Читать книгу Truths I Learned From Sam 2-Book Bundle - Kristin Butcher - Страница 7

It’s a trailer. Sam lives in a freakin’ trailer! And I’m not talking a fancy big double-wide either. This thing is puny and ancient and über-ugly. The massive satellite dish on top makes it look like a giant air horn, and I find myself waiting for a blast that will smash my eardrums. How could my mother send me here? Wedding brain has clearly destroyed her ability to think. There is no way I can survive in this trailer for six minutes — never mind six weeks!

I hear the bus driver’s voice in my head. A coach to Vancouver comes through here at nine thirty every morning. I cling to that knowledge.

Sam is already hauling my stuff from the back of the truck, so I open the door and climb out.

“Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” he says as I join him.

He got the humble part right, but I don’t say so. I don’t dare. If I open my mouth, everything I’m thinking will pour out, and that would not be good. I don’t trust what my face is doing either. I have a feeling horror is written all over it, so I walk ahead of Sam and pretend I’m checking the place out. Before I know it, I am.

The trailer is white — in theory. In actual fact, it is more of a dirty grey. It sits on stacked concrete blocks. What should be open space underneath is stuffed with scraps of wood, plastic pails, cheap folding lawn chairs, a couple of milk crates — one yellow, one blue — and an assortment of rusty tools. Unpainted wooden steps lead to two doors separated by a window. There’s another smaller window farther along. A couple of big propane canisters stand at one end of the trailer, and then, of course, there’s that monster satellite dish on top.

A little distance away is a firepit, surrounded by soot-stained rocks and topped with a blackened grill. Chopped firewood is stacked under a blue tarp. Behind that, mostly hidden by the trees, is a large shed — or maybe a really small barn. Sun and rain have warped the wood and weathered it nearly black. The roof is a collage of mismatched shingles. Scattered posts from what looks to have been a corral dot the field beyond.

And that’s it. Everything else belongs to Mother Nature.

Sam climbs the steps to one of the trailer doors and disappears inside with my bags, but in a matter of seconds he’s back. He beckons me. “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

I smile — or maybe I grimace. Without a mirror, I can’t be sure. Then I mount the steps and go inside. I’m in a dark, narrow hallway that runs half the length of the trailer. In front of me is the bathroom. It’s small but appears to have the basic fixtures. The toilet seat is up, though, and a shiver shoots through me at the thought of my tush meeting cold porcelain during a groggy middle-of-the-night pee run. Note to self: Check before sitting.

“The room on the end there is my bedroom,” Sam says. “And this here is your room.” He steps out of the way, so I can see. “I call it my quiet room. It’s where I like to read.” He nods toward a wall of shelves bursting with books and then to a futon across from it. That and a TV table with a lamp are the only pieces of furniture. There’s not even a dresser. It looks like I’m going to be living out of my suitcase.

“The living room and kitchen are this way,” Sam says as he heads down the hall.

This end of the trailer has the windows, so it’s a lot brighter. There are actually windows on two sides of the kitchen and a small round table in the centre, so it’s almost inviting. The living room has a leatherette couch and chair, a fake wood coffee table, a floor lamp, and the biggest flat screen television I have ever seen. It takes up one whole wall. Every other bit of space is filled with stacks of books, so I’m beginning to think of Sam’s trailer as a bookmobile instead of a home. At least I won’t run out of reading material while I’m here.

I find myself relaxing — a little. Sam’s trailer is old and small and except for the television, pretty bare bones, but — like his truck — it’s clean. The guy isn’t a slob; he just isn’t materialistic. A smile tickles the corners of my mouth. So how can he possibly be related to my mother?

As I get myself settled in, Sam makes supper. It’s chili, and it’s surprisingly good. I have two helpings and wipe the bowl clean with a piece of bread.

Sam leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. His black eyes glitter. “I thought girls your age weren’t big on food,” he says.

I consider taking offence, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t intend to insult me, so I let the comment go. “I was starved,” I tell him. “I haven’t eaten since before I got on the bus. Besides, the chili was really good. I couldn’t help myself. Thanks.”

He nods. “You’re welcome. What about you? Do you cook?”

I shrug. “Enough that I wouldn’t starve if there weren’t any pizzas in the freezer.”

“That’s good,” he replies. “Because there aren’t.”

We both laugh.

“Are you saying you want me to take over chef duties while I’m here?” I ask. I’m thinking I should resent the idea, but I actually like cooking, and it would give me something to do.

This time it’s Sam who shrugs. “I wouldn’t say take over so much as share. I’m not a one-trick pony, but I wouldn’t mind eating someone else’s cooking for a change.”

“No problem. If you’re good with peanut butter sandwiches and Kraft Dinner, I’m happy to help out.”

Furrows spring up between his bushy brows. He looks so worried, I burst out laughing. “I’m kidding!”

His face relaxes. “Good. Then it’s your turn tomorrow.” He picks up his bowl and takes it to the counter. Then he starts filling the sink with water and squirts in some detergent. I finish clearing the table and grab the dish towel draped over the handle of the fridge.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask.

“That’s a good question. Let me think. I guess it’s been a little over ten years now.”

“Where did you live before that?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere. Depends on how you want to look at it.”

“What do you mean? Were you homeless?” Considering Sam doesn’t have a lot of stuff, it isn’t a big stretch to imagine him living on the street.

“Yes — but not the way you’re thinking. I didn’t have a home because there was no point. I was always on the road.”

“Why? What were you doing?”

“Ridin’ rodeo.” He says it like it’s as normal as being a grocery clerk or a teacher.

“Really?” I stop in the middle of drying a glass. “You mean like the Calgary Stampede?”

He nods. “Yup. I’ve worked the Stampede more times than I care to remember. Broke my collarbone there one year. Kept me off the circuit for weeks.”

So Sam doesn’t just look like a cowboy; he really is one. For some reason that I can’t explain, I like the idea. “Rodeo circuit? Is that like golf and tennis circuits, where the players travel all over the place?”

“Yup.”

“Like where?”

“Anywhere there’s a rodeo in North America.”

“Like where?” I say again. “Tell me some of the places you’ve been.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out again. “Well, for starters, every cow town in B.C. — and then some. Alberta and Saskatchewan too. Even more places in the States. Wyoming, South Dakota, Nevada, New Mexico. You name it — I’ve been there.”

I grin. “It sounds exciting. Mom said you’ve been away for the last few months. Is that what you were doing? Riding rodeo?”

Sam stops scrubbing the chili pot and looks out the kitchen window. I can only see the side of his face, but his smile lines are gone, and his jaw is tight. Finally, he shakes his head and goes back to washing the pot. He rinses it and passes it to me. Then he says, “I gave rodeo up a couple of years back. It’s hard on a body, and I’d been at it for nineteen years. I’ve broken more bones than I can count and pulled more muscles than I even knew I had. I was tired of aching all over all of the time.”

My mind starts doing math. Nineteen years. That would make Sam about nineteen when he got into rodeo. Mom said he was twenty-two when he had the blow-up with my grandparents.

“Is that what the fight was about?” I ask point-blank. “The one between you and your parents? Was it because they didn’t want you working in rodeo?”

Sam actually looks surprised, but only for a split second. Faster than I can blink, he’s smiling again. “As I recollect,” he says, “you and I have a whole six weeks to get to know one another. You don’t want to find out everything on the very first day now, do you? And besides, I do believe it’s my turn to ask you some questions.”