by Ivy James
“Gonna have to get down there under it.”
She ignored Wilson and attempted to maintain her position and turn the wrench at the same time, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t get a good enough grip to stop the flow. Mainly because she couldn’t see what she was doing.
A frustrated growl escaped her as she flipped over onto her rear, banged her head against the cabinet on the way down and lay in the water collected in the bottom of the sink cabinet.
“I’ll go turn the water off at the pump outside.”
“I’ll get it here! You go down those steps with your walker and you’ll need another hip replaced.” Ashley let her head fall back to ease the strain in her shoulders, and sucked in a sharp breath as the icy fluid swamped her hair. Tears threatened, but she determinedly held them back even though a part of her mind wondered why the sink should be the only thing leaking.
She shrieked at the sink and did the only thing she felt like doing at the moment—she hit the pipe for all she was worth.
Amazingly, the gush slowed, sputtered, then peetered out with irregular drips. What the—
She was still lying there, staring up into the underbelly of the cabinet at the stupid pipe and the stupid leak now dripping on her chin, when she heard Wilson greeting someone.
Great. Just great. No doubt the mailman delivering yet another bill. She threw her arm over her face, the wrench still in her hand.
The house she’d thought a godsend, the one that had been such an unbelievably good deal and came complete with a built-in grandfather for Max, could now be described only as a money pit. Pretty to look at, but a disaster where it mattered most. What was she going to do?
A deep murmur reached her ears, low and rich. Strong. Her mind had to be playing tricks on her because if she wasn’t mistaken, she recognized that voice even though she didn’t know anyone in town.
And whose fault is that?
“She ain’t movin’. Think she drowned?” Wilson asked, his tone half serious, half amused.
She frowned at Wilson’s comment and shifted onto her side when their visitor spoke again. She couldn’t make out his words, but at the moment she honestly didn’t care, either. There wasn’t a single part of her body that wasn’t cold and wet.
Distracted, she banged her head on the cabinet on the way up and gasped out a curse.
“I heard that. Makes two now, don’t it?”
Talk about discriminative hearing. Wilson only heard the things he wanted to hear and nothing else.
“Don’t forget to pay up. And it’s about time for you to make a trip to the store,” he added from somewhere on her left. Near the back door.
Ah. So whoever it was, maybe Wilson hadn’t let them in to see the damage, not that water running out onto the porch from beneath the screen door wasn’t a dead giveaway that she had one heck of a problem on her hands.
She eyed the belly of the cabinet and was tempted to crawl back in and shut the doors. Instead she wiggled the rest of the way out and glared up at Wilson, but someone’s jean-clad knees got in the way.
Her gaze traveled up, all the way up, until she had to tilt her head back, since she still sat on the floor. She finally got a look at their visitor.
The man from the hardware store?
Amusement softened his rough features. “Looks like you could use some more help.”
Bite me. He might have put her on to the fact the hardware store owner had ripped her off, but she’d handled the man. Sort of.
She just couldn’t handle the house.
Ashley glared up at her visitor while he surveyed the damage her attempt at do-it-yourself home improvement had wrought. Broad hands settled on his hips, fingers splayed, and his smile rapidly turned into a disgruntled frown.
If he opened his mouth and said a word, so help her, she’d—she’d—
Splash him?
She shook with frustration and embarrassment. She didn’t need any more I-told-you-so’s. She’d get plenty of those from better-hire-a-plumber Wilson.
Ashley shoved herself to her feet and attempted to ignore the way gravity took effect when water ran from her clothes in an undignified surge.
Wilson snickered, the man smirked, but she forced her chin high anyway. Attitude is everything. How many times had Mac told her that?
She spared a glance at Wilson only to note with no small amount of irritation he looked relieved, as though the cavalry had come to the rescue.
Chauvinistic old geezer.
She’d read the book on how to repair the sink. Done everything the so-called expert said. It wasn’t her fault the pipe had sprung a leak when she’d gone to check on Max.
“Are you all right? You banged your head pretty hard.”
“What do you want?”
The man’s expression tightened at her rudeness and given his help earlier in the day and his supposed concern now, her guilty conscience forced a mostly sincere apology from her lips.
“Sorry.” She indicated the mess around her. “It’s been a bad day.”
“Yeah.” The man hesitated before he stuck out his hand. “I’m Joe Brody.”
She transferred the wrench to her left hand so she could shake his right and noted how his gaze darted away from her. “Ashley Cade.”
“Joe turned off the water and saved the day,” Wilson informed her, a gleam in his rheumy eyes.
“Right place, right time. I, uh, saw the flyer posted at Meenick’s Garage. You still looking for a handyman?”
“Are we ever.”
Ashley glared at Wilson and wondered for the millionth time how wise she’d been to agree to Wilson’s stipulations for selling her his house. Despite the hugely discounted price—and it was huge—she’d agreed to let him live there for as long as he was able to take care of himself. She’d felt sorry for him, alone, no family. She knew what that felt like and now she couldn’t imagine life without the old man.
Except on occasions such as this.
“Ashley cain’t fix a darn thing and with my new hip, I cain’t, either. Whole house’ll fall in soon if we ain’t careful.”
Their visitor acknowledged Wilson’s words with a slow nod. “We’d better get these plank floors cleaned up before they turn and warp.”
“We?” Did she want a complete stranger walking into her house and immediately making himself at home? After she checked his references, maybe, but—
Hellllo? What is a B and B, if not strangers coming in and making themselves at home?
She fought off a wave of unease. Doing this with her husband at her side was one thing—Mac was one of those guys who’d never met a stranger—but…could she do this?
“I, uh, came to pick up the things my father left with you,” the man murmured, his blue eyes focused intently on Wilson.
So intently Ashley got the feeling she was being deliberately ignored.
“But I’m also looking for a job and I’m good at work like this.”
She tried not to be irritated by the fact he obviously thought Wilson still owned the house and was responsible for contracting the work.
Ashley’s hands settled on her hips and the independent woman in her bristled as she took in his all-male appearance of scuffed work boots, old, well-worn jeans that molded his long legs and thighs with indecent familiarity and an equally faded black T-shirt that stretched across impossibly broad shoulders and arms any bodybuilder would envy.
The man’s nose had taken a beating and appeared to have been broken multiple times, a small scar lined the right side of his mouth and chin while another, more prominent scar cut across a good three inches of his neck before it disappeared beneath the band of his shirt. He’d been in his share of fights. But had he won them?
“We’re certainly lookin’ to hire—”
“But we need references.” She shot Wilson a pointed glare she hoped would remind him whose name was now on the deed. “And pay is mostly room and board, very little cash.”
Joe Brody looked around at the
dated seventies kitchen. She could practically see his mind working.
“How little?”
She wet her lips and stated the figure that had made the last guy laugh so hard, he’d left the house wiping his eyes and short of breath.
Mr. Brody didn’t look happy about it, either.
“I’ll take it,” he murmured with a slow nod.
She stared, unsure she’d heard him correctly. “You acc—”
“Halle-lu-jah!”
The man nodded again. His gaze flicked about the room rapidly, but paused on her for a few seconds before he looked away. “My father’s in Ridgewood, the nursing home,” he clarified, voice husky. “I need to stick close until he’s released.”
Ashley frowned at his behavior, not sure she liked how he wouldn’t hold her gaze. “So when your father’s released you’ll quit? Getting this house ready to open as a bed-and-breakfast at the end of next spring is a long-term job, Mr. Brody, and—”
“Joe.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and shifted his weight from foot to foot. The water at their feet rippled. “Call me Joe. And we can, uh, discuss this later.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth and jaw.
“Why later?”
He swallowed again, the sound audible. A groan?
“Just thought you might want to change into dry clothes, that’s all.”
Mortification deluged her. Could she really have forgotten she stood there soaking wet?
She lunged by the wanna-be handyman, each step a humiliating splash as she crossed the flooded floor. “I’ll be back,” she muttered, absurdly upset her statement wasn’t more Schwarzeneggerish.
“I’ll get him started on the cleanup, missy. No problem.”
No problem? Yeah, right. The first man to agree to take on the job of repairing her house and she’d just given him an impromptu peep show.
Ashley pulled the T-shirt away from her body as she stomped her way up the stairs. Her pace lightened to a tiptoe when she passed Max’s room and entered her own, but once her door closed with a snick of the antique latch, she sagged against its frame and covered her face with her hands.
What had she done to deserve this?
A shiver racked her despite the heat of the day and she grabbed the fabric clinging at her waist, yanked it over her head and shivered again when water trickled down her back. She ignored the goose pimples, and stalked into the bathroom between her room and the nursery.
Her last freshly laundered towel awaited in the linen closet but her hand froze over the cloth. She wouldn’t have time to do laundry today the way things were going so if she wanted a fresh towel tonight after her bath, well—
“This is what you get for thinking a hundred-year-old Victorian would make a great fixer-upper.”
Changing directions, she grabbed the already damp towel hanging on a hook by the tub and dried off. When she finished, she wrapped it around her dripping hair and stalked back into her bedroom for underwear and a change of clothes.
The warmth of the shower called to her and she wished she could jump in and stay there until Joe Brody gave up and left. But hiding equaled defeat.
No, no way. She relegated the coward within her to a firmly locked closet in her mind, yanked on fresh jeans and grabbed her favorite T-shirt, which was black with “Bite Me” in bold white letters on the front. She needed that sassy attitude now.
In her haste she forgot the towel wrapped on her head and wound up fighting with it before she managed to pull it off through the neck hole of the T-shirt. Finally dressed, she glared at the offending towel and ground it under her heel as she stalked back into the bathroom.
She had work to do. A house to fix up, a son to raise. Stupid, archaic countrified rules to figure out so Max would have friends. She didn’t have time to worry about anything else.
Attitude was everything and in this case, her attitude was the only thing that could get her through going back downstairs where she had to present herself as the man’s potential boss all the while aware he’d seen her at her absolute worst and virtually topless thanks to the wet T-shirt.
References.
Ashley lifted her chin, determination stiffening her spine. What were the odds his references would check out? Did she actually want them not to? Just because of a stupid incident?
She had to prove to Joe Brody—and herself—that she was capable of doing what a man would do given a similar situation. Go down there and be strong, confident and capable, the personification of a take-charge, kick-butt, streetwise woman.
Not an orphan who never belonged anywhere, or a somewhat desperate widow running out of time.
She nodded firmly. She could do this. After all, it wasn’t like the man had never seen a woman’s breasts before.
Chapter 3
“CLOSE YOUR MOUTH, BOY. Gonna choke on a fly gaping after her.”
Joe snapped his mouth shut and turned toward the old man. He hoped he had his body well enough under control that he didn’t embarrass himself any more than he had already by not being able to keep his eyes off her and the T-shirt stuck to her like a second skin.
Ten years in prison and then to see something like that—
“She’s—” He indicated the stairs off the kitchen where Ashley had disappeared.
“In my day we called girls like that top heavy,” Wilson acknowledged with a grin. “And, yup, that she is. Now mind your manners and open the door on your right. Grab that big broom and make yourself useful.”
Joe followed orders, grateful to have something to occupy his hands and take his thoughts off the woman upstairs.
“How’s your dad? He doin’ any better?”
Joe nodded. “Mad at himself for falling and looking forward to getting out of there.”
“Can’t blame him. In places like that it’s hard to avoid the vampires always out to suck your blood.”
He chuckled at the description of the nurses, but didn’t comment. Instead he grabbed the broom and used the thick bristles and his excess sexual energy to shove the water toward the back door, all the while conscious the old man hovered behind him.
Out of the corner of his eye Joe saw his father’s friend lean against the peeling, chipped woodwork with a grunt, his face screwed up in a grimace as he settled himself.
“We need somebody who’ll work hard and get the job done on time. No shoddy work or slacking off.”
Joe glanced over his shoulder, surprised he was still in the running since the old man appeared to know so much about him. “I’ve got a good work history. No complaints.”
“You know how to plumb?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carpenter?”
“Yes.”
“What about roofin’?”
“That, too.”
“Don’t suppose you can provide references for Ashley? She’s a stickler for those. Comes from reading all those how-to books.”
References he had, but they were through the work release program and from the teachers the state hired to come to the penitentiary. He nodded once more. “Yes, sir, I do have references, but—”
“Been about ten years now hasn’t it?”
Joe paused long enough to meet the old man’s gaze. “Yes, sir. I served ten years of a fifteen year sentence. Under the statute change, the review judge released me with time served due to good behavior.”
Wilson nodded again. “Your daddy talked about the letters you sent him. Proud of you, he was.”
Proud? Joe lowered his head and swivelled the broom around to shove some more water out the door.
No, not proud. His father couldn’t be proud to have a son convicted of manslaughter.
“Said you’d turned a tragedy into something good. Tried to make something of yourself instead of sitting there rotting your brain or joining a prison gang. Bragged on what good grades you made taking all those courses. From the sound of it, you’ve done good.”
“Thank you, sir, but—”
“Wilson. Wilson Woodrow.” The
old man laughed. “My father thought it’d be funny since they always call a person’s name out last name first.”
“Wilson,” Joe said, smiling at the comment. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m one of the many who’ve always admired this house from town.”
Wilson accepted his words with a grin. “That so? Well, the way I see it, it’ll take some time for people to get used to havin’ you around again. You’ll prob’ly need to lay low for a while and this job would help you do it. Keep you mighty busy earnin’ your keep, but it’d sure be a good way to show folks things.”
Joe paused again. “The chief has made it clear he doesn’t want me around. I already had a run-in with him in town.”
Wilson glanced at the staircase. “He’s a tough one, Hal is. But a good man. Person’s gotta keep in mind people change when they lose so much at once like he did. But Hal will come along and get used to seeing you if you do things right. Take things nice and slow. And like I said, a big old house like this will take a while to repair. Shouldn’t have let it get so bad, but I couldn’t keep up with it once my Maddy got sick.”
Joe tightened his grip on the broom. “Mrs. Cade isn’t from around here, is she?”
“Nope.”
“Then she probably doesn’t know what happened. Once she finds out she won’t want an ex-con under her roof. Not many people would.” He couldn’t blame her, either. Wouldn’t blame anyone when, ten years ago, he’d have felt the same way himself.
Wilson straightened and Joe found himself ensnared by the old man’s unblinking scrutiny as he used his walker to cross the wet floor.
“Be careful you don’t f—”
“Ted said you didn’t do it,” Wilson murmured, cutting him off. “Now if that’s the case, I don’t see no need to go telling Ashley unless your daddy’s wrong and you did.”
Was he actually asking? Joe couldn’t believe it. Once a person’s accused of something—especially something like murder—everyone assumes him guilty until proven innocent. Even his own brother. Having been convicted and imprisoned had written his guilt in stone.
“Come on, boy, this is your chance to speak up. Did you?”