The Hero's Redemption. Janice Johnson Kay
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