No Ordinary Day by Tate, Harley (life changing books txt) 📗

guest room and John can sleep on the couch. You ladies don’t mind sharing, do you? It’s two twin beds.”

Holly and Emma shook their heads. “Not at all.”

Irma stood, ready to show Emma and Holly the room.

Gil nodded at John. “How do you like single malt scotch?”

Chapter Fifteen

John

An ice cube slid to the bottom of the glass as John tipped it back. The last drop of whiskey landed on his tongue and he closed his eyes. It had been too long since he’d taken a moment to relax. The strain of this assignment was getting to him.

“Thanks.” He set the glass on the coffee table. “That’s good whiskey.”

“What my pa drank and his pa before him. Good old Monongahela rye. Gotta go to the little guys to find it now that Old Overholt’s gone to corn, but it’s still out there.” Gil drained the last of his glass and set it on the table beside him. He leaned forward and pushed off his knees to stand up. “Come with me to the barn. Got somethin’ to show ya.”

John arched his brow but followed Gil from the room. What the old man had to show him, he couldn’t guess.

Gil walked with a bit of a limp, swaying as his left leg fought to catch up with his right. “You ever been in a situation like this before?”

John tensed. “Like what?”

“Somethin’ real serious.”

He wasn’t sure what the old man was getting at. “You mean the blackout?”

Gil snorted as he braced himself against the hall. “I’d expect a man like yourself would know we’re way past blackout.”

“A man like me?”

Gil wagged a finger at John’s waist. “I see that fancy piece you’re wearin’ and that haircut and the way you walk. Military no doubt. Had to see some action, too, by my judgment.”

All true, more or less. John tipped his head in acknowledgement. “You’re observant for an old man.”

“Don’t tell that to Irma or she’ll get on me for not painting the porch when it needed it.” He opened the back door with a chuckle. “Barn’s out this way.”

Following a few steps behind, John took a moment to reassess Gil. The man might be old, but he wasn’t without his faculties. How much had he figured out already?

“At least it quit rainin’.” Gil fumbled with a lock to an old sliding door in the dark, finally managing to turn the key as he cursed the rusting metal. “Help me slide this, will ’ya? My arthritis hates this weather.”

John did as requested, pulling the solid wood door wide enough for Gil to fit through. Cloud cover obscured the moon and John couldn’t see a thing inside. “What are we here for?”

“Give me a second to get this lit…” A little flame flickered to light as Gil lit the wick of an oil lamp. “There we go.” The glow from the lamp cast the dirt floor in rich hues of brown and gold as Gil held it up. “Now, take a look at this.”

He swung the lamp and an old Chevy pickup with rusted fenders and chipped teal paint came into view. It sat on a set of whitewalls with barely any tread and rusted holes marred the passenger door where the handle used to be.

“I know it ain’t much now, but back in the day she was a real beaut. 1958 Chevy Cameo.” Gil ran his hand over the dusty chrome fender. “They don’t make ’em like they used to.”

“It’s um… nice, I guess.” John didn’t have a clue why they were there, admiring a truck old enough to drink before he was born.

“You can have it.”

John blinked. “Excuse me?”

Gil turned to face him, and the lamp light spilled over John’s boots like a warm blanket. “I used to use her on the farm, but it’s too much trouble these days. I still crank her up every month, so the battery’s still good. I don’t know how far she’ll get you but—”

“What’s the catch?”

Gil lifted the light higher and John squinted. “There’s no catch.”

“I don’t understand. You don’t know me. You’ve already taken us in, fed us, given me your clothes.” John ran his hand down the warm flannel shirt. “Why offer me your truck?”

The old man was quiet for a moment. “Because you’ve got two women and a dog to look after and no amount of military acumen is going to get y’all out of what’s comin’ if you don’t got some wheels.”

John stepped back. Here he’d thought Gil had sussed him out; that he was taking him to the barn to give him a stern talking to or to tell him to shove off. Instead, he’d offered him transportation. A means of escape. If only he knew what John had to do.

He ran a hand down his face. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, take the damn truck.” Gil grabbed John’s wrist and turned his hand over before plopping a set of keys in his palm. “Sometimes even heroes need some help.”

“I’m no hero.”

“Any man who’s willing to defend this country and protect his family is a hero in my book.”

“They aren’t my family.”

Gil’s eyes twinkled in the lamp light. “Not by blood, maybe. But don’t let that fool you.” He brushed past John and headed toward the door. “You lock up when you’re done, you hear? I got to get inside. This arthritis is givin’ me heck.”

John stared at the man as he set the oil lamp on the corner of a work bench and headed back out into the night. It took a few minutes for Gil to truck across the yard and disappear inside the house, but John watched the entire way.

He ran a hand over his hair, rubbing the short strands back and forth.

When was the last time someone had been this kind, expecting nothing in return? He thought back to Mrs. Durham and her unlimited willingness to forgive his missteps and embrace his inner hurt. He swallowed hard. If Gil knew why he