Читать книгу A Cop's Honor - Emilie Rose - Страница 13

Chapter Three

HANNAH SWALLOWED THE last of her sandwich and tried to diagnose her reluctance to return upstairs.

Touching Brandon had been...unsettling. And that made no sense. As a physical therapy assistant she touched people all day, five days a week. She’d dealt with plenty of men as attractive, if not more so, than Brandon, but none of her patients had ever elicited a frantic pulse or the shakes.

Maybe her jitters had been caused by low blood sugar. She hadn’t eaten since before Sunday school. And if that was the case, then she’d have no problem with him while they painted.

Satisfied with her explanation, she released a pent-up breath and directed her attention to her daughter. “You all set, sweetheart?”

Belle scrambled up from the table. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Then let’s go paint your room.”

Together, she and her daughter climbed the stairs. Brandon had taped off the windows in their absence. When she met his hazel gaze her heart thumped an extra beat and her pulse kicked up. Then her hands started shaking. If it continued she wouldn’t be able to paint straight lines along the ceiling and baseboards. She needed to give her blood sugar time to level out before attempting something that meticulous.

“I’ll roll if you’ll cut in,” she suggested.

“Got it,” he replied and positioned the stepladder in the far corner.

She took one final look around the room. The last time she’d decorated in here had been a month after Belle’s birth. She and Rick hadn’t wanted to know their baby’s sex before delivery. That meant no personalization. Afterward, caring for two children with Rick’s hectic schedule, not to mention their tight budget, had limited Hannah’s decorating to hanging a border of pastel merry-go-round horses on the builder-beige walls. Now her baby girl wanted pink walls with ballerina pictures. That was no surprise considering she’d started dance classes this spring.

“Are you starting here?” Brandon stood beside her, one dark eyebrow cocked.

She startled over his proximity. How had he crossed the plastic drop cloth she’d spread on the floor after removing most of Belle’s furniture so quietly? “Yes. I’ll go clockwise if you’ll go the opposite.”

She winced when she looked at his face. He had to be hurting. Each time she’d touched him he’d flinched. When she’d finished he’d been one big knot of muscles. The professional side of her had wanted to massage the kinks loose, but the personal side of her had rejected the idea. He wasn’t her patient.

Brandon was a trouper to work through the discomfort, and for that, she was grateful. But he had a point about Mason being on the computer. Under the guise of checking her email while she was downstairs, she’d ensured her parental controls were still in place before letting Mason have the laptop.

“You washed the walls after removing the border?” Brandon asked.

Of course he’d remember the border. He’d loaned her his level and shown her how to mark a straight line for hanging the paper. “Last week.”

Brandon lifted the lids on each of the paint cans and poured all three into an empty five-gallon bucket. Nine years ago she’d messed up Mason’s room because one of the batches of paint hadn’t been mixed correctly. She’d ended up with a streaky mess of slightly different shades of the same color paint on the walls. After she’d bought replacements, Brandon had shown her the trick of mixing all the buckets beforehand to ensure a uniform result. It had been an expensive lesson—that was the only reason she recalled it so clearly.

His muscles bulged as he lifted the heavy bucket and carefully poured some of the pink liquid into a rolling pan for her and then a smaller pail for himself. The veins lining his hair-dusted forearms and biceps were a sign of his good muscle tone. He’d always been brawnier than Rick, and more adept at doing the physical stuff that this old house required. And he’d never been stingy with his time even though he had his own projects.

He expertly used his brush to catch any drips then looked up and caught her watching him. “You okay?”

She blinked and felt her cheeks warm. “Yes.”

Why was she so focused on him? She had a job to do and a limited amount of time to get it done before the children needed attention. She slid a roller onto her handle and pushed it through the thick liquid and then onto the wall, but the mindless back and forth action wasn’t enough to erase the realization that Brandon had been a part of every major project she and Rick had completed together on this old house.

Brandon had been the one who’d taught both her and Rick how to paint, build swing sets, plant shrubs and grass and to safely replace faulty outlets and faucets along with countless other chores. If Brandon hadn’t known how to do it, he’d been the one to liaise with the contractors for them because he spoke their language. She and Rick would have been lost without him. They never could have taken on this house without him.

So even though she’d banned Brandon from their lives for five years, he’d been here all along, embedded into the walls and the soil around her home. But that didn’t mean she could forgive him for not watching Rick’s back—no matter what the preacher had said this morning.

“Mommy!” Belle’s panicked cry almost made her drop the roller.

“What is it, baby?”

“I messed up. I painted the wrong color in the nine spot.”

“It’s okay. When it dries you can paint over it.”

“But I want to do it now!”

Tired eyes filled with tears. Because they’d moved Belle’s furniture yesterday, Belle had stayed in Hannah’s bed last night. That meant her baby girl hadn’t slept well and was cranky today.

Brandon descended the ladder to survey the disaster then cut his eyes Hannah’s way. “If you’ll get me a cotton swab I’ll show you how to fix it.”

Hannah hurried to retrieve one from her bathroom. Brandon took it. Their fingers brushed, and that unsettling sensation swept through her again. If her sudden agitation wasn’t caused by low blood sugar, then what was it? The only other time she’d felt like this was when Rick had—

No. It was not desire. Not for Brandon. She staggered back a step—away from the man and the idea.

“You fixed it, Occifer Brandon!” Belle’s excited cry yanked Hannah out of her unpleasant thoughts. Her daughter threw her arms around Brandon and hugged him.

Hannah blinked. She’d completely missed his magical fix. Her confusion must have shown in her face because Brandon winked and displayed the paint-stained cotton swab with a smile on his swollen lips. That smile/wink combo made Hannah’s stomach flip.

“The acrylics are water-soluble. A little dab’ll do ya’. Knock yourself out, kiddo.” He ruffled Belle’s hair and she beamed.

Hannah marveled at how good he was with her daughter. Not many single men would be. He returned to the ladder and Hannah’s gaze followed, fixing on the muscles stretching denim as he climbed. She flushed hot all over and her palms moistened. Her tongue felt thick and dry, then panic quickened her heart as she acknowledged the undeniable. Her reaction to Brandon Martin was...sexual.

Her libido had been buried with Rick. It was a sick, cruel joke that her womanly needs had been resurrected by the man responsible for putting her husband in his grave. The one man she could never trust with her future because he’d already ruined her past.

* * *

BRANDON POINTED THE water hose at a paint tray and absently surveyed Hannah’s backyard while he formulated a plan. He had to build a rapport with Mason if he wanted the boy to trust him enough to confide in him. Putting some distance between him and Hannah wasn’t a bad idea, either.

Three hours confined to the same small room with her had totally screwed with his usual ability to block out distractions. He’d been aware of every move she made, every sigh and every sound. The only time he’d been able to relax was when she’d left the room to check on Mason. Even then he’d wanted to follow and observe her interaction with the boy to see if the kid was hiding something. But he was trying to respect the boundaries she’d marked.

He finished washing up the painting gear and debated going home. But he had a job to do, and cutting corners on an investigation had never been his way of dealing with complications. He stored the materials in the garage and reentered the house. He found Hannah in the den standing behind the sofa and reading the laptop screen over her son’s shoulder.

“I need Mason for an hour.”

She turned, a furrow between her brows. “For what?”

“To help me remove your sagging gutter then replace the fascia board and paint it.”

“Do I have to?” Mason asked with a put-upon expression.

“If you help, you get to use my nail gun.”

Mason perked up. “For real?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Hannah replied simultaneously and shot Brandon then Mason a dark look. “Nail guns are dangerous and you are not allowed on the roof.”

“Mooooom.”

Hannah ignored her son’s protest and turned back to Brandon. “I don’t have the board, and the building supply stores close early on Sunday. Maybe we should call it a night.”

She wanted to get rid of him. Not happening. “I brought the materials with me, and Mason can do what I need from the ladder. No need to get on the roof. And I wouldn’t let him use the nail gun if I couldn’t teach him how to use it safely.”

Reservations filled her eyes. “Brandon, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Hannah, he’ll be fine. Trust me.”

The corners of her lips turned down.

Belle tugged his hand. “What can I do, Occifer Brandon? I want to help, too.”

He couldn’t help but smile at those big, earnest eyes. “You can make sure we rehang the board straight when we get to that part.”

Belle nodded enthusiastically. “I can do that.”

He glanced at Hannah and caught a look of such unadulterated love in her eyes for her daughter that it made his chest ache. He’d seen the same look in Rick’s eyes—like he thought his kids were miracles. Brandon had never felt that way about anyone and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Seemed like keeping a door open for pain and disappointment to slip in. He shook off the negative thought.

“Whatdaya say, Mason? We’re burning daylight.”

The boy bounded off the sofa, ditching the laptop with no reservations. He wouldn’t have done that if he had something on it to hide. He raced to the garage.

“Stay off the roof,” Hannah called after him.

Brandon stepped closer to Hannah and bent his head so Belle wouldn’t overhear. “You asked for my help, remember? Let me do what I do best.”

“But—”

“The only way I’ll get him to open up is by spending time with him and building a rapport.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

Brandon tracked after Mason. When he reached the garage, the boy rolled his eyes. “She treats me like a baby.”

“Get used to it, kid. I’m thirty-two and my mom still does the same thing.”

“For real? But you’re a cop.”

“Moms only do it because they love us. And your mom has to be mother and father for you, so she’s trying twice as hard to be a good parent. Cut her some slack. Let’s get the gear from the truck.”

When they reached his vehicle Brandon donned his tool belt then lowered his small compressor to the ground. He slung the hose over his shoulder and hefted the nail gun. He could carry everything himself, but he wanted Mason to feel as if he was part of the process. “Loop the extension cord across your shoulder like I did the hose and grab the other end of this board.”

They carried their load to the garage and dumped it. “Now we need the ladders. I’ll get one if you’ll get the other.”

Mason did so without argument. Together they set up on opposite sides of the open door. Brandon climbed the ladder. “I’m going to pull this end of the gutter down and lower it to you. Hold it and try not to let it crimp while I release each section. That way we can reuse it.”

“If you were such good friends with my dad, why’d you quit coming around?” Mason asked while Brandon was trying to pry the first gutter spike free. The question jarred him so much that when the spike broke free suddenly he almost fell from his perch.

Did the boy not remember the funeral fiasco? Maybe not. He’d only been five. Brandon formulated an abbreviated version. He met Mason’s gaze. “Because I remind your mom of your dad, and that hurts her. She asked me not to visit.”

“Why’d you show up now?”

He couldn’t tell the truth. Lying was a slippery slope. “Because I missed you.”

“Well, don’t get the idea I need a dad now. I’ve been fine without one.”

The false bravado wasn’t a surprise. He descended the ladder and handed Mason the end of the gutter. “I’m sure, as man of the house, you’ve had to be fine. I still have my dad. But he has a disease. I worry about losing him every day, and I can’t imagine life without him. It must be tough.”

“What’s your dad got?”

“Parkinson’s. It steals a little of his strength at a time. And eventually, it’ll take him entirely. What’s worse is that his mind is as sharp as ever, and he’s aware of every inch of ground he’s losing. I’m fortunate to have him, and I make sure he knows that.”

He moved the ladder, climbed and repeated the process with each additional spike. Mason kept silent until Brandon removed the last one, then he blurted, “Have you ever shot anyone?”

A vision of the perp standing over Rick’s body and the blood pools spreading across the floor flashed across his brain. The sudden pressure on Brandon’s chest felt as if a beam had dropped on it. “Once. I try to avoid that.”

“Are you scared to?”

That day he’d wanted to empty his clip into the guy who’d killed Rick. The only reason he’d managed to stop after one shot was because he wanted to see if Rick was still alive. “No. I value life—mine and others’—and my job. Shooting someone without cause jeopardizes both.”

“Have you ever beat up anybody?”

Another tough answer, but truth often was. “Yes. But never for the sport of it. When I’ve hit someone it’s because I was defending myself or someone else. Again, fighting is—”

“I know, I know. A last resort. Jeez. I heard ya’ the first time.”

Brandon lowered the last end of the gutter and helped Mason carry it to the grass beside the driveway then stopped beside the boy. “Is there someone you think needs beating up now?”

A darting glance was a telling glance. “Who, Mason?”

“Nobody.”

“C’mon, everybody wants to pop someone sometime. Is a kid bothering you?” No answer.

“At school? On the bus?”

Mason hustled to the compressor. “Are you gonna show me how to use this thing or not?”

The refusal to answer was an answer. But the kid wasn’t ready to talk. Brandon let it go and offered Mason a hammer. “We’ll get to the power tools soon enough. First, we need to remove the rotten fascia board and check the rafters for decay. If we find any we’ll have to cut the bad board away and sister on a good one.”

“Huh?”

Success. Confuse the subject then offer assistance. Gaining trust, whether it was a suspect’s or a boy’s, was all about strategy. And Brandon had his mapped out. It wasn’t the best or fastest option, but it was the only one Hannah’s restrictions permitted.

“That’s what your dad said the first time I asked for his help. I’ll teach you what you need to know. Just like I taught him. But you have to listen, follow instructions and trust me. Then and only then will I let you use the saw and nail gun. Can you do that?”

The question was about far more than carpentry, but Mason wouldn’t know that.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Over the next hour Brandon guided Mason through replacing and repainting the rotten boards, with Belle’s occasional input, and then he stood back. “Not bad for your first day wielding a nail gun.”

Mason offered the first genuine smile Brandon had seen from him. “It was pretty cool. I’m hungry. You hungry?”

Progress. Mason was asking about his welfare. “I don’t think your mom’s expecting me for dinner. But let’s ask her about me coming back later in the week to show you how to rehang the gutter.”

“Okay.” Mason hustled inside.

They found Hannah and Belle in the kitchen. The smell of bacon filled the air and Brandon’s stomach grumbled.

Hannah glanced up from the frying pan, and the wariness in her eyes engaged his protective instincts. “Thank you for letting Belle hold the level. She’s talked nonstop about it since she came in.”

“No problem. She was a big help.” He winked at Belle, making her giggle, then pulled out his phone and hit the calendar app. “If weather and my case load permit, I can come back Wednesday to finish the job.”

Hannah shook her head. “We can’t do Wednesday. Belle has dance lessons.”

“Where does Mason go?”

“With us.”

“To dance lessons?”

“There’s a quiet place for him to do his homework,” she defended.

Poor kid. “Let me keep him here so he can help me with the gutter.”

Hannah pulled one corner of her bottom lip into her mouth. It was a habit he’d noticed too many times today.

“Please, Mom? Brandon’s teaching me to use his tools, and I really want to learn.”

She looked surprised by Mason’s enthusiasm. “Okay. But you have to promise to do your homework.”

“I will. I swear.”

Her gaze swung back to Brandon. “Do you um...want to stay for supper? It’s breakfast night. We’re having bacon, eggs and pancakes.”

Hannah’s forced smile couldn’t hide her lack of eagerness for his company. And he couldn’t blame her. He needed some time to get his head back on straight. “Thanks, but I’ll have to take a rain check. I need to get a few things done before work tomorrow. See you Wednesday,” he offered to the room in general.

Belle slid off her stool and rushed him. She wound her little arms around him and squeezed. “Thank you for painting my room, Occifer Brandon. It’s bootiful.”

“You’re welcome. Your picture is going to be perfect on the wall.” The urge to stay hit him hard. But he had to go. This wasn’t his family. It was Rick’s.

No matter how much he’d enjoyed spending the afternoon with Hannah and her children, there were too many risk factors attached to him. If his job didn’t get him killed, he’d still have the cloud of Parkinson’s hanging over his head.

Brandon had read extensively about the future his father faced as the disease progressed, and having loved ones wipe his butt was not in Brandon’s plan.

He could never be a family man.