The Hero's Redemption. Janice Johnson Kay
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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