Chapter 48
They drove out in the early morning, the next day, and the next. Descended upon the white stone building, set in that peaceful field.
The administrator of the building, hastily consulted, stood and watched as the group of determined men—Cole Dawson’s men—took over the place and set about their business.
The men, and more than a few women, hammered, sawed, bricked. They dug and measured and hauled, did crazy things to the place. They followed the architect’s plans to the letter, and even added some of the special modifications no one thought anyone would really get to, ever. One of the men, ‘Dawson’s fool cook’ most of the men called him—a Dax somebody all his clan seemed to treat with as much deference as a visiting king—brought a ton of food. Day two, he set up a little trailer, and that man fed everyone. In fact, people were coming from town to help just to get at that food.
The more people came, the more others became interested. The community got involved. Laborers were called in, tradespersons. Shopkeepers donated hardhats and safety boots for those working. Teenagers came with youthful muscles and all their energy, and older ones came and took over garbage removal, cleaning. Serving food, and washing up after.
As they all worked together, more building issues came to light, but each was met with a stiff nod by the chief foreman, Jesse Oberge. The man knew what he was doing, no doubt. He even directed and told the big man, the head of it all—a former leader of the Delta North Special Ops Team—what to do.
And when the elder Dawson, Jack, showed up, fresh out of recovery from a damn incident with his ticker and surgery, he directed him, too. They overhauled the electrical, brought the plumbing up to code. The job took a full two weeks, which they hadn’t expected. The project accountant came by and was worried, but as he saw what was being done, relaxed. Gave it his silent nod of approval.
Women came, too. Summer Scriber, one of the chief nurses, welcomed them and oriented them to the Foundation, and the project. Rachel Westerly, one of the newcomers all the way from Toronto, helped with the kids unofficially, talking with them, reading them stories, answering their intelligent questions. She also picked up a hammer and pulled nails when the children were in therapy or resting, grabbed a shovel when necessary and dug dirt, wrestled stone from the ground.
Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Cavanaugh too, was busy. An apprentice iron worker from the Golden area, she came with her own hardhat—pink—and her own construction boots— fuchsia laces—and wore it all as a matter of fact, and proudly. She stared a couple of the men down when necessary, then moved to help them quickly when the need arose. By the end of the build she was one of them, though many of the guys secretly thought she was not only beautiful, but smart, and hoped for her notice.
She was often found arm in arm, laughing in rare moments of rest, with one other woman.
A woman who’d known pain, a lot of it. With a scarred face, all purple and pink, with markings that went down her neck and even lower into the snug denim shirt she wore. She pitched in the most of all. Quiet, but determined. If a need arose, she filled it—or made sure it was.
And the look in her eyes when she saw that Cole Dawson? That was, as they say, priceless. The spirit that shone in those smoky caramel eyes? If that didn’t beat all.
Her brother, Dare, also showed up, from Jack’s Bay, a soldier himself, also from the feared Delta North unit. Lean, young, and full of muscles that rippled to life, he worked as industriously as the rest. Harder at times, and without any smiles. Though he seemed to know something about everything, and once, when even Jesse was at a loss as to what to do—some nonsense about concrete and a necessary retaining wall that wouldn’t retain—he knew exactly what to do. And did it, even while the others were taking a hard-earned break, enjoying the fresh, hot lasagna that that crazy Dax was doling out, the scent going everywhere.
“Timeline,” he’d muttered. “Got to be done now.” And made sure it was done—right.
He’d also teamed up, it seemed, with an artist fellow who was in the area temporarily, said to be working with Tabby on illustrations for a book, a Nathan Gentael. He’d nod to a job, and Nathan would pick up a shovel, and start digging. He’d give him a few words of instruction on another project, and the man would get on his knees, start laying brick, ridiculously precise. Crazy.
Or maybe not so crazy—apparently the guy had a real thing for art, and it carried into everything else he did in life. The precision, the beauty.
The two of them got a lot of the work done, though neither talked a lot, especially Dare, who scowled—a lot.
When someone asked about the awful expression on his face, the scarred woman was heard to say, “What the hell else. A break-up, and it’s ripped his guts apart. But he says it’s his own damn fault. He made a mistake, a big one. And he’ll never forgive himself.” She watched him with concerned eyes. “Man’s been a soldier, and he’s known all kinds of pain. When he decides he’s for punishment, he does the best job of all, at it. Ain’t no one gonna get in there, help him. But in the meantime? He’ll give us all he’s got.”
Then, on the second last day of the project, the hastily appointed, unofficial project officer came back from town, grim-faced. Everyone’s hearts seemed to fall, as they heard the words. “Inspector’s coming tomorrow. Don’t get your hopes up.”
We won’t. All we’re asking for is a fair go. A chance. A shot.
And when the word came in—approved—you could have heard the rousting cry all over Dawson and its surrounding regions.
But the most important thing, for nurse Scriber, was in a small room, way up on the second floor at the end of a hallway, Room 24. Where a young boy jumped up and down on his bed as his Dad approached, and for once?
Didn’t feel any pain. Not a whit.
Because he knew they were going to get to stay together, for good.