To Claim the Mountain Man

Chapter 36

HEATH

It'd been a long time since I sat down at the Holmes' dinner table. Too damn long. I'd forgotten what it felt like to eat a homecooked meal, filled with unseemly amounts of butter and love, sharing stories of the week with the most important people in my life.

Back in the day, I ate dinner at the Holmes' house more often than with my own mother. Ma worked nights growing up, but, even when she had the night off, she didn't cook. We'd order pizza or microwave a frozen dinner. I lived for the days I could sit between Garrett and Brooks, the middle sibling of the Holmes family, and spoon second and third servings of that night's supper onto my plate.

Now, with the dining room lights dimmed and the living room television playing in the background, a sense of nostalgia swept over me. Brooks wasn't here— he didn't make it home much during hockey season—and Isla sat on my right side instead, but the familiarity of the evening warmed my blood.

"Someone needs to take that stove away from the Iverson's," Peter Holmes grumbled around a mouthful of chicken casserole.

He and Garrett were discussing a kitchen fire they'd been called to put out last night. Apparently, old Willie Iverson forgot that he'd put a tea kettle on the stove, then hopped in the shower and went to bed. The flames were contained to the kitchen, and only a cabinet or two were ruined beyond salvation.

Elizabeth clucked and shook her head. "You two leave that poor old man alone. His mind isn't what it used to be."

"Exactly," Garrett countered, pointing at his mother with his fork.

Isla, who'd been listening to the exchange with a small smile, piped up from beside me. "Mr. Iverson used to volunteer at the Community Center's food drives before his knees started acting up. He probably can't repair those cabinets on his own. Maybe we should offer to help him, Dad?"

She was so damn sweet. That her mind automatically switched to how they could help the Iverson's during their time of need was a testament to her character. For as long as I could remember, she'd always been like this. I'd just never fully appreciated it until now, and affection for this young woman saturated my soul.

Peter stared at his youngest, and his eyes softened at the edges, the age lines deepening. "I'll give Willie a call in the morning. We'll see what we can do."

"I'll help," I announced, and all of the eyes around the table flickered my direction. I wiped my hands on the napkin in my lap and leaned back, glancing sideways at Isla with a smirk. "Cabinets are kind of my thing."

Isla stared up at me with wide eyes. "You don't have to. I mean, you probably have other projects that need to take precedence..."

Her uncertainty killed me. Like she thought I'd be burdening myself by helping them, completely unaware that her priorities were quickly becoming my priorities. If it was important to Isla, it was important to me.

"I'd like to help," I answered, praying that she saw the earnestness in my eyes. With that, I turned to her dad. "Let me know what Willie says when you talk to him. We'll take measurements for all of the cabinets, not just the damaged ones. This could be a fun project."

Peter's bushy brows rose, but he nodded. "That sounds like a plan, but are you sure you have time for this? Redoing all of the cabinets... That's a lot."

"You said Willie Iverson used to volunteer at the Community Center's food drives?" I asked, turning toward Isla.

She blinked once and dipped her chin. "Every Saturday morning, rain or shine."

"Then I'd like to help him," I decided, faintly aware of heat rising to my cheeks. "As someone who once relied on those food drives, it'll be nice to repay his kindness."