He rolled slightly, rubbed his eyes and scrambled into a sitting position.

“How long have you been sleeping in here?” Luke asked.

He shrugged. He yawned. “A couple nights,” he said. “I’ll go.”

“I brought you something to eat,” Luke said, handing him the bag.

“I don’t have any more money,” he said.

“It’s free. It’s from my kitchen and I’m sharing with you. What’s your name?”

“Art,” he said, opening the bag and digging out a sandwich. He nearly stuffed the whole thing into his mouth.

“Slow down,” Luke said and laughed. “Who hit you, buddy?”

“He din’t mean it,” he said, chewing and gulping. “He said he din’t mean it.”

The guy was starving. “Who didn’t mean it?” Luke asked.

“Stan,” he said. He made a final gulp and reached into the bag for another. “My boss at the grocery.”

“Hmm. Where are you from?”

“Eureka,” he said, unwrapping another sandwich. “I came through the big trees. I like ’em. The big trees.”

“The redwoods. You walked all that way?”

He shrugged and swallowed. “I hitched some. You’re not supposed to hitch, you know. Then I walked through the big trees.”

“Through the grove, huh?” Luke said. “Yeah, they’re nice. How old are you?”

“Thirty. My birthday is in November. Then I’m thirty.” He dived into another sandwich.

“Your parents live in Eureka?”

He shook his head. “My mom’s gone now. I have a group home, but if I stay there I have to work at the grocery. For Stan.”

Luke was still crouched, sitting on the heel of his boot. He’d only known one kid with Down’s while growing up—a neighbor kid. He’d been younger—his brother Sean’s age—and Luke and his brothers all looked out for him. No one dared give him any trouble—they’d have to answer to the scrappy Irish Riordan boys. He was the sweetest kid on earth; Luke had learned they had a reputation for being the gentlest-natured people alive. But this guy’s boss had slugged him in the face. Now, why would a person do something like that? So Art is on the run from an abuser. Wouldn’t his caretaker be onto that? Make that right? Unless the caretaker was also abusive…

Luke thought about calling someone, get this guy some help. But he only thought about it for five seconds. He couldn’t have some agency toss this guy back into a group home where he was mistreated. “You need a job where nobody hits, buddy?”

He shrugged and chewed.

“I could use some help. Maybe if I let you have a place to sleep while I’m working around here, you could do some chores for food and clothes and stuff. Any interest in that?” Art nodded without making eye contact. “Can you count?”

Art looked up, swallowed and said, “’Course I can count. I’m not stupid.”

That made Luke smile. “’Course you’re not. Okay. I can let you sleep in the trailer a few nights till we get a cabin straight for you. There’s some plumbing that works in the trailer. I’ll find you a sleeping bag and something clean to wear. How’s that?”

He gulped down the last of his sandwich. “What’s your name?”

“Luke,” he said, standing up.

“Okay. Luke.”

“When you’re done eating there, go down to the camper and wash up. The water’s not real hot, but I’ll get you a bar of soap and a couple of towels. I’ll meet you down there in a little while, how’s that?”

“Okay. Luke.”

“It’s a roof and a bed. We’ll get a cabin in shape for you so you have a little more room, but the trailer’s not so bad. It’s better than this.”

“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.

A couple of days later, Shelby rode Chico into the clearing that fronted Luke’s cabins and stopped before getting too close. She had saddled and pulled Plenty along. The September afternoon was pleasant and sunny and she could see that Luke was crouched atop one of the cabins tearing off rotting shingles. Although it was cool enough for her to need a jacket, his broad sunburned bare back was facing her—it was a very enjoyable sight and she drank it in, silent. Then Plenty whinnied and Luke glanced over his shoulder. He stood and carefully turned toward her, balanced on the sloping roof. A smile found its way to her lips. What a sight he was, bare-chested, whiskers on his cheeks and chin, wearing jeans and a tool belt. She briefly wondered what it was about a tool belt… What was it she had said about the guy she had in mind? Clean-shaven, starched and pressed, polo shirt…? Nah….

“Looks like you lost a rider,” he called down to her.

“I’m looking for a rider,” she said. “Want to take a break? See if you can sit a horse?”

“Is this a test of some kind?” he asked.

“No.” She laughed. “I’ll still like you if you fall off.”

He came down the ladder, grabbing his shirt off the lower rung and shrugging into it. It hung open and her eyes stayed riveted on that tool belt. His hands were on the buckle to remove it, but they didn’t move. When she lifted her eyes to his, she found him grinning. Caught. What the hell? she thought, smiling back.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her.

“I haven’t seen you in a couple of days. Are you avoiding me again?”

“I should, but I haven’t been. I’ve had stuff going on. Does the general know you’re doing this?” he asked.

“Of course. They’re his horses.”

“Aw, Shelby,” he said, sounding a little miserable. He took off the tool belt and buttoned up his shirt. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘You be careful of that Black Hawk pilot. They have a reputation for abusing women.’”

He shoved his shirt into his pants. “God,” he moaned. “Why don’t you go away and leave me alone before you get me shot.”