The Hero's Redemption

by Janice Kay Johnson

  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 d
idn’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 s
he 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

  “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.