Читать книгу Keeping Her Safe - Barbara Phinney - Страница 11

“Hunter!”

His eyes shot open. “What’s wrong?”

Rae blew out a sigh. “I couldn’t wake you. It’s time to get up. We have work to do.”

He closed his eyes, looking pained. “In a minute.”

Sympathy washed over her as he lay there. He wasn’t sick. He was just tired, something she felt herself.

Embarrassed by the sudden intimacy, she backed away, bumping into the door.

He opened his eyes again, giving her a full measure of the cobalt blue of his irises. “Wait! What’s that scent you wear? You had it on yesterday.”

She hesitated, surprised by his question. “There’s no point wearing perfume when I spend all day in a workshop. It’s just a lotion.”

“What’s it scented with?”

“Roses.” She shrugged self-consciously. “I…I like it.”

“I can see why. It’s soft. A good choice for you.”

She cleared her throat. This conversation was becoming a little too personal. She reached behind her to grab the knob of the still-open door. “Why do you ask?”

The pained frown returned. “I once knew someone who wore a scent like that.”

“Your mother?”

“Hardly. She smelled like cigarette smoke. No, it was my first foster mother.”

“First?” Rae knew Hunter had spent time in a foster home, but more than one? “Why didn’t you stay with her?”

“She and her husband were killed in a domestic dispute with another foster kid’s parents.” He shifted, as if hoping to terminate the conversation.

Rae bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to get up, then. Meet me in the workshop.” She made a hasty exit, finding herself pulling the cool morning air into her lungs as she headed into the shop. Then she straightened. Her father had bought Hunter a steak. He’d built that annex with him in mind, even written him a welcome note, hoping Hunter would help him find a threat, as if only he could do that. Why?

For that matter, why had Dad given him half of the estate? As incentive for him to stay? Walking toward her desk, Rae thrust aside her questions. She didn’t have the time or the energy to waste on them. Dad was gone—oh, how it hurt to admit that—and she had things to do. She sat down and stared at the paperwork in front of her.

Then she remembered the call she’d made early this morning. Dad’s insurance broker had been kind enough to squeeze her in today at noon, promising he’d have everything ready for her. She’d settle the life insurance policy and hopefully, in a few days, be able to offer Hunter a fair price for his half. Her disquieting feelings would leave with him.

Encouraged by that thought, she picked up a note her father had put in the contracts file. The door to the workshop opened and she stiffened her spine. On the threshold stood Hunter, silhouetted against the bright morning light. He’d grown into a husky, powerful man, but today he looked tired, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered as he reached to rub his right temple.

She stood, unable to deny her growing sympathy. “You want some coffee? Dad keeps—kept—a pot and a small fridge here.” Without waiting, she walked behind the desk to the pint-size refrigerator, upon which stood a coffee machine and some cups. She quickly set about brewing a pot, finding she needed a strong cup herself. When Hunter approached, she threw him a glance over her shoulder.

He looked worse close up. What had he indulged in last night, besides the steak, on his first night of freedom?

“You look awful. What’d you have? A one-man party last evening?”

He shot her a cool look. “The only thing I did was eat a steak, which was very good, then those desserts you gave me. I don’t drink, smoke or do any sort of drugs.”

“So all you did was eat and sleep?”

“And read my Bible. The prison chaplain gave me a study guide to Job, and I was doing that before I was released, so I continued.”

The memory of the funeral, and of seeing Hunter offer up a prayer, returned. She didn’t want to hear how he had found God, asked for forgiveness, and—as much as she didn’t like the truth right now—been forgiven.

He grabbed a mug and poured coffee from the pot before it had even stopped dripping. The steaming liquid sizzled onto the burner underneath. He took a sip from his mug and winced slightly.

Rae blew out a sigh. “You’ve picked up a bug.”

“I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Maybe it was too much steak.” As she spoke, she wondered if maybe she did resent her father giving him that steak.

Forget it. She bustled back to the desk. “Are you ready to work? Because I need you to find some things.”

Her words were clipped, reminding him of the way he’d been treated in prison. No one really cared about him….

Hunter drained his coffee and ignored the headache stabbing at him. “What’s first?”

He took the short list of supplies she handed him. “I assume that the shed out back holds a bunch of stuff.”

“Yes, but Dad had supplies everywhere. I need to make a few phone calls before we go into the city. Hopefully by then you’ll know what we need to pick up.” She pulled out the phone book from under a messy stack of papers. The resulting draft wafted that soft scent of roses over to him.

Hunter automatically inhaled, then stopped himself. He was here to protect Rae. From what, he didn’t know yet, but he’d never find out sucking in rose-scented air.

He stifled a yawn. In the middle of the night, he’d awoken, and unable to sleep, he rose. He’d searched the workshop for several hours, looking for some clue as to who would want to harm Rae. By four o’clock, he’d found nothing.

He pivoted on the heel of his boot now and strode outside. He’d just have to keep his eyes open.

The hours ticked by and the headache eased only slightly. He spent the morning assembling the lumber needed for the job, and finding to his irritation that Benton had become disorganized over the years.

Living in a small cell had taught Hunter to be rigid with his own sense of order. More than once, his discipline came in conflict with other prisoners, and he had needed to defend himself….

Enough. He wasn’t there anymore. He was here, trying to rebuild his life, and help Rae. Keep her safe.

Lifting a pile of short boards and a drop cloth near the desk, he peered down at a large leather punching bag. Beside it, sealed in clear plastic, were a pair of boxing gloves.

His hand stilled as he reached for them. The medium-size box that held them was made from bird’s-eye maple, cut and joined in Benton’s unique grooved style.

The only source of that rare wood was on the government land behind their property. Was the illegal harvesting of wood they’d done a decade ago still going on?

Hunter lifted the gloves. “Were you planning on taking up boxing?”

“No. That was given to us a few weeks ago. The client couldn’t pay us because he’d hit bottom, financially. I just couldn’t make his life worse.”

“So he gave you a punching bag?”

Shrugging, she returned to her work. Even with her head bent he could see embarrassment stain her cheeks. “He had nothing else.”

“But it can’t pay your bills.”

Conceding, she flicked up a hand. “I can’t take him to court. He’s paying child support. I should try to sell the set.” She peered over at Hunter. “Or you could use it.”

Benton’s firm words on fighting returned to him. “Punching a bag builds up a need to fight. It’s better to learn to manage anger,” he murmured.

“You don’t look like you’ve stayed a pacifist.”

“I won’t fight.” He dropped the boards back over the punching bag and gloves. Hunter knew she’d seen some of his scars, even though he’d worn a T-shirt to bed. If she continued to stare at him now, he didn’t know what he’d do.

Eventually, he turned. “We have everything for the project, except, of course, the bird’s-eye maple.” He stepped in front of the box containing the gloves and bag, hoping she hadn’t paid any attention to it. If she noticed the wood, with its distinctive swirls, she’d start asking questions.