Книга - The Hero’s Redemption

The Hero's Redemption
Janice Kay Johnson


When gratitude becomes friendship…and something more.Cole Meacham has only been out of prison a couple of weeks after a ten-year term for a murder he didn't commit. A silent, guarded man, he doesn’t know how to start over again now that he’s free. Destitute and alone, he’s been sleeping in a park. Then Erin Parrish offers him a job plus room and board. The woman with the haunted eyes seems to be the only person on earth who isn’t afraid of him. But she clearly has her own demons, and Cole watches as night after night his new boss and landlord gets in her vehicle and drives…somewhere. It seems she needs his help as much as he needs hers. If only he could be that man she can depend on. And love.







When gratitude becomes friendship...and something more.

Cole Meacham has only been out of prison a couple of weeks after a ten-year term for a murder he didn’t commit. A silent, guarded man, he doesn’t know how to start over again now that he’s free. Destitute and alone, he’s been sleeping in a park. Then Erin Parrish offers him a job plus room and board. The woman with the haunted eyes seems to be the only person on earth who isn’t afraid of him. But she clearly has her own demons, and Cole watches as night after night his new boss and landlord gets in her vehicle and drives...somewhere. It seems she needs his help as much as he needs hers. If only he could be that man she can depend on. And love.


Cole had taught himself to sleep lightly.

He snapped to awareness when he heard a car door close with deliberate softness. Lying rigid, he listened. The digital clock Erin had put at the bedside said 2:33. Anyone coming or going in the middle of the night wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbors. Especially if that person was stealing a vehicle.

When the engine started, he knew it was Erin’s Jeep. He jumped out of bed, reaching the front window just before the dome light went out. In that instant, he saw her. While he watched, Erin reversed, then drove down the driveway. Brake lights flickered before she turned onto the street.

He didn’t welcome the uneasiness he felt as he stared out at the yard and street dimly lit by streetlights, the closest half a block away. Where was she going? Wouldn’t she have woken him if she had some kind of emergency?

His mouth tightened. Why would she? What was he but her charity project, after all?

She might have just been restless. He was projecting to think that whatever ghost haunted her and shadowed her eyes had sent her out into the night.

And, damn it, Cole didn’t want to feel any responsibility for another human being. Even so, he knew with icy certainty that he wouldn’t sleep again until she came home.


Dear Reader (#uaa00236a-a88b-5af9-b38a-fba08e8bbed3),

I’ve been interested for a long time in the experiences of the many men released from prison after very long terms because DNA evidence not available when they were convicted now proves their innocence. How Rip Van Winkle is that? What would it be like to rejoin the world after such a long absence?

Imagine going to bed one night and waking up years in the future, as he did in Washington Irving’s story. People you loved would have moved on without you or died; your children would be grown. What work history you have is outdated. Is there a place for you at all?

At least Rip had the advantage that day-to-day life hadn’t changed much. Now transfer that experience to the modern world. Something as simple as standing on a sidewalk with traffic rushing by can be terrifying when you’ve been shut away for so long. You’ve forgotten how to make conversation (especially with the opposite sex). And then there’s technology, which changes with breathtaking speed. You’re bewildered by smartphones, touch screens, car dashboards that look like they belong in the cockpit of a Boeing jet. And, oh, yeah, you don’t have a driver’s license, or a bank account, or acceptable credit history. Now take a deep breath, and best of luck out there.

Falling in love? That’s a whole other complication (and I so love to complicate the lives of my heroes and heroines).

So, here’s my Rip Van Winkle story.

Janice


The Hero’s Redemption

Janice Kay Johnson






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


An author of more than ninety books for children and adults (more than seventy-five for Harlequin), JANICE KAY JOHNSON writes about love and family—about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. A USA TODAY bestselling author and an eight-time finalist for a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award, she won a RITA® Award in 2008 for her Harlequin Superromance novel Snowbound. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small town north of Seattle, Washington.


Contents

Cover (#u0e062eb5-a754-5083-9e7a-73f7e9c2997e)

Back Cover Text (#ud1689909-deb5-5c65-bfd0-cae905520c82)

Introduction (#u73dc7ff6-edaf-53fc-9f5d-8397f8762642)

Dear Reader (#u094c075d-b5c7-51b4-9e4f-4be447ff9082)

Title Page (#u7065e842-8fd8-5176-9c65-cdf56ba9ed0e)

About the Author (#u13385620-c1f7-5ee8-bf73-96776876d548)

PROLOGUE (#ub380e988-4227-53cf-a339-5c74be0ba114)

CHAPTER ONE (#u588a9ca2-785a-5478-bcfb-f94fad9738e4)

CHAPTER TWO (#ua901e556-4081-5df2-b295-7b3190b9a7ed)

CHAPTER THREE (#u4a114c6e-acee-5c85-8498-a7ba0a8e1684)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u7a4f6980-b65d-516a-a595-a1e5b3257278)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u38147379-442f-59a3-884b-8a7c84cf6d57)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#uaa00236a-a88b-5af9-b38a-fba08e8bbed3)

“NO GUY IS ever going to be interested in me! I tower over all of them!” Alyssa Enger wailed from near the back of the extended van.

The other nine girls cried out in denial.

“Why did I have to take after my dad?” Alyssa moaned.

Erin Parrish hid her grin as she changed lanes on I-5 in northern California to pass a slow-moving RV. As head coach of Markham College’s women’s volleyball team, she also did the driving for away games. Her assistant coach, Charlotte Prentice, was considered too young at twenty-three to be trusted behind the wheel of a vehicle insured by the college.

Alyssa was the team’s middle blocker because she was six foot one. Erin had met her parents—a mom who, at only five-eight or so, was the shrimp in their family, a dad who had to be six foot six and two younger brothers who’d already shot past Alyssa in height.

“Boys are scared of you because you’re so beautiful,” declared Stephanie Bell, a setter. “And there are lots of guys taller than you.”

Maybe not “lots,” but some.

“Have you met Emmett Stark?” someone asked.

“Eeew!” several girls squealed.

Outright laughing now, Erin glanced at Charlotte, whose face was lit by laughter, too. Emmett Stark, freshman and Markham College’s JV basketball center, would surely grow into his body eventually. Right now, he was so skinny he looked ridiculous.

“We should dress you up as an Amazon for Halloween,” another girl said. Ella Pierce? “Maybe we could use gold paint, and you could carry a spear.”

“Where can we get a spear?” someone else asked eagerly.

“Ohh! I know.” Ginny Simacek bounced in delight. “My brother’s girlfriend did this volunteer thing in Africa, and she brought one home with her! I bet I can borrow it.”

Erin narrowed her eyes at the rearview mirror. Was Ginny wearing her seat belt? Could you bounce if you were wearing one? The girls had a way of taking their seat belts off for “just a minute,” because they had to grab a bag from under a seat or find a shoe that was kicked off, and then, oops, forgetting to fasten them again.

“Charlotte...” Erin began.

Motion caught from the corner of her eye spiked her adrenaline. She turned her head. All she took in was a swirl of dirt and the monster cab of a semitruck roaring straight at them across the median, rearing bigger and bigger. She wrenched the steering wheel and her foot sought the brake, even though she knew it was too late.

Then crunching metal, stabbing pain, screams. And nothingness.


CHAPTER ONE (#uaa00236a-a88b-5af9-b38a-fba08e8bbed3)

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.


CHAPTER TWO (#uaa00236a-a88b-5af9-b38a-fba08e8bbed3)

COLE SWUNG THE machete in a smooth rhythm, glad Erin had thought to buy one. The sharp blade sliced through blackberry canes, salmonberries, fireweed and other nuisance weeds, baring the foundation and clapboard siding of the old house. He used the ancient clothesline he’d found in the garage to pull salvageable shrubs away from the house.

When he heard the Jeep turn into the driveway, he walked around the corner of the house to meet her.

The first thing he noticed was the aluminum extension ladder tied to the roof. Lumber was piled in the back of the Jeep, extending beyond the bumper. A strip of red cloth dangled from the end of the longest board.

He forgot everything else when Erin got out, carrying a pizza box.

His stomach cramped and saliva filled his mouth. Pride made him want to thank her politely and refuse her offer of lunch, but he was too damn hungry. If he didn’t get more to eat, he wouldn’t be able to do the work she’d asked of him.

“Let’s eat before we unload,” she said.

He managed a stiff, “Thank you.”

She handed over the pizza. “I have bottled water and some Pepsi in the fridge. Milk, too. What would you like?”

When was the last time anyone had given him a choice? He didn’t want milk, he knew that, but only said, “Anything.”

She disappeared into the house, returning with two cans of pop and a bottle of water, as well as what looked like a wad of paper towels. When she saw him sitting on the bottom porch step, legs outstretched, she put the drinks down within reach and sat, too.

“We aren’t going to end up on our butts in the dirt if we move wrong, are we?”

He felt a tiny spark of amusement, which surprised him. “There’s not far to fall.”

“Well...that’s true.” She picked up a slice of pizza and started eating.

She’d bought a half-meat, half-cheese pizza. He sank his teeth into a slice heaped with sausage, pepperoni and mushrooms, almost groaning with pleasure.

“How far did you get with the weeding?” she asked eventually.

“About halfway around.” Did she realize it might take a couple of weeks to do the job she’d talked about, rather than the two or three days he’d originally expected?

“Any surprises?”

“Some siding that’ll need to be replaced.” He’d used the screwdriver to check for rot as he went.

She scrunched up her nose. “Figures.”

Two pieces later, he said, “The gutters are in bad shape.”

“I noticed rain was running right over them.”

Without a ladder, he hadn’t been able to look closely, but they were obviously packed full of leaves, fir needles and debris. They’d also torn away from the eaves in places. She might decide to hire a company that specialized in gutters to replace them instead of keeping him on.

He stopped eating sooner than he would have liked, and began unloading the Jeep. Erin came to help him. The lumber went in the garage. He propped the new ladder against the house, figuring they’d need it today. When she put on gloves and started scraping, he went back to taming the wild growth.

By now, there was some burn in his muscles as he swung the machete. Lifting weights built muscle, but this required a different kind of motion. To block out the discomfort, he turned his thoughts in another direction.

He hadn’t let himself speculate about another person in a long time, but as the next couple of hours passed, Cole did a lot of thinking about Erin Parrish. How could he help it?

Despite his wariness, he spent some time savoring the pleasure of watching her. Whenever he passed behind her, his gaze lingered on the long, slim line of her back, the subtle curve of her waist and hips, her ass and astonishing legs. He had a feeling he’d have no trouble picturing her face tonight when he should be trying to sleep. Her eyes were beautiful, the gold bright in sunlight, the green predominant in the dimmer lighting of the garage. The delicacy of her jaw, cheekbones and nose turned him on as much as her body did. He hadn’t seen anything this pretty in ten long years.

But mostly he tried to understand what she’d been thinking.

Why would a lone woman hire someone like him, no questions asked? He could be a rapist, a murderer; how would she know? She might have assumed she was safe, midday in a residential neighborhood, but he could have pushed her into the house more quickly than she realized. Or yanked the garage door down while they were piling lumber in there. Done whatever he chose, then walked away.

He wanted to ask why she’d hired him, but he wanted the job more. Encouraging her to have second thoughts wasn’t in his best interests.

Yeah, but this could be a setup. What if she got what labor she could out of him, then refused to pay him? He’d have no recourse. Although, considering what she knew about him, it seemed unlikely she’d take the risk of pissing him off.

A darker scenario occurred to him. He could get some of the hard work done, and then she could cry rape or assault. Whether there was any physical evidence or not, her word would be taken over his.

Hell, he thought. Accepting this job hadn’t been smart. But he circled back to hard reality—he was desperate. No one else would hire him. He’d already run out of the limited amount of money he’d been given on leaving the joint. And he was flirting with trouble, anyway, because one of the conditions of parole was having a place to live and a job. His sister had agreed he could say he’d be able to stay with her, but that had never been an option. Her husband wanted nothing to do with her ex-con brother, refused to let Cole near their kids.

He had to contact his parole officer soon and have an acceptable alternative, or he’d find himself back in his cell.

Whatever Erin Parrish was thinking, she was a hard worker who made good progress scraping the siding while he continued beating back the jungle. When he finished, he returned to find her standing high on the ladder, stretching as far as she could to reach a spot beneath the eaves.

“What should I do with the piles of stuff I cut?” he asked.

Turning too quickly, she lurched. He lunged forward and grabbed the ladder to steady it.

Gripping the ladder herself, she blew out a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you coming.”

Despite a temperature that was likely in the midsixties, he’d worked up a sweat, and saw that she had, too. Damp strands of hair clung to her cheeks, and she wiped her forehead with her forearm. Flakes of white paint looked like confetti in her hair and on her shoulders.

“I have no idea,” she admitted after a minute. “I noticed when I put out my garbage can that a couple of neighbors had big green ones, too. I wonder if they’re for yard waste? I’ll call the company and find out. Otherwise, I might need to get a Dumpster of some kind. I think it’s possible to rent one.”

“You might need both. There’ll be nails in what I tear off the house. Some of that wood’s been treated or painted, too. It can’t go in yard waste.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Why don’t you come down? I’ll deal with what’s up there, above your reach.”

She looked mulish. “I’m doing okay.”

“I’m taller and I have longer arms.” And if she fell and was injured, he’d be up shit creek. How could he ask for his pay while she was being loaded in the ambulance?

“Oh, fine.” She climbed down with extra care.

Cole saw that she was trembling, and it couldn’t be from cold. Suddenly angry, he said, “You’re exhausted.”

She glared at him. “I can keep working.”

He plucked the scraper out of her hand. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

“It’s none of your business if I want—”

Something froze inside him. He set the scraper down on a ladder rung and stepped back. “You’re right.”

He’d started to walk away when she said, “I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”

Stupid? Cole turned around. He thought it was shame that colored her cheeks.

“I don’t have much upper body strength,” she admitted. “It’s been a while since—” She broke off. “I don’t like feeling useless, but you’re right. I’ve reached my limit.”

He didn’t dare say anything.

Her eyes shied away from his. “I’ll go in and call the garbage company. And look at the paint samples. Um, if you’d like to stay for dinner—”

He shook his head.

“Well, then...”

“I can get a couple more hours in.”

She backed away. “Okay. Thank you. Don’t take off without knocking. I’ll pay you as we go. Cash for now, unless you’d rather have a check—”

“I don’t have a bank account yet.”

She nodded and disappeared around the corner of the house. A minute later, he heard the front door close.

Cole shifted the ladder and started in where she’d left off.

* * *

ERIN DIDN’T SLEEP any better than she had the night before, or any other night in months. This was different only because she had something new to think about.

Someone.

Cole Meacham disturbed her.

The irony was, she could hardly bear being around people who wanted any kind of normal interaction with her. Whether it was chatting about nothing or an exchange of deeply personal information, either had her longing for escape. Cole asked for neither. He seemed to have no more interest in chatting than she did. Less. He answered questions as briefly as possible, and sometimes she sensed him struggling to pull a response from somewhere deep inside him, as if he’d forgotten how to make conversation.

That was fine with her. He was a day laborer, that was all. She hoped she was helping him out, as he was helping her. And maybe her self-consciousness around him, her constant awareness of him, was only because of his history. As far as she knew, she’d never met anyone who had served a term in prison, or if she had, they hadn’t looked the part as completely as he did.

The nearly shaved head emphasized the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the hollows beneath, the strong line of his jaw. She wondered about the tattoo reaching toward his collarbone. Today, he hadn’t removed the chambray shirt he wore loose over a ribbed white undershirt or tank, she wasn’t quite sure which. He’d rolled up the sleeves, exposing muscular, sinewy forearms dusted with brown hair but exhibiting no ink. Was his entire back or chest covered with tattoos? What about his shoulders?

Moaning, Erin flipped over in bed. The knowledge that he had a tattoo increased her visceral knowledge that he could be dangerous. That, and his complete lack of expression.

Every so often, she imagined she saw a flicker of something, but imagined was probably the right word. Did he not feel anything? Or had he just become adept at hiding any hint of emotion or vulnerability?

Even when she’d paid him shortly after five, he had only nodded and stuffed the bills in his jeans pocket without counting them first. He’d thanked her in that gruff, quiet voice, asked what time he should start in the morning and refused her offer of a ride.

Where was he staying? Had he been able to rent a room somewhere, or did he have a friend or family in West Fork? Most places in town were within walking distance. Erin might have asked, except she’d known how unwelcome any personal question would be. And she’d learned to hate intrusive questions herself, so she had to respect his feelings.

Would he show up in the morning? If he didn’t... Of course she could find someone else, but Erin knew she’d hate not knowing what had happened to him. Despite her prickling sense that he could be a threat, he had been almost painfully polite all day, even gentlemanly. The way he’d leaped when he thought she might fall from the ladder, and then urged her to stop work when he could tell she was tired, seemed like the behavior of a guy whose protective instincts were alive and well.

Or else he didn’t want her to overdo or hurt herself because he was afraid of losing even this short-term job. She made a face. That was more likely. He was an ex-con.

Only, she knew too well that everyone made mistakes. A life-shattering mistake was never more than a heartbeat away. Sometimes, the mistake was no more than a moment of inattention.

* * *

ERIN FINISHED BREAKFAST and a first cup of coffee, disappointed that Cole hadn’t knocked to let her know he’d arrived. She was sure she would have heard him if he’d started in without waiting for her. Maybe one day’s pay was enough to allow him to drift along.

But she decided to look outside, and when she opened the front door, she saw him leaning against the fender of her Cherokee. He straightened and walked up the driveway as she descended the porch steps.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting,” she said.

“Not long.”

His tongue hadn’t loosened overnight.

“You could have started. Or come up to the house for a cup of coffee.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

Couldn’t he tell how little sleeping she actually did? Or...maybe he had.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Had a cup on my way here,” he said briefly.

“Oh. Okay.” She couldn’t ask if that was true. “But you’re always welcome—”

“I’ll get started.” Apparently, they were done talking. Except he didn’t move, but shifted his weight from foot to foot in what might be a hint of uncertainty. “Thought I might work on the porch today instead of the siding.” Pause. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Yes. Oh! That’s probably a good idea. I keep thinking a step will give way.”

He nodded.

“Thank you. Do you need help?”

“Not now.”

So she retreated to the house for a second cup of coffee that she needed, and brooded about the fact that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. She recognized the tear on the right knee of his jeans, and a stain on the tail of the chambray shirt. No reason that should worry her; given how dirty the job was, putting on clean clothes every morning didn’t make sense. She had on yesterday’s ragged jeans herself. Chances were good he’d only have a few changes of clothing. Even if he had plenty of money, running out and buying a new wardrobe probably wasn’t a priority.

Besides, she’d embarrass him if she said anything.

Since he obviously didn’t need assistance, she went back to scraping. Sore muscles screamed; if they didn’t loosen up, she’d have to find something else to do.

She stuck to it for about an hour before whimpering and letting her arm fall to her side. Coaching volleyball and softball, she’d stayed in condition. The weight she’d lost since the crash, plus six months of idleness, were apparently exacting a cost.

From where she was working, she hadn’t been able to see Cole, but the screech of nails and the ripping sound of boards being torn up hadn’t stopped. Walking around the house, she stopped at the sight of a bigger-than-expected pile of splintered lumber.

He’d finished with the porch floorboards and now had one knee on a step as he pried up a board on the step above. It didn’t come up cleanly. With a sodden sound, one end separated.

Erin winced. She’d been careful to stay close to the edge and cling to the rail as she went up and down the steps, but still...

His head turned and he fastened those icy eyes on her.

She approached. “You’ve made good progress.”

“This part doesn’t take long.” He kept watching her. “The supports are rotting, too. I’m going to have to rebuild from the ground up.”

“I guess that’s not a surprise. I think the porch is original to the house.”

“The steps aren’t as old as the rest of the porch.”

“My grandfather kept things up until his health declined. Even then, he made sure the work got done.”

“When did he die?”

A little startled that he’d actually asked, she said, “Fifteen years ago? No, more than that. Seventeen or eighteen.”

He nodded, then changed the subject. “Did you order a Dumpster?”

“Yes. They’ll deliver it either today or tomorrow. I also asked for two yard waste bins.”

He had that brief dip of his head down pat. Saved a lot of words.

She gazed upward. “I’ll have to buy shingles.” She assumed he would rebuild the porch roof.

“And some plywood. Different kind of nails, too.”

He agreed he’d make her a new list or accompany her to the lumberyard, although an even blanker than usual face suggested he’d rather not go on an outing. With her? Or at all?

At his request, she ended up pulling nails out of a pile of boards he’d set aside because he thought they were reusable. At lunchtime, Erin shared the remainder of yesterday’s pizza with him, although Cole didn’t look thrilled about that.

Erin kept trying to think of some way to ask about his accommodations, but failed. He wouldn’t welcome nosiness.

“It almost looks like rain,” she finally ventured. “Scattered showers” was what her phone had told her.

He squinted up at the gray sky. “Probably not until evening.”

“If it’s raining tomorrow, I can put you to work inside.”

He barely glanced at her. “I’ll set up the saw in the garage, cut the lumber for the porch to size. Might even slap some primer on and let it dry.”

He had to be staying somewhere. He must have at least a few possessions. Or would he? She couldn’t believe the correctional institute released inmates who’d completed their sentences or were on parole with nothing but the clothes on their backs and maybe what they’d had in their pockets when they were arrested. Or did they?

By five o’clock, the front porch was gone. The house seemed oddly naked without it, Erin thought, surveying the result of his work. Behind her, the garage door descended with a groan and bump. She’d noticed before that Cole wiped each tool with a rag and returned it to its place when he was done with it.

She knew he was walking toward her only because she looked over her shoulder. She never heard him coming. Somehow, even wearing boots, he avoided crunching on gravel or broken branches the way she did. His walk, controlled, confident and very male, was part of what made him so physically compelling.

“I won’t tear out the back steps until I’ve replaced this,” Cole said.

She found herself smiling. “Climbing in and out of the house on a ladder would be fun.”

Was that a flicker of humor in his eyes? No, surely not.

She dug his pay out of her pocket and handed it over. Feeling the first drizzle, she said, “Would you like a lift tonight?”

“I’ll be fine.” He inclined his head and then walked away, turning right at the foot of the drive.

Going where?

* * *

COLE HAD DECIDED to take a chance tonight and wrap himself in his blanket beneath a picnic table in the county park. It was on the river about a mile out of town. He’d be less conspicuous hidden in the shadow under the table than he would lying between tables on the concrete pad.

Previous nights, he’d stayed in the woods, out of sight of any patrolling officer. A couple of times, he’d seen headlights swing slowly through the small park during the night. Cops wouldn’t want homeless squatters using the facilities here, limited though they were. There was a restroom, unlocked during the day, but locked by the time Cole got here after work. Wouldn’t have done him much good, anyway, since it lacked showers. He could clean up a little with river water come morning. Thanks to the pay in his pocket, he’d stopped at a mom-and-pop grocery store this evening and bought a bar of soap and deodorant, as well as food. If he stayed here long, he might think about picking up some charcoal and using the grill in the pavilion. And if he had transportation at some point, there was a state park a few miles upriver, where he could get an actual campsite and have the right to use restrooms that did have hot showers. But until he could afford a motorcycle, or at least a bike, that was out.

Cole pillowed his head on the duffel bag holding his only change of clothes. To combat the claustrophobia he’d felt the minute he squirmed beneath the picnic table, he thought about the day’s work and what he hoped to accomplish tomorrow. His effort at distraction didn’t entirely work. Built out of really solid, pressure-treated wood, the table was bolted to the concrete. The only way out was to roll under one of the benches. What might have felt cozy to him when he was a kid now felt like a trap. The patter of rain on the pavilion roof persuaded him to stay put, though. Not that he wouldn’t be soaked by the time he walked to Erin’s in the morning. He debated whether he should wear his other shirt and pair of jeans. Damned if he wanted her feeling sorry for him.

He grunted. Who was he kidding? Why else had she hired him? And, by God, he should be grateful that she had let pity overcome her common sense. If she kept him on even a couple of weeks... For about the hundredth time, he calculated how much money he’d make. Eight hundred dollars sounded like a lot right now, but if he couldn’t find another job immediately, it wouldn’t last long, especially if he added rent to his expenses. He’d looked at the local weekly paper, but the classified section listed only two apartment rentals, both way more than he could afford, even with a full-time job paying minimum wage. Especially if first and last months’ rent was required up front. There ought to be rooms available, but if so they were listed somewhere else. He’d have to hunt for bulletin boards that might have ads for rentals. And from what he’d heard, there might be online listings. He mulled over the idea of going to the library tomorrow night, but imagined how people would look at him, wet and dirty. Learning how to navigate the internet would take time and energy. It could wait.

Tonight, though...tonight his stomach was full, and he wasn’t being rained on. He could have used another blanket, but the concrete wasn’t much harder than his bunk in the pen had been, and he felt safer here in the dark by himself than he had during his ten years in Walla Walla.

And tomorrow, he had a purpose. He liked building. He particularly liked building for her, an uncomfortable realization. Even so, he let himself fantasize a little. Thinking about a woman’s softness and sweet smell didn’t hurt anything, did it?


CHAPTER THREE (#uaa00236a-a88b-5af9-b38a-fba08e8bbed3)

“YOU’RE SOAKED,” ERIN said behind him.

In the middle of nailing together some of the lumber he’d salvaged to form crude sawhorses, Cole straightened and slowly turned to face her. The rain was little more than a drizzle now, but droplets shimmered in her hair like scattered pearls. Damp, it looked darker, more red than blond.

“I’ll dry,” he said with a shrug. Yeah, it had been coming down harder when he started his walk. He hoped the contents of his duffel remained mostly dry where he’d stashed it beneath the undergrowth at the base of a big cedar.

She crossed her arms and scowled. “Where are you staying?”

“What difference does it make?”

“You have to be miserable!”

“Getting wet is nothing.”

She huffed and he half expected to see steam coming out of her ears. “It’s not nothing! What if you get sick?”

“I won’t—”

“Why don’t you want me to know where you’re staying? Do you think I’ll come knocking on your door or something?”

He wished. “No.” A brief hesitation later, he surrendered. “I’m camping out. It’s spring, not that cold. It’ll do until I can afford a place.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you have a tent? A sleeping bag? A camp stove?”

In another few days, he might be able to outfit himself.

“I guess the answer is no,” she said.

Yes, it was.

They stared at each other, Cole making sure no emotion broke cover.

She turned her back on him, appearing to study the tools hanging on the wall. “There’s an apartment upstairs.”

“I can’t—”

“It’s crappy,” she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “But it’s dry, and there’s electricity, and I think the plumbing works.”

“I can’t accept—” The words died on his tongue when she swung around to glare at him.

“Do you know how much I hated seeing you walk away in the rain?”

Something did crack then, not in the shell he’d perfected but deep inside him. It was a strange, wrenching experience.

Why would she care?

“Here’s the deal. Once I finished with the house, I intended to get the apartment remodeled. If you’ll eventually do the work, I’ll take that in lieu of rent. We both benefit.”

He couldn’t look away from her. The freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks were pronounced with her color high. He wanted to touch them. He wanted a lot of things he couldn’t have.

Would it be painful to look out the window at night and see a light in her bedroom window, her shadow moving behind the curtains? Maybe. But if he had a place here in town, he could walk to the library, or any other place open evenings. Perhaps make some friends.

“I’ll take a look,” he said abruptly.

“I’ll get my keys.”

He finished constructing the sawhorses while she was gone, only able to accomplish it because nailing a few two-by-fours together didn’t demand much concentration. When Erin returned, he followed her to the outside staircase and up to a small landing, where she fumbled getting a key in the lock and opening the door. Had she noticed this staircase needed replacing, too?

He stepped inside and studied the space. It was furnished, although thrift stores would probably say no, thanks to the sofa with sagging cushions and a television that might qualify as an antique. The kitchen at one end was small but complete, including a table with two chairs. She stayed by the door when he stuck his head in the bedroom—double bed, closet, dresser. He went into the tiny bathroom. Water ran when he turned the faucet handles. Ditto in the shower, although the spray was more of a dribble. Would there be any hot water? He could live without, but—Damned if it wasn’t warming up.

Cole went out to find her opening and closing the kitchen cupboards.

“I’ll grab some cleaning supplies.”

“I’ll clean,” he insisted.

“No. I can’t do your work so it’s only fair. In fact, there isn’t much I can do while it’s raining. Paint inside, maybe, but I’m still deciding on colors.” When he didn’t argue, she said quietly, “Let me do this.”

Kindness from strangers was easier to accept than from a woman he was getting to know. Even so, after a moment, he nodded and said hoarsely, “Thank you.”

She couldn’t have any idea that this shabby apartment looked like paradise to him. A space he’d have to himself. Being able to shower without listening to every word spoken around him. Staying constantly aware of who was nearby, maintaining a state of readiness. He could keep a light on all night if he wanted. He wouldn’t have to hear snores and grumbles and occasional shouts, remain aware that guards were checking in on him.

If she intended to rent out the apartment in the future, it would need work. The impulse might have been charitable, but he wouldn’t have to feel indebted to her. She’d been careful that way, he thought, treating him like a man who deserved his dignity.

She gave him the key, which he tucked carefully in his pocket. How long since he’d had a key that opened any door?

“Will you let me drive you to pick up your stuff tonight?”

Cole’s instinct was to refuse help he didn’t absolutely need, but she knew his real circumstances now. “I don’t have much.”

“Why should you have to walk?” she asked simply.

He dipped his head, choking a little on another “Thank you.” As he returned to work, Cole realized that this gave him an address that would satisfy his parole officer. If the job was going to last even a few weeks, it would be enough, at least for now. Except that meant the parole officer would be calling Erin, which Cole hated.

Live with it, he told himself, locking down the angry sense of outrage and humiliation he’d felt from the minute the jury foreman had said, “Guilty as charged.”

* * *

THE DRIZZLE NEVER did let up. Working in the apartment, Erin heard the on-and-off buzz of the circular saw in the garage below. She started with the kitchen, scrubbing the sink, the stove and the inside of the refrigerator, which—to her astonishment—hummed when she plugged it in. She cleaned the countertops, the interior of the cheap cabinets, the floor. She vacuumed the sofa and wiped cobwebs from corners with a broom. The television didn’t come on. She’d have to see that cable service was hooked up for the apartment, anyway. Cole wouldn’t be happy to have her buying a new TV, but if she offered a furnished apartment down the line, she’d have to include one, so why not now?

The bedroom didn’t take long, except for mopping the vinyl floor. She bundled up the rag rug, curtains and mattress pad and started a load in her washing machine at the house. Exploring Nanna’s linen closet, she found a set of worn but soft flannel sheets in the right size. She’d have to buy a bath mat to replace the one she’d thrown away, but had plenty of towels to supply the apartment.

She persuaded a reluctant Cole to accept a sandwich, pop and potato chips for lunch. When she suggested he come inside to eat, he said, “I’m wet and dirty.” Carrying their meal, she trailed him to the garage, where she hopped up on the workbench and he sat on a pile of lumber. Instead of pushing him to talk, she reminisced about her grandparents and long-ago visits. He didn’t seem to mind.

By the time he was ready to call it a day, he’d built the framework of her new porch with pressure-treated beams and four-by-fours resting on the original concrete blocks. He agreed she should make another trip to the lumberyard in the morning.

“This costing more than you expected?” he asked, not quite casually. He pulled the seat belt around himself.

Erin started the engine, eager for the heater to kick in. “No, if I’d had to hire a contractor, I’m betting the job would’ve cost a whole lot more,” she said frankly. “In fact, I’m bumping up your pay.”

He shook his head. “Not when you’re letting me stay here, too.”

“That’s a separate deal—”

“No.” Completely inflexible.

She put the gearshift in Reverse, but kept her foot on the brake. “Has anybody ever told you how stubborn you are?”

“Could be.”

“Hmph.”

Giving him a suspicious, sidelong look, she could swear she saw the corner of his mouth lift. Even the idea that he’d smiled made her heart feel weightless. Which was dangerous territory. Falling for an ex-con because he had gorgeous blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones and awe-inspiring muscles would be incredibly stupid. Always law-abiding, she’d been the quintessential good girl and was now an educated woman, a college professor.

Had been a college professor. Every time she thought about returning to the classroom, she hit a concrete wall. Couldn’t see through it or around it. She’d had no success imagining what she might do instead, either. To keep her heart from racing and panic from prickling her skin, she reminded herself that there was no hurry. She wasn’t spending any more money working on the house than she would have paying her former mortgage. She could afford a year off before she had to worry about the future and still have investments, thanks to the inheritance from her parents and Nanna’s savings, too. By then... But she hit the same blank wall when she tried to see any future.

“Where to?” she asked abruptly, refusing to turn her head to meet his scrutiny.

“County park on the river.” Erin nodded, remembering summer picnics there. Grandpa had taken her fishing, too, an enthusiasm she never came to share. Were his fishing pole, waders and tackle box still in the garage? She hadn’t paid attention to anything that wasn’t immediately useful.

The drive passed in silence, as so much of her time with Cole did. It was restful, except...she increasingly found herself wondering about him. What had this quiet, hardworking, patient man done that had earned him ten years in prison? Her mind balked when she tried to picture him committing any of the obvious crimes.

He had her pull into the day-use area at the park, and he disappeared into the mist clinging to the old-growth trees preserved by the county. He returned with a canvas duffel bag, which he deposited behind the seat. Erin opened her mouth but managed to close it before she said something stupid like, That’s all?

He hadn’t even had a sleeping bag. Horrified, she pictured him lying on the ground. At most he had a blanket of some kind in that bag—but if he did, it meant he didn’t own much of anything else.

And wouldn’t take anything more from her. She’d have to keep biting her tongue. She’d lose him if she tried to make him an object of charity.

And no, she wouldn’t let herself examine what she meant by “lose him.”

“Okay if we stop at the grocery store?” she asked when they were close to town.

She felt his swift glance. “Sure.”

He followed her inside and picked up a basket, separating from her right away. Erin tried not to mind as she filled a cart with perishables. When she carried her bags out, he was already waiting with two grocery bags of his own. They stowed them together in the back of the Jeep. During the short drive, she struggled for a conversational opener and came up short. The first words she spoke were when she pulled into the driveway.

“It would be nice to park in the garage someday.”

“You might want an automatic opener before you try that.”

“No kidding. I’d never realized how heavy a garage door could be.”

“The rails might be rusted,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll take a look.”

“You’re a handy guy, aren’t you?”

He grunted and got out. The only other words he had for her were “Good night.”

* * *

HE COULDN’T BELIEVE everything she’d done in the apartment. Cole was uneasily aware of how personal it felt, knowing she’d been thinking of him when she cleaned, hung a pair of thick towels in the bathroom and made the bed. Every so often his nose picked up some unidentifiable perfume in the air that had to be hers.

Earlier, he’d hauled the old TV down to the garbage can. She’d said, “I’ll replace it,” in a tone that told him not to argue. Being able to choose what to watch would be a novelty. Maybe he could pick up a DVD player at a thrift store. Tomorrow night, he might walk to the library. If he couldn’t get a card yet, libraries usually had donated books for sale. He’d start checking out garage sales, too. Erin got the local weekly and the Seattle Times, both of which she recycled. She wouldn’t mind if he took them from the recycling bin. Lying on the lumpy sofa, stockinged feet propped on one of its arms, his head on the other, he thought about going downstairs right now and digging out a few papers, but couldn’t work up enough interest to make the effort. After a meal and a hot shower, he felt too good. Too relaxed. Too safe.

This is temporary. He shouldn’t have needed the reminder. He’d become accustomed to living one day at a time, not letting himself think even a week ahead. If a man couldn’t live without hope, he didn’t survive a long prison term in his right mind.

Not that Cole was certain he had.

Happy just to be clean and comfortable, he dozed for half an hour, rousing to decide he might as well go to bed. He’d been looking forward to that ever since he saw it made up with baby-soft flannel sheets, a wool blanket and a beautiful old quilt. More luxury.

He turned off lights as he went, brushed his teeth and stared at himself in the mirror. For a second, he almost didn’t recognize the face looking back at him. He still saw a death’s head instead of the face he’d once known, but...less so. Despite the rain, he’d acquired the beginnings of a tan since he got on that bus out of Walla Walla. His hair hadn’t grown very much—he ran a hand over the stubble—but maybe a little.

It was the eyes, he thought, leaning closer to look. They weren’t empty anymore. Someone was at home in there. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he felt again, and not only rage and despair. He’d have to watch that, not let his emotions get out of hand.

Finally, he turned out that light, too, and walked across the dark bedroom to the window that looked toward the house. He could tell from the shiny reflection that Erin had washed the inside glass, and the curtains smelled fresh. With one pulled aside, he found that he could indeed see the golden square of an upstairs window that had to be Erin’s bedroom.

Cole stood there longer than he should have, both grateful and disappointed not to see even a shadow of movement or the silhouette of the slim, womanly body.

* * *

THEY WORKED IN harmony the next morning, Cole appearing relaxed. He didn’t go so far as to waste a smile, but once, when she was returning for another load of debris to toss in the Dumpster, he raised his chin up, to guide her gaze to the roof of the house. Bright eyes in a furry face looked back at her. A squirrel. The tail gave an agitated jerk, and the squirrel vanished.

Erin chuckled. “I hope his food stash didn’t get thrown out with the porch.”

“I’d have seen that.” Cole placed another nail and swung the hammer.

Smiling, she went back to her job. With his strength, he would have finished it a lot faster, but she couldn’t have done a single, useful part of what he was doing. Transferring the pile of splintered, rotting boards to the Dumpster was at her skill level.

At lunchtime, he refused her offer of a bowl of chili and went up to the apartment. Probably to have something like a bologna sandwich, but she understood his need to be self-sufficient.

It didn’t seem worth heating anything just for herself. With little appetite despite her labors, Erin cut a few squares of cheese and ate them with crackers, calling it good. When he came out, she was already at work.

His stony face sent a chill through her.

“I need to buy a phone,” he said, “but I’m wondering if I can use yours to make one call.”

“Of course you can.”

Still with that utter lack of expression, he looked at her. “He’ll want to talk to you. I’m...due to check in with my parole officer.”

“Oh. I see.” Did he expect trouble?

“Do you mind if I give him this address?” he asked stiffly.

“It is your address as long as you live in the apartment.” She pulled her phone from the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt. “Here.”

He took the phone but didn’t move, only stared at it. Erin had started to turn away to give him privacy, then stopped. How long had iPhones been around? Would he ever have used a smartphone of any kind? If not... God, it probably looked like a slab of polished stone to him.

She turned again, careful not to meet his eyes. “Push this button to wake it up.”

Without a word, he continued to follow her instructions, his jaw clenched so tight muscles quivered. He took a business card from his pocket and tapped out the numbers, then said a gruff, “Thanks.”

Guessing how hard it had been to say that much, Erin nodded. She went to get one of the yard waste bins, rolling it up the driveway to the first heap of cuttings. Cole had walked a few feet away and stood with his back to her, talking.

She succeeded so well in ignoring him, she gasped and jumped six inches when he touched her shoulder.

“Mr. Ramirez.”

Taking the phone, she willed her heartbeat to slow down. She aimed for a brisk tone. “Mr. Ramirez? This is Erin Parrish.”

“Ms. Parrish. I’m Mr. Meacham’s parole officer. He tells me you’ve rented him an apartment.”

“That’s right. He’s also working for me.”

“So he says.”

“He’s currently rebuilding the front porch on an old house I inherited. Unfortunately, my grandmother didn’t maintain the house or yard very well, so they both need a lot of work that’s beyond my skill level. Cole’s doing a great job.” Wow, listen to her. Bouncy, upbeat. Would she be more believable if she scaled it back? Still, she had to finish. “We came to an agreement that he’ll stay in the apartment above the garage in return for working on that, too, once he has the time and I buy the materials.”

“So you’re satisfied with his work?”

Hadn’t she said so? But skepticism was probably part of his job description. “Yes.”

“Were you acquainted with Mr. Meacham before his prison term?”

“No, I overheard him applying for a job in town, and thought he might be willing to take on short-term work for me.”

He had more questions. How long did she expect to employ Cole? She guessed at least a month. Yes, he was welcome to stay in the apartment after that, provided he did the work on it. She verified the address. West Fork was not in Whatcom County, where Mr. Meacham was supposed to go. Did she know why that hadn’t worked out? No, she had no idea.

Yes, this was her phone. She didn’t mind if Ramirez called from time to time. She walked into the garage and scribbled his phone number on a sheet of notepaper, below the list Cole had come up with for her next lumberyard run.

When she pocketed the phone again, she went out to find Cole swinging the hammer with short, violent motions. Wham. Wham.

“I’ll come up with a rental agreement,” she said to his back. He quit hammering but didn’t turn. “That way, you can show it anywhere you need to.”

He nodded. Wham. Wham.

O-kay.

An hour later, he barely glanced at her when she told him she was heading out. When she returned, she showed him the two different kinds of roofing nails she’d bought because she hadn’t been sure which was the right one.

“These,” he said, taking the bag.

That was the extent of their conversation for the rest of the afternoon.

Erin knew she shouldn’t feel hurt. She understood why he detested needing help and how he must’ve struggled with himself to accept her offer of the apartment and then have to ask her to vouch for him. Friendship wasn’t part of their deal. He hadn’t really even been rude, just withdrawn.

But it was as if she’d become invisible. She had felt more alive since she brought Cole home with her, more purposeful, less isolated. Now she had to retreat. She excused herself early and went inside, taking a hot shower that didn’t warm her at all, not where it counted.

Rationally, she knew she had friends, if she didn’t shut them out. Aunt Susan left an occasional phone message and emailed daily, her worry obvious. Erin’s mother had died of breast cancer, her father in an accident, both way too young. Maybe they could have anchored her to the present, if they were still alive. As it was, the people who had died felt more real to her than the ones still living. Especially the girls. It was as if nothing but a semitransparent veil separated them from her. In this mood, she imagined they were waiting for her to step through the veil to their side. They couldn’t go on without her.

Erin lay on her bed, curled on her side, gazing at the square of bright light that was her window. She stopped hearing the hammering or the occasional scrape of a handsaw. Napping now would be a mistake; she’d never get to sleep tonight. But that was okay. It had been a couple of weeks since she’d gone for a drive.

Tonight, she thought, and closed her eyes.

* * *

COLE HAD TAUGHT himself to sleep lightly, to awaken at the slightest sound that was out of the ordinary.

He snapped to awareness when he heard a car door close with deliberate softness. Lying rigid, he listened. The digital clock Erin had put at the bedside said 2:33. Anyone coming or going in the middle of the night wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbors. Especially if that person was stealing a vehicle.

When the engine started, he knew it was Erin’s Jeep. Shit. He jumped out of bed, reaching the front window just before the dome light went off. In that fraction of an instant, he saw her. While he watched, she reversed, then drove down the driveway. Brake lights flickered before she turned onto the street.

He didn’t welcome the uneasiness he felt as he stared out at the dark yard and dimly lit street. The closest lamp was half a block away. Where was she was going? Wouldn’t she have awakened him if she had some kind of emergency?

His mouth tightened. Why would she? What was he but her charity project, after all?

She might have been restless. Or she’d started her period and gone out for supplies. Or a friend had called and needed her. There were plenty of logical explanations. He was projecting if he thought that whatever ghost haunted her and shadowed her eyes had sent her into the night.

And, damn it, Cole didn’t want to feel any responsibility for another human being. Any real connection. Even so, he knew with icy certainty that he wouldn’t sleep again until she came home.


CHAPTER FOUR (#uaa00236a-a88b-5af9-b38a-fba08e8bbed3)

“YARD WASTE BINS are full.” Stopping at the foot of what would be the porch steps, Erin peeled off her gloves. “The rest will have to wait until Thursday.” Astonished at how much progress Cole had made, she asked, “Did you do this kind of work in prison?”

Kneeling on the porch proper, he’d paused at the sight of her and straightened. For the past hour, the rhythmic sound of his hammer striking nails had begun to remind her of a heart beating.

“No.” He watched her warily.

She knew he didn’t like her asking questions, but this seemed innocuous enough. “Then...how do you know what to do?”

“My father’s a contractor. I worked for him some.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

He didn’t say a word. An eyebrow might have twitched at what was, admittedly, an inane comment.

“Um, did you have jobs while you were serving time?”

He lowered his head.

She waited.

He rolled his shoulders. “Different ones.” Pause. “Machine shop.”

“You mean, you can fix mechanical things, too?”

“Probably.”

“Have you ever done wiring or plumbing?”

“I could do simple jobs. Replace an electrical outlet or a light fixture. Same for plumbing. If you need the house completely rewired or the plumbing replaced, you’d be better off hiring an expert.”

“I don’t think I do.” She hoped. “But my shower drips and plugs are too loose in some of the outlets. Plus, the light in the pantry doesn’t work. I tried different new bulbs.”

“I can take a look.” He moved as if preparing to stand up.

“Not now. There’s no urgency. Just something to get to later.”

He studied her, nodded and, after a decent interval, reached for a nail.

Wham. Wham.

She’d been forgotten.

Except Erin knew that wasn’t true. She suspected Cole was hyperaware, not only of where she was and what she was doing, but also his surroundings in general. She’d seen his head turn before she heard the sound of an approaching car. An elderly neighbor walked her slow-moving pug several times a day. Cole always turned to look. She wondered if his caution would slowly abate, or whether in ten years it had become part of his makeup. Cops were probably the same—although Cole might not like the comparison.

They didn’t exchange another word until their lunch break. After yesterday, she didn’t offer him anything, just went inside, aware that he was heading toward the garage. But as she peeled a carrot, she saw him coming down the stairs from the apartment with a can of pop and what looked like a sandwich. So she carried her plate outside, too.

Most of the porch boards were laid. Cole sat at the top of what would be the steps, his lower legs dangling. His sweat-dampened T-shirt clung to a broad back and shoulders. A screwdriver poked out of a pocket of his jeans, drawing her gaze to his muscular butt. Feeling a little shy, she joined him, seeing him glance at her lunch.

“You don’t eat much,” he said after a minute.

A carrot and a serving of cottage cheese were more than she’d had for a midday meal a month ago. Taking a page from his book, she merely shrugged.

After finishing the cottage cheese, she said, “This porch is going up fast.”

“Long way to go.” The supports were in place, but he hadn’t started on the roof.

It occurred to her that getting heavy sheets of plywood up there wouldn’t be easy. Could they do it, just the two of them?

Cole seemed to be assessing the work still to be done when he said, “Heard you leave last night.”

She’d hoped to be quiet enough that he’d sleep through her departure, but wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t. She chose not to answer.

Now he looked directly at her. “Thought someone might be stealing your car.”

Of course, that was exactly what would leap to mind, given his background. Had he stolen cars? That was a more bearable possibility than some she’d considered, although a ten-year sentence for car theft seemed extreme.

“Or you’d had an emergency,” he added.

Astonished, Erin studied him in profile. Had he been worried about her? How unexpected. Unless, she reminded herself, he’d been concerned about his employment and not her personally.

“I just went for a drive.” She would have been ticketed if the state patrolman had caught her. She’d managed to turn off the highway and quickly disappear down a driveway leading to a rural property, killing her engine and headlights before the patrol car went by. Stomach clenched, she’d driven home at a sedate pace. Her need to speed, to lure death, warred with the law-abiding good girl still in her. Unwilling to talk about what she barely understood, she scooted back from the edge of the porch, stood and went into the house, where she dropped her half-eaten carrot in the trash.

Her emotional health was nothing to brag about, but she was getting better. Wasn’t she?

* * *

BEING NOSY HAD gone over about as well as it would have in the pen. Cole couldn’t imagine what had gotten into him to ask that kind of question.

He finished his lunch and went back to work, half expecting Erin not to reappear until she came out to pay him. He heard her scraping the siding again, but around the corner where he couldn’t see her. It was all he could do not to go and see, to reassure himself that she was working from the ground, not teetering on top of the ladder.

None of my business. Why did he have to keep reminding himself?

Being unsure of the answer made him uncomfortable. Something was eating at the woman, and he didn’t like not knowing what. Self-preservation, he told himself. Hiring him had been odd behavior to start with. He’d give a lot to know why she had.

But he made himself keep working, just the way he did when she walked by and he couldn’t help noticing the sway of her hips or her breasts beneath a T-shirt that should be baggy but wasn’t.

When she paid him at the end of the day without comment, Cole nodded his thanks and stuffed the bills in his pocket, the way he always did. But in his head, he tallied the total, feeling a subtle relaxation that worried him. Yeah, he was making money, but she wouldn’t need him for more than a month or six weeks at most, unless the inside of the house was a disaster demanding another few weeks. Once she cut him loose, he’d face the same odds he had while job-hunting.

A recommendation from her might help. The idea of asking for one tasted bitter, but he had a suspicion he wouldn’t have to ask. He remembered that she’d offered a rental contract; he wouldn’t have thought of needing one, but it would open some doors.

Since it wasn’t raining, after dinner he walked the mile to the library, answered the library clerk’s questions and got a card that he placed carefully in his wallet. The one awkward moment had been when she asked for his phone number, and he had to say, “I don’t have a phone.”

After, as he browsed books, she seemed to be watching him. Did she think he was going to steal a book? Maybe he just made her nervous. A few patrons, from a stout older woman to a huddle of teenagers, kept watching him, too.

He gritted his teeth, pretended he didn’t notice and checked out several books. On his way out, a bulletin board in the foyer caught his eye. Cole studied the various postings, from scraps of paper to glossy notices about upcoming community events. Nobody seemed to be looking for help, but garage sales were being advertised. There was a bike for sale, too. He would’ve preferred a motorcycle, but as long as he stayed in West Fork, he could get around pretty well on a bike. He borrowed a pen from the nervous clerk and jotted down that phone number. Maybe it was time he got a phone, too. The ones he’d studied at Safeway didn’t cost much, and he couldn’t imagine he’d use a lot of minutes. Other than the obligatory calls to his parole officer, who would he want to talk to?

Not his father. Dad had abandoned him, and Dani’s claim that Dad had changed his tune didn’t ease his resentment.

Dani, sure. Cole could just hang up if his sister’s husband or one of the kids answered. She’d want to know he was doing okay. On the other hand, what was the hurry?

Now that it was dark, he was happier walking back to Erin’s house than he’d been going. He made people working out in their yards anxious when he went by. Even passing drivers stared. He regretted not growing his hair a little longer before he got out. Would that make a difference? Different clothes might help, too. Cargo pants, like he saw the men here wearing, instead of his tattered jeans? Maybe. Cole made a mental note to find out if there was a thrift store in town. He hated to part with a cent he didn’t have to. He looked back now with disgust at the time when he’d spent money as fast as he could earn it.

Erin’s Jeep was still parked in front of the garage, and lights were on inside the house. He wondered what she’d do if he rang her doorbell. Would she invite him in?

Good thing he wasn’t dumb enough to do anything like that.

Having missed the early news, Cole decided to read rather than turn on the TV. Most of what the other inmates watched had seemed stupid to him, so he’d ignored the TV except when news or sports came on. Baseball was his least favorite sport to watch, though, and the first exhibition football games weren’t until late summer.

Clasping his hands behind his head and staring into space, Cole decided that, come fall, he’d go to some of the high school football games wherever he was. He’d loved playing. He’d even been recruited by college scouts. Not by any of the big names—Alabama or USC or the University of Washington—but he could have accepted a scholarship to play for any other state school and gotten an education while he was at it.

Turning them all down—well, that was stupid. He’d paid and kept paying for that mistake.

Cole shook off the darker memories. Next time he went to the library, he’d use the computer. Nobody would notice if he struggled to figure out the internet. Patrons were limited to fifteen-minute segments if anyone was waiting, which was fair, since there were only eight computers, and half stayed available so people could use the library catalog. Still, if he could manage a search, even fifteen minutes would be long enough to look up his father’s construction company and get an idea of how it was doing, and how his dad was doing, too. Dani hadn’t said in her occasional letters or visits. Cole wasn’t 100 percent sure why he cared, considering that after his conviction, his father had said he no longer had a son and walked away. Cole wanted to think that all he felt was curiosity, nothing more, but he knew better.

Putting his father out of his mind, he decided he’d figure out how to set up an email address. Cole couldn’t help feeling renewed frustration. If he’d been allowed to learn this stuff as an inmate, transitioning to the outside would have been a lot smoother.

Since he had only Dani to exchange emails with, he felt no great urgency. But down the line, who knew?

If he could get to garage sales, he might look for a cheap stereo system, too. Right now, he didn’t feel the lack; one of the greatest gifts Erin had given him was this silence, the closest thing to peace he’d had in ten years.

Lying on the lumpy couch, he opened the first of his books, a mystery called Bitter River. He felt an odd tingle, as if something inside him had opened along with the book cover. He’d read the first chapter before he identified that feeling. Anticipation.

* * *

ERIN DIPPED HER brush into the peach-colored paint she’d selected for some of the trim on the house. It would be accented by a much deeper coordinating color. She smiled, remembering Cole’s reaction.

“That’s pink.” He’d looked stupefied.

Naturally, she’d argued. “It’s not. Anyway, it’ll be perfect.” She thought. Since she’d never owned a house, only a condo, she’d never had one painted, either. But he was currently spray-painting the clapboards a warm, midbrown, and she could already see that the trim colors worked.

He’d finished building the front porch and the smaller back stoop. Yes, getting those heavy pieces of plywood high enough off the ground had been a job and a half. She didn’t tell him how much her arms, neck and back had ached the next day. They should’ve found someone with more muscle to help him, but Erin didn’t know anyone in town except for elderly neighbors, and Cole didn’t know anybody but her.

Well, they’d managed, and she loved her new front porch. She’d resolved to buy a couple of Adirondack chairs and a porch swing, too. Cole was confident the beam would support one.

At the sound of a soft footstep behind her, Erin realized she hadn’t heard the sprayer for several minutes. She finished the swipe of the brush she’d begun, then set it on the paint can and turned to look down from the ladder.

Open amusement and even a glint of white teeth as Cole grinned made her heart seize up. In the ten days he’d worked for her, she had yet to see more than a faint twitch at the corners of his very sexy mouth.

His grin faded at whatever he saw on her face.

No, no.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, pretending deep suspicion.

Another curve of his mouth betrayed him. “You look like you have chicken pox.”

“I can hardly wait to see myself in the mirror.”

He laughed, a low, rusty sound that seemed to startle him as much as it did her.

To keep him from retreating, she said hastily, “You’ve sprayed yourself, too, you know. Except around your eyes. You have the raccoon thing going.”

He shrugged. “It’s latex paint. It ought to wash off.”

“But not from our clothes.” Dismayed, she said, “I should’ve bought you coveralls.” He couldn’t possibly have had more than one change in that duffel bag.

Seeming unconcerned, Cole glanced down at himself. “I’ll keep these for messy jobs. The jeans have about had it, anyway, and T-shirts are easy to replace. I picked up some more clothes the other day.”

She nodded. “What do you think? Is this color not perfect?”

“I don’t know. I would have liked a nice cream...” He smiled again at her expression. “Yeah, it looks better than I thought it would. Kind of different, in a gingerbread-house way.”

She sniffed. “And I’m the wicked witch.”

“Well, you said it, not me.”

Erin grabbed her paintbrush and brandished it. “I’ll polka-dot you.”

Another rusty chuckle, and he backed away.

“I put a roast in the Crock-Pot.” Now or never. “Will you have dinner with me?” He’d taken care of his own meals since those first few days.

He went still, in that way he could, his blue eyes unreadable. The moment stretched. Erin suddenly realized that the brush was dripping down her front and she hastily moved it over the can.

Pride had her shrugging and turning back to the window. “Or not.”

“No.” Cole cleared his throat. “I mean, yeah, that’d be great. I’m...not much of a cook.”

Having seen the frozen meals he bought each time they’d gone to the grocery store together, she wasn’t surprised.

Without looking at him, she said, “Give me half an hour or so after we knock off for the day. I want to shower and put some biscuits in the oven.”

“Thanks.” He sounded hoarse.

Erin didn’t look back, even though she knew he was walking away. Usually, she couldn’t resist any chance to watch him when he wouldn’t notice. He was just so damn beautiful, whether in motion or at rest.

By the time she tapped the lid back on the can a couple of hours later, she expected to be exhausted. To her astonishment, there was still some spring to her step. Maybe she was regaining her strength.

She’d brought some plastic bags out to the garage, and now used one of them to wrap the brush. This seemed to work, saving her from having to clean it every evening. She’d seen Cole using the hose to do something to the spraying assembly, which they’d rented. She’d learned some creative new profanities from him every time the nozzle plugged up. Thank goodness he growled them almost under his breath, or he might have shocked a few neighbors.

Erin could tell that a young family lived three doors down, judging by the small bike with pink streamers on the handles and the big plastic tricycle often left lying on the lawn. Kids seemed to live in the house on the corner, too. Presumably, there were other neighbors younger than eighty, but she hadn’t seen them. She’d bet the folks within a four-block radius could fill a good-sized retirement home, if they were all willing to give up mowing their lawns and walking arthritic pets. Nanna had been happy here partly because she had lifelong friends. Even the neighbors she disliked were part of the landscape of her life. She could tell stories about every one of them. Erin knew all the older folks, but hadn’t yet tried to make herself part of the neighborhood.

Yesterday afternoon, she’d heard a mower fire up and looked over to see Mr. Zatloka across the street wrap his knobby hands around the handle of his mower and totter forward. She’d heard him mow before but hadn’t seen him. Would he let her do it for him? She knew the answer. A young lady—no, that would offend his masculine pride.

Even as she was hesitating about trying, anyway, Cole trotted across the street, spoke briefly to Mr. Zatloka and took over. In twenty minutes, he mowed the Zatlokas’ entire lawn. He dumped the clippings in Erin’s yard waste bin—she’d seen Mr. Zatloka put theirs in the garbage can—and wheeled the mower into the garage. He and the elderly man laughed about something, and then Cole returned to work on her house.

His kindness was the reason she’d decided to ask him to dinner again. Maybe she was being foolish, but she wanted to know him better. Be friends. Not anything more.

One dangerous habit was enough.

* * *

ERIN HAD LONG since disappeared into the house by the time Cole showered, changed clothes and made his way from the apartment to her front door.

They’d worked longer than they should have. He’d suddenly become aware that the quality of the light had changed and he was having trouble seeing. Now, full night had descended.

Seeing the porch light left on for him stirred uncomfortable feelings. He should’ve politely thanked her and headed out for fast food and a visit to the library.

Erin had hired him for a dirty job, but it seemed she wanted something else. Cole didn’t get it, didn’t trust the lures she kept throwing out.

Did she just want him in her bed? If it was completely uncomplicated, there was nothing he’d like better. He wasn’t having a dry spell; he’d had a dry decade. But he had trouble believing Erin was a woman who’d have sex with an ex-con only to scratch an itch. However, raising the subject would make her wary of him.

He bounded up the new porch steps, liking their solidity beneath his weight and the nonslip treads they’d applied. They’d keep her from taking a tumble some icy day in winter, when he was long gone.

Uncurling his fingers to ring her doorbell, Cole discovered his palms were sweaty.

Should have said no.

From within, she called, “Door’s unlocked.”

It was. Once he’d opened it, he hesitated before crossing the threshold. The act felt momentous, even dangerous. He hadn’t been inside a house, any house, since the police cuffed him. Wasn’t welcome at his father’s home—he couldn’t think of it as his—or his sister’s.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Erin added.

He followed the sound of her voice and the fabulous smell of meat cooking, glancing into a living room lit by a single lamp and then a dark dining room. She was right. The place was seriously dated. Was the wiring safe?

The kitchen looked 1940s. Truly ancient linoleum, metal-edged counters, not enough cabinets, a small wooden table with two chairs in the middle of the extensive space.

“The stove isn’t bad, but the refrigerator—” He stopped himself.

Looking over her shoulder as she pulled a cookie sheet covered with golden-brown biscuits from the oven, Erin wrinkled her nose. “Is an antique. I know. I’ve been here something like two months, and I’ve had to defrost the freezer twice. And chip out ice creeping down into the refrigerator compartment.”

“Why haven’t you replaced it?”

She straightened. “I don’t know. It works.” Her shoulders sagged. “It seems wrong just to throw it away.”

He already knew her sentimental side, but discovered it went deeper than he’d realized. “It makes you think of your grandmother.”

“I guess so.” She sighed and turned her back to him as she used a spatula to deftly lift the biscuits off the cookie sheet and into a basket.

He watched her, staggered by how beautiful she was. Usually, he tried not to notice, but now her cheeks were pink from the oven heat; she was clean and her red-gold hair was shiny, bundled at the back of her head with some stretchy thing holding it in place. Above the collar of her T-shirt, her neck showed, long, slender, pale. Were those faint freckles on her nape?

Cole caught himself taking a step to close the distance between them. No.

He rolled his shoulders and backed up. “Anything I can do?”

“Um...” She looked vaguely around. “Get yourself something to drink. I’ll take milk, if you don’t mind pouring.”

His stomach growled, although if he’d had a choice... His hunger for the meal wasn’t the first he would have satisfied. In fact, he managed to keep his back mostly turned to her as he poured milk for them both and set the glasses on the table, then took a seat so she wouldn’t see that he was aroused.

It was the setting, he tried to convince himself. Sexy woman in snug jeans cooking for him. Didn’t explain why he’d been so damn tempted earlier to lift her off the ladder, strip her and lay her down on the grass.

Brambles, he reminded himself. He’d have hurt her delicate, translucent skin.

Crap. He cast a single, desperate glance toward the hall and escape.


CHAPTER FIVE (#uaa00236a-a88b-5af9-b38a-fba08e8bbed3)

ALREADY SEATED AT the small table, Cole realized that standing up and walking out wasn’t an option.

A huge, crockery bowl held the pot roast with potatoes, carrots and other vegetables. Now, Erin set butter and the basket of fresh-baked biscuits on the table, sighed and sank down in her chair. “This does smell good.”

“Will you actually eat any of it?” His question was probably rude, but also genuine. She nibbled. She didn’t eat.

Erin made a rueful face. “Yes. It just...doesn’t always seem to be worth the effort. You know?” She took a biscuit and handed him the basket. “Help yourself.”

She’d set out generous-sized bowls as well as small plates for the biscuits. He dished up a hefty serving for himself and watched as she took less. It seemed to be a reasonable amount, considering she must weigh half of what he did.

“This is nice of you,” he said finally, long-ago lessons taught by his mother rising from the depths.

Erin seemed to concentrate on the food in front of her. “It’s okay if you don’t want to eat here. I kind of put you on the spot today. I just...” She shrugged. “I get lonely, I guess. I thought you might, too. Sometimes I look out the window and see the light above the garage and think it’s silly that we’re making separate meals.”

Get lonely? She had no idea. Having her right in front of him made things worse, increasing his sense of aloneness. It would be hell, being conscious of her every shifting expression, every breath she drew, the tinge of color in her cheeks and the fragility of her too-slender body—when his history felt like an invisible force field that would scald his hand if he tried to reach across it.

After a pause, he said, “Most people are afraid of me. Even when they don’t know I’m an ex-con, they watch me when I go by as if they expect me to attack.”

Exasperation flashed in her eyes when they met his. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never been afraid of you.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he had to ask. “Why?”

She blinked a couple of times, as if he’d taken her aback. “I don’t know,” she said finally. Her forehead puckered. “I’m not afraid of much. Or maybe anything.” She talked slowly. “I think...that instinct has been burned out of me. But I wouldn’t have been afraid of you, anyway. Somebody with bad intentions wouldn’t have reminded me that he’d just gotten out of prison. Besides, you don’t have that look.”

He ignored the last bit. She didn’t know what she was talking about. The only way to survive in the pen was to respond to challenges with quick, vicious strikes. That “do unto others” saying? In there, you did unto others what you feared they’d do unto you.

What really caught his attention was the middle part of her speech.

“Burned out of you?”

She shook her head, as if shedding water. “It doesn’t matter. We all have quirks.”

True, but an unwillingness to protect yourself? That had to be unnatural.

“What you did for Mr. Zatloka was nice,” she said.

“Mr....? Oh. The neighbor.” He filed away the name. “He looked like he’d have a heart attack by the time he was done, or just topple over.”

Erin laughed. “I had the same thought. But I knew if I offered to help, his male ego would be bruised.”

Cole smiled. “Probably.”

Damn, this meal was good. The meat all but melted in his mouth, as did the biscuits. He reached for another one.

Erin hadn’t put a lot away, but she was eating at least. “Have some more,” she said, nudging the bowl toward him.

“Did you grow up here?” he asked.

“No, but my dad did. It’s funny thinking of him living here as a little boy.”

“Where are your parents?” Apparently, he hadn’t entirely forgotten how to make conversation.

“Dead. Breast cancer for Mom six years ago, small-plane crash for Dad a couple of years later. He was taking lessons, and there was a mechanical failure.” Clearly, she didn’t want to expand. But she did raise her eyebrows. “What about your parents?”

“My mother died when I was ten.” One of his worst memories, despite everything that came after. “Sudden, splitting headache. Aneurysm, as it turned out.”

“Can’t those be familial?” She sounded worried.

“That’s what the doctor said. My sister and I were tested, but we didn’t have whatever weakness they were looking for.”

Erin nodded. “Your dad?”

“He’s alive.”

He split and buttered a biscuit, hoping she got the message. No more questions.

“And...your sister?”

“Dani. We stay in touch.” He hesitated. “Her husband isn’t so sure about me.”

“Oh.” She squished a potato with her fork. “I’m sorry.”

Cole searched for something to say. “The house looks good.”

Appearing grateful for the rescue, Erin said, “I wish Nanna could see it.” Another crinkle of her nose. “Except I don’t think it’s ever been painted any color but white. Maybe she’s rolling over in her grave.”

“I doubt it. She wouldn’t have left it to you if she didn’t love you. And the trim color reminds me of your hair.”

“My hair?” She gaped at him.

A little panicked, he said what he was thinking, anyway. “It’s sort of...peach-colored. With gold and a red that’s more of a russet.”

She kept gaping. Feeling heat in his cheeks, Cole couldn’t meet her eyes. Way to let her know how much time he’d spent studying her to come up with a description like that!

Yeah, and so poetic.

“I... Um, thank you?” When he failed to respond, she said, “So the house and I are coordinated?”

“Yeah.” Hoarse again. “Something like that.”

Both ate in silence for a few minutes.

“Where’d you grow up?” she asked at length.

“Seattle. You?”

“Salem, Oregon. Dad taught at Willamette University. Physics, of all things. I never liked any of the science classes I had to take. Mom illustrated children’s books.” She smiled, her eyes momentarily losing focus. “I have copies of the books she illustrated in a box somewhere.” With a one-shoulder shrug, she returned to the here and now. “I didn’t inherit any artistic ability whatsoever. Or musical. Dad played the piano. I took lessons for six very long years before Mom and Dad gave up.”

“I played the guitar.” He didn’t know why he was telling her this, but his dreams of rock stardom were another good memory, along with playing football. “Had a band. A friend’s mother let us practice in their basement. We played at some parties, got a few gigs at small clubs around Seattle, but I don’t think we’d have made it even locally in the music scene. After we graduated from high school, two of us stuck with it for another year, bringing in replacement band members, but it wasn’t as much fun.”

Amusement lit her face. “Did you sing?”

“Howled, more like.”

She had a rich, full laugh. “Did you prance around the stage?”

“God forbid. I sulked and brooded and let my hair hang over my face.”

“You do brooding well.”

“What?”

“You do.” Studying him, she said, “That wasn’t an insult.”

“I’m quiet. I don’t brood.” Yeah, he did.

“Okay, you just look like you’re thinking deep, dark, dangerous thoughts.”

Exasperated, he gave up.

He both wanted and didn’t want to ask what else she had for him to do once they’d finished painting the house. Originally, she’d talked about having him take care of the overgrown yard, but he could level it in a day with a weed whacker. Then what?

Apprehension sat heavy in him, as if he’d eaten too much. He stared down at what was left in his bowl.

“I could start working on the apartment in the evenings,” he said.

She frowned. “You shouldn’t have to work twelve-hour days.”

“I can get a lot done in an hour or two.”

“Well...” Erin set down her fork. “I don’t know. What should come first?”

“The outside stairs. Although once I start, I’ll have to work straight through.”

“I should’ve realized they were rotten, too.”

He nodded. “Not sure I’d want to haul something heavy like a new shower stall or bathroom cabinet up those stairs right now.”

“Okay. When we’re done with the paint job, I’ll buy the lumber for you to do that next. And I’ll pay you.” She narrowed her eyes at him until he closed his mouth, ending his protest. “That’s not the apartment. It’s part of the garage, and a safety issue.”





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