full leather-bound Shakespeare collection tucked between a globe and what looks like an antique compass.
A sofa sits nestled into a reading nook, its cushions soft and inviting, as if waiting for someone to curl up with a book and disappear for hours.
In the center of the room is a beautiful cream-colored desk and matching leather chair.
“What do you think?” Rusty asks. “Will this do?”
“This is so lovely. I really appreciate you letting me use this space.”
“No trouble at all.” Rusty leans over the desk and writes something on the notepad before tearing it off and handing it to me.
“Here is the code to the door. Just remember to lock it always behind you. It can blow open with any strong wind, and Jameson will make a run for it if he’s not supervised.
We’ve ordered a new door and lock, but it’s going to be a bit before we can get that settled. ”
I fold the note and push it into my pocket. “Lock the door behind me every time. Got it.”
“You are welcome to come and go any time you need.”
“I’m not sure Mr. Faraday shares your sentiment.”
“He’ll get over it. He likes his privacy and the only woman that’s been through this house in years is his mother, Francine.”
“Francine. I love that name. Is she …” I stop myself, not sure if something more tragic had happened.
Rusty puts his hand up. “My lovely bride is in New York with Duke’s sister, London. London is getting a divorce and the custody battle isn’t going well.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Rusty sits down in one of the high-back chairs. “London will be better off once it all gets settled.”
“So, wait a minute … London, Duke, Charlie short for Charles, I presume.”
“That’s correct,” Rusty says.
“I take it Francine is interested in British Royalty?”
Rusty chuckles. “Duke’s bio dad, Alistair, was born outside London. He’s retired MI6.”
“Wow. I’m going to put a pin in that and ask Mr. Faraday about that later.”
“You do that. It’s definitely an interesting piece of his story.”
I can’t help but wander around the room as we’re talking, and my eyes catch a series of framed photos sitting on a small side table.
A man is dressed in the same regalia Duke had on last night during his performance before dinner.
The man is riding a horse in an arena and another features him and a woman dressed similarly posing with an older man.
“That’s Stedman and Millie from their tour with the Bill Pickett rodeo last year,” Rusty says, joining me at the table.
“What’s the Bill Pickett rodeo?”
Rusty grins. “Only the longest running Black rodeo in the country. Started back in the ’80s to celebrate Black cowboys and cowgirls. Bill Pickett was a legend. Invented bulldogging.”
“Really?”
“Yep. It’s more than a rodeo—it’s a celebration of Black cowboy heritage,” he adds. “Most folks don’t realize the West was full of Black ranchers, ropers, and rodeo stars. Stedman and Millie tour every year. They’ve got a whole box of ribbons and belt buckles between ‘em.”
“That’s amazing,” I say quietly. “But I have to be quite honest, I have no idea what bulldogging is.”
“Most city folks don’t. Stedman and Millie will be back next week. You’ll meet them then and they can share more of their experiences. I bet Stedman will show you what bulldogging is by providing a demonstration.”
“As long as I don’t have to rope an animal, I can’t wait.”
There’s a knock on the door frame and Rusty and I turn in unison.
“Rusty, need to speak with you,” Duke says. “There’s a problem in group. Garrett’s raisin’ Cain again.”
Rusty tips his hat to me while Duke nods. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Part of me wishes I could follow as I’m intrigued by who Garrett is and exactly what they mean by “raisin’ Cain”, but once Duke and Rusty leave, I remain in the library checking out the other portraits and scanning the book spines for anything interesting.
The worn fabric spine of East of Eden catches my eye. One of my favorite Steinbeck novels. I flip through the pages when a scratch of handwriting catches my eye.
D,
Don’t forget, people can be more than their worst days.
Love you,
Mom