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snapped. Wrapped around his waist was the utility belt of Major McKinley. Ian’s hands came down and ran slowly over the smooth leather pouches. He swallowed hard. Charlee’s dad had died a year ago. For a moment he thought he should take it off, but he didn’t. Instead, he gently placed the hammer in its place, filled the nail pouch with a handful of trim nails sitting nearby, and hooked a wrench through one of the loops. It was a few more seconds before he could bring himself to leave the shed.
    Outside, the sun was rising to the center of the world and chasing away every bit of shadow and shade. It was going to be a hot one. Charlee stood in the center of the hub waiting for him.
    When he reached her, she asked, “What’s the most powerful force?”
    “What?”
    “Earlier you said fear of the unknown was the second most powerful force on the planet. What’s the first?”
    Off in the distance, a crow split the silence with a piercing squawk. “Passion for the journey.”
    Charlee’s brow quirked. Her face was the most interesting thing about her. Alive with determination one second, curiosity the next. She wasn’t used to being thrown off base, that much was evident. Passion for the journey . He could almost see her repeating it in her head, weighing it, seeing if she agreed. When neither moved, she nodded slowly and headed to Mr. Gruber’s cabin. Halfway there, a surprise breeze met them, coursing around the mountain and pushing against their backs. It drove Ian and Charlee forward. And in it, Ian could smell the scent of hope. His hands came down to his sides to the tool belt as he followed Charlee onto the porch.
    She knocked a few times, but there was no answer. “Mr. Gruber?”
    “I’m here,” came a voice, from the side of the cottage.
    They both turned to see him coming around the corner. Confusion flickered in Ian. This was the man who’d painted The Storm ? Couldn’t be. He was thin and frail and weak looking and the painting was nothing if not powerful and bold and commanding. The wide sweeps of the brush made for a violent oncoming storm. This man looked as if he could barely lift the canvas onto the easel.
    “Mr. Gruber, this is Ian. He’s going to fix your water today.”
    “I wish I’d known. I took a cold shower earlier. I could have waited.” His narrow blue eyes studied Ian. “Nice bone structure. Have you modeled?”
    “No sir.” Oh Lord, here we go again.
    Gruber reached up to his face as if he were a scientist and Ian a newly discovered species. “Look at his facial structure, Charlee.”
    She reluctantly leaned closer.
    “See how his cheekbone narrows here?” A cold, wrinkled finger grazed Ian’s cheek.
    “Mm-hmm,” Charlee said, but it sounded forced. She cleared her throat.
    “It would be garish if not for his lovely jawline. See how the squared jaw creates the uniformity?”
    Charlee licked her lips.
    “When I studied in Paris, we were often offered models of this quality. Not anymore, though.” There was a distinct nostalgia in his tone, sounding like the kind of man who gloried in days gone by more than the present.
    “King Edward is going to paint him.”
    Ian’s skin crawled at the thought. Had he really agreed to that?
    Gruber poked him on the shoulder. “Don’t let Edward destroy you. He has no sense of true artistry. All passion, no training.”
    Ian raised his hands. “I just want to fix the water.”
    Charlee and Gruber took a step back, as if the strange inspection was complete. Charlee grinned. “Okay, I’ll leave you two guys to it.”
    Mr. Gruber opened the door for Ian. “Go right on in. I’m going to sit in the swing for a bit. I’ll be back along in a while. Make yourself at home. If you need to move some things out of your way, feel free. But stay out of my loft. I have paintings in process up there.”
    “Understood.” Ian gave him a salute and went inside, thinking he just might like Mr. Gruber. He did, at least, until his eyes adjusted