Читать книгу The Hero's Redemption - Janice Johnson Kay - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

JOLTED AWAKE, ERIN lay utterly still, her heart pounding. What—But the shuddering sense of horror answered an unfinished question. Which nightmare had it been? The crash itself? What she’d seen as she was extracted from all that was left of the van? The faces of parents? The empty seats in her classroom?

She stared at the ceiling, unable to make herself move. She could stay in bed all day. Never get up. No one would notice; no one would care. She had no place to be, not anymore.

Voices played in her head, as they so often did.

You’re so lucky. Yep, that was her—lucky.

God must have saved you for a reason. Because He’d condemned her to purgatory?

You still have the chance to do something extraordinary.

Make your life count. That one had come with an encouraging squeeze of her hand.

Who’d told her she owed it to the dead to be happy? She couldn’t remember. Probably hadn’t been able to look that person in the face.

Nope, of course she wasn’t to blame. She was only the driver. The one all those girls had trusted to get them safely where they were going. They’d trusted her in other ways, too. As an assistant professor of history, lecturing from the front of her classroom, she maintained an invisible distance. But with her team, it was different. She knew every girl—her strengths, her vulnerabilities, her fears, her dreams.

There’d be no more dreams. Just her own nightmares.

The ceiling, she slowly realized, needed painting as much as the walls. What had probably once been white had yellowed, like pages in an old book, even showing the brown spots a book dealer would call “foxing.”

Eventually she rolled her head enough on the ancient, flat-as-a-pancake feather pillow to see the clock—7:26. She’d slept for maybe three hours.

Erin both craved sleep and dreaded it. The oblivion called to her, but the nightmares always took her back to the worst moments.

The screams, metal and human. She would never forget.

Be happy? Really?

Unfortunately, she was alive, which meant she had to pee. Aching, moving as slowly as an old woman, she pushed herself to a sitting position, swung her feet over the edge of the mattress and looked for her slippers. The wood floors were chilly. Plus, she kept thinking she’d get a splinter. Those floors needed stripping, sanding and refinishing as much as the interior of the house needed painting. The exterior, too—but it would have to be scraped and pressure-washed first.

Sometimes she wondered if Nanna just hadn’t seen the deterioration. Maybe her vision had been going. She’d lived here most of her life, and in recent years, she hadn’t gone out much. If Erin’s dad was still alive, he would have seen to the maintenance, but Erin had been too far away to be aware of how badly Nanna needed someone.

“I’m sorry, Nanna,” she whispered.

Thank you, Nanna, for leaving me this house. She had no idea what she would’ve done if she hadn’t had this refuge waiting for her. Familiar, filled with memories and an occasional moment of comfort that felt like the touch of a small, arthritic hand.

Once recovered from her injuries, she’d returned to her classes, sticking it out until February, when she and her department head realized at about the same time that she couldn’t stay on at the college. She’d been at Nanna’s house now for...almost three weeks? Made meaningless by grief, the days ran together.

In the bedroom again to pull a sweatshirt over her sleep tee, Erin said aloud, “I’ll start today, Nanna, even if it’s only one project. I promise.”

There was no answer, of course, and yet Nanna felt more alive to her than—Nope. Not going there. Couldn’t go there, not if she was going to be able to choke down a piece of toast and actually accomplish something like pulling a few weeds.

And she did manage, although she had trouble believing she’d lived for no reason but to save her grandmother’s hundred-year-old house from being bulldozed so some new structure could be built in its place.

Over my dead body, she thought, and wished she could laugh.

* * *

A MONTH LATER...well, she was taking better care of herself, which was something, and had painted the parlor, the library and the downstairs hall, as well as the small bathroom tucked under the stairs. She’d stripped the fireplace surround, sanded until her hand and arm ached, and finally stained it and applied a Varathane finish. It looked really good, if she did say so herself. Too bad the molding and floors still looked so bad.

But in early April, spring could no longer be denied, and today she was going to assess the tools her grandmother had owned, and what needed to be done to get the yard in shape. Of course, she took her life in her hands every time she went down the rotten porch steps. She didn’t think the siding had rotted, except the porch skirt, but couldn’t be positive.

Erin was acquiring a library of how-to books, since she had zero construction experience and didn’t even know how to replace a washer in a dripping faucet. She’d never refinished a piece of furniture—or floors—and barely knew a dandelion from a peony. She could afford to hire some help, but right now she didn’t want workers in and out of the house, blocking the driveway, wondering about the young woman who probably looked like she’d been rescued from a life raft that had drifted in the Pacific Ocean for three months.

To get to the detached garage, she couldn’t cut across the yard because it was, well, a thicket. Fortunately, the driveway had been asphalted at some point, although the cracks in it allowed grass and weeds to send down roots. The garage had been updated more recently than the house, probably when an upstairs apartment had been completed. Of course, that was something like forty years ago. There’d been a time when her grandparents had rented out the garage apartment for extra income. Erin remembered from visits when she was a child that a young man not only lived in the apartment but did yard work, too. After Grandpa died, though, Nanna had quit renting it out. Maybe she hadn’t liked the idea of a stranger so close. Erin hadn’t thought to ask.

She should have visited more often, seen that Nanna needed help. One more reason to feel guilty.

Join the crowd.

Now the apartment was dated, to put it kindly. The refrigerator was harvest gold. There was no dishwasher. The showerhead had corroded, the fiberglass walls of the shower showed small cracks and the toilet and sink were both a sort of orangey-yellow that might also qualify as harvest gold. The apartment was at the absolute bottom of her list of needed updates, however.

Heaving the garage door open, she mentally moved a remote-controlled opener a few notches up on her list.

The workbench probably hadn’t been put to use in decades. Unfortunately, the tools she located obviously hadn’t, either. Rust was crumbling the teeth of a handsaw. The pliers might work, but the blade of the shovel had long since separated from the handle. The rake lacked some tines, and the clippers... She squeezed with all her might and nothing happened except a shower of rusty dust.

Along with the smaller tools, drawers contained tin cans filled with miscellaneous screws, nuts and nails, a hose nozzle, a couple of mousetraps and some object that looked like a branding iron. Very useful.

The lawn mower... Well, if she could ever scythe the overgrown grass, weeds and blackberries down into something that resembled a lawn, she would need a new mower. This one was destined for the junkyard.

Today, she decided, hardware shopping she would go. Hi-ho, the derry-o...

And if she was lucky, the store would have one of those bulletin boards covered with business cards advertising useful people like electricians, plumbers and handymen.

* * *

USUALLY, SOMEONE IN a hardware store would buy a particular tool. Clippers with a longer handle than the ones she had, say. Or replace a shovel.

As he waited for the elderly man leaning on the counter to quit gossiping, Cole Meacham idly watched the woman pushing a cart. She barely hesitated over her choices. Far as he could tell, she bought one of everything. Who didn’t have the basics?

Her, evidently. She had to be a new homeowner.

He watched out of curiosity, but she’d caught his eye because she was a woman—and appealing. Long hair somewhere between red and blond, caught up in a messy bundle on the back of her head. She was too thin for his taste—although he wouldn’t swear his taste had remained in cold storage and therefore unchanged—but long-legged and still curvy. A baggy denim shirt hid enough of her breasts to leave him wondering—

A brusque voice had his head snapping around. “Done with that application?”

“Yes, sir.”

In this small-town hardware store, the manager had been running the cash register while chatting with his customers. A notice in the window had said Help Wanted. When Cole asked about the job, the guy had hardly glanced at him, but handed over an application.

Filling it out had taken Cole a whole lot longer than it should have. His hands had shaken, and sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his spine. All those little boxes. Some of them he could fill in, some he couldn’t. He had no current driver’s license. The employment history made him clench his teeth. He either had no recent jobs to list—or he admitted what kind of jobs they’d been. Where they’d been.

But inevitably he came to the question he dreaded, the one asking whether he’d been convicted of a felony crime. It never asked if he’d committed a crime. He marked “yes,” as he had on all the other applications he’d filled out these past days. Lying wasn’t an option; employers could, and would, do a criminal background check before offering a job. Cole’s father always had.

The manager bent his head to read Cole’s application, revealing a small bald spot on the crown. Waiting without much hope, Cole stared at it. Behind him, the wheels of a shopping cart rattled on the uneven floor in the old building.

He saw the exact moment when the man reached that “yes” mark. His eyes narrowed and he looked up. “How long you been out?”

“A week.”

Shaking his head, he crumpled the application and tossed it toward what was presumably a trash receptacle behind the counter. “Don’t need to know what you did. Can’t have an ex-con working here. Now I’ll ask you to be on your way.”

Cole nodded stoically and turned to find himself face-to-face with the woman he’d been watching. Of course she’d heard. He didn’t let himself see her expression or what would be shock and distaste in her eyes. He said a meaningless, “Ma’am,” and walked past, taking the most direct route to the front door.

Outside, he turned left and walked twenty feet or so, until he was no longer in sight through the hardware store windows, before he stopped. He flattened his hands on the wood siding and allowed his head to drop forward.

Maybe he’d have to give up on this shit town. West Fork. He’d refused to stay anywhere near the penitentiary on the east side of the mountains. The Greyhound bus had taken him to Seattle. Overwhelmed by the city, he had hitched north, looking for a smaller town he could handle, one that seemed friendly.

He made a guttural sound. Friendly. What a joke. He needed to move on, but why would the next town be any different?

“Excuse me.”

At the sound of the voice, Cole whirled, his right hand balling into a fist. He never allowed himself to be unaware of his surroundings.

It was her. The woman from the hardware store. Green-gold eyes widened and she retreated a step, making him realize his lips had drawn away from his teeth and every cord in his neck probably showed. It took him a couple of deep breaths, but he managed to straighten, and he outwardly relaxed even if his heart still raced.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You startled me.”

“That’s all right.” She studied him. “I heard. In there.”

Cole schooled his face to blankness. He didn’t say anything.

“I’m wondering what kind of job you’d consider. And what you know how to do.”

He stared at her. What did he know how to do? That was what she’d said.

“Because, well, this wouldn’t be long-term, but...it might tide you over for a while, and I really need someone. That is, if you know anything about yard work or basic construction. Like building porch steps or scraping siding.” Pink crept into her cheeks, as if his blank expression was getting to her, making her babble. “Not that scraping siding takes any experience or skill, I guess.”

“I can build porch steps.” His voice came out rusty. Was she offering him a job? “And scrape and paint. And yard work?” He shrugged. “As long as I know what’s expected.”

“If you’re interested, I can pay ten dollars an hour, maybe up it once I have a better sense of what you can do.”

“Is this...a business?” he fumbled.

She shook her head. “I inherited an old house from my grandmother. It’s...well, not falling down, but in need of a lot of work. Since it’s spring, I thought I’d start with the exterior and yard. It’s a mess.”

“You have a husband or...?”

“Nobody. And my spirit is willing, but I’ve never done this kind of work. I need help—someone with muscle and at least some know-how.”

“I can provide that.” He still sounded like he had a hairball caught in his throat, but she’d taken him by surprise. No, more than that. Was she nuts, hiring an ex-con she knew nothing about to work on her house? With apparently no man around to protect her?

His conscience kicked in. “You did hear. I just got out of prison.”

Here was where she’d ask what crime he’d committed. But once again, she surprised him. “How long were you in?”

“Ten years.”

She blinked. “You said you’ve only been out a week.”

And he felt like a toddler abandoned in the freeway median. Everything whizzing by, with him too terrified to move.

“Yes.”

“Do you want the job?”

His throat almost closed. Even a day or two of work would give him the means to eat for a week. He had nothing to fall back on. Ten years ago, he’d spent every cent he had on his defense.

“Yes.” After a moment, he added a belated, “Thank you.”

“Well, then, will you help me load this stuff?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Erin. My name is Erin Parrish.”

He nodded.

“And yours?”

“Cole Meacham.”

“Cole.”

He trailed her to the front of the hardware store, but then his feet stopped moving. “Where are you parked?”

“Out back.”

Was there a parking lot behind the building? He hadn’t noticed. “Why don’t I meet you there?”

“Oh. Sure. See you there,” she said, matter-of-fact. She disappeared inside, and he turned to circle the corner.

A job. Maybe only a few days, but real work. Basic work, the kind that hadn’t changed in the past ten years. A hot little burn in his chest wasn’t pride or even hope, but might be kin to either.

Unless she changed her mind, or had it changed for her by the man in the hardware store, who must’ve been horrified when the pretty woman customer chased the ex-con outside. Yeah, that was what would happen. His steps slowed. She’d say something like, “I’m sorry, but I just got a call from a guy who decided to take the job, after all.” She might offer him a little money, which pride required him to refuse. Shit, why was he going to meet her at all, setting himself up for more disappointment?

But as he started across the parking lot, Cole saw her struggling with the glass door as she tried to back out with her overloaded cart. He broke into a trot, firmly taking the handle and saying, “Hold the door.”

She glared inside. “With what I just spent, you’d think that jerk could’ve offered to help.”

“He’s afraid of me.” The way you should be.

She sniffed. “I may have to drive out to the freeway next time and shop at Lowe’s.”

A smile wanted to break across Cole’s face. Erin Parrish might be a little strange, but what the hell?

His stomach growled.

* * *

ERIN BACKED HER Jeep Grand Cherokee up to the garage, never so glad she’d bought it last year instead of the Mustang she’d had her eye on. Back then, she’d told herself she wanted a burly vehicle, with a powerful engine. Hauling anything but a new piece of furniture had been the last thing on her mind.

She sneaked a sidelong look at the man beside her. There’d been a time when she thought through every decision before acting. The old Erin Parrish was the antonym of impulsive, but that woman no longer existed.

She knew what had triggered this impulse. It wasn’t so much that he’d been turned down for a job he obviously needed desperately or even the reason he was rejected that got to her. No, she’d been watching his face, assuming she’d see disappointment, shame, perhaps anger. Instead, she’d seen only resignation. He hadn’t expected to be hired. She’d found herself wondering if this man expected anything good from anybody.

And then she’d heard herself say, “Will you ring up my stuff? I’ll be right back,” and had gone racing after him.

When she approached him on the sidewalk, his head was hanging so low she couldn’t see his expression, but his body spoke of despair. She’d been conscious of how powerful that body was, noticed the tattoo peeking out above the collar of his white undershirt. When he whirled, prepared to fight, wariness finally kicked in, but then she saw how gaunt his bony face was, that his shirt was wrinkled, his boots worn. His brown hair was cut brutally short, and his expressionless eyes were an icy blue. She had the kind of thought that would once have appalled her.

He could be a murderer. Maybe he’d kill her.

I should be dead. If he corrected that little mistake, so be it.

Here she was at Nanna’s house. Me and the ex-con. Nanna had to be shuddering, wherever she was.

She turned off the engine and set the emergency brake. “Home, sweet home.” They were the first words out of her mouth—or his—since she’d determined that he had no transportation of his own.

He nodded and got out, going to the rear and waiting until the hatch door rose. When she started muscling the garage door up, he moved fast, taking over before she even heard him coming.

In the garage, he walked a slow circle. “I see why you needed the tools. Although—” he picked up an ax “—some of these can be salvaged with some steel wool and oil.”

Me and the ex-con, who is now holding an ax. She cleared her throat. “Really? They’re so corroded.”

“Just rusty.” He set it down. “I’ll unload.”

Of course she helped. They leaned the old rake and shovel and whatever else against the wall and used the hooks and nails to hold the new tools. The smaller tools hung above the workbench.

“Okay,” she said, “let me show you around.”

He followed silently, his expression no more readable. She was slightly unnerved to notice he carried a screwdriver. When they reached the front porch steps, he stabbed the screwdriver into the wood, which made a squishy sound. He removed it, straightened and looked at her. “Your foot’ll go right through.”

“I have been worrying about that. The back steps aren’t so good, either.”

He shook his head, poked at the porch apron, then gingerly climbed to the porch itself, where he did some more stabbing.

His verdict? “Whole porch should be rebuilt.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

“Well, then.” Gosh, buying lumber might have been a smart thing to do. She’d bought a circular saw with the vague idea that she could use it for small projects. Was that what he’d need?

“Can you drive?” she asked.

Not wasting even one word, he shook his head.

“Then I guess I should go to the lumberyard.”

“Did you buy a measuring tape?”

Oops. “I’ll...go see if I can find one inside.”

“I’ll check the workbench. If you can get a pencil and piece of paper...”

Feeling awkward, she went inside, aware that he’d disappeared into the garage. The best she found was an old wooden yardstick. But she stepped out onto the porch to find him crouched, a metal measuring tape already extended across the porch steps. “I can do the writing,” she offered.

He reeled off dimensions and what kind of board was needed. Two-by-four. Four-by-four. Two-by-two. Nails. Primer. Brushes. He asked if she’d bought paint for the house yet. No.

“Might be good to decide what colors you want,” he suggested. “Then I can paint the porch as I go, while the weather holds.”

She could do that.

He said he hadn’t seen a ladder. She told him she had a stepladder inside. A faintly condescending expression crept over his impassive face. Three steps wouldn’t get him very high on the side of the house, he pointed out. Um, no, they wouldn’t.

“Tell you what,” he said finally. “If you want to run to the lumberyard, I’ll get the clippers and start cutting back the growth that’s crowding the house. Can’t scrape it if I can’t get to it.”

“Will you recognize the lilac and...there used to be a big climbing rose to the right of the porch?” she asked, remembering the garden in bloom so many years ago. “Oh, and some rhododendrons.”

“I’ll recognize them.”

They agreed she could pick up paint chips today and think overnight about what colors she wanted for the house. When she left, clutching the piece of paper with the materials list, she told him the front door was unlocked if he needed the bathroom. But she saw his face. He wouldn’t be going in.

Now was a fine time to wonder whether she’d crossed the line to crazy.