The Hero's Redemption Read online

  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 he
ard 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

  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 sta
rted 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.