The Hero's Redemption Read online

  “But not from our clothes.” Dismayed, she said, “I should’ve bought you coveralls.” He couldn’t possibly have had more than one change in that duffel bag.

  Seeming unconcerned, Cole glanced down at himself. “I’ll keep these for messy jobs. The jeans have about had it, anyway, and T-shirts are easy to replace. I picked up some more clothes the other day.”

  She nodded. “What do you think? Is this color not perfect?”

  “I don’t know. I would have liked a nice cream...” He smiled again at her expression. “Yeah, it looks better than I thought it would. Kind of different, in a gingerbread-house way.”

  She sniffed. “And I’m the wicked witch.”

  “Well, you said it, not me.”

  Erin grabbed her paintbrush and brandished it. “I’ll polka-dot you.”

  Another rusty chuckle, and he backed away.

  “I put a roast in the Crock-Pot.” Now or never. “Will you have dinner with me?” He’d taken care of his own meals since those first few days.

  He went still, in that way he could, his blue eyes unreadable. The moment stretched. Erin suddenly realized that the brush was dripping down her front and she hastily moved it over the can.

  Pride had her shrugging and turning back to the window. “Or not.”

  “No.” Cole cleared his throat. “I mean, yeah, that’d be great. I’m...not much of a cook.”

  Having seen the frozen meals he bought each time they’d gone to the grocery store together, she wasn’t surprised.

  Without looking at him, she said, “Give me half an hour or so after we knock off for the day. I want to shower and put some biscuits in the oven.”

  “Thanks.” He sounded hoarse.

  Erin didn’t look back, even though she knew he was walking away. Usually, she couldn’t resist any chance to watch him when he wouldn’t notice. He was just so damn beautiful, whether in motion or at rest.

  By the time she tapped the lid back on the can a couple of hours later, she expected to be exhausted. To her astonishment, there was still some spring to her step. Maybe she was regaining her strength.

  She’d brought some plastic bags out to the garage, and now used one of them to wrap the brush. This seemed to work, saving her from having to clean it every evening. She’d seen Cole using the hose to do something to the spraying assembly, which they’d rented. She’d learned some creative new profanities from him every time the nozzle plugged up. Thank goodness he growled them almost under his breath, or he might have shocked a few neighbors.

  Erin could tell that a young family lived three doors down, judging by the small bike with pink streamers on the handles and the big plastic tricycle often left lying on the lawn. Kids seemed to live in the house on the corner, too. Presumably, there were other neighbors younger than eighty, but she hadn’t seen them. She’d bet the folks within a four-block radius could fill a good-sized retirement home, if they were all willing to give up mowing their lawns and walking arthritic pets. Nanna had been happy here partly because she had lifelong friends. Even the neighbors she disliked were part of the landscape of her life. She could tell stories about every one of them. Erin knew all the older folks, but hadn’t yet tried to make herself part of the neighborhood.

  Yesterday afternoon, she’d heard a mower fire up and looked over to see Mr. Zatloka across the street wrap his knobby hands around the handle of his mower and totter forward. She’d heard him mow before but hadn’t seen him. Would he let her do it for him? She knew the answer. A young lady—no, that would offend his masculine pride.

  Even as she was hesitating about trying, anyway, Cole trotted across the street, spoke briefly to Mr. Zatloka and took over. In twenty minutes, he mowed the Zatlokas’ entire lawn. He dumped the clippings in Erin’s yard waste bin—she’d seen Mr. Zatloka put theirs in the garbage can—and wheeled the mower into the garage. He and the elderly man laughed about something, and then Cole returned to work on her house.

  His kindness was the reason she’d decided to ask him to dinner again. Maybe she was being foolish, but she wanted to know him better. Be friends. Not anything more.

  One dangerous habit was enough.

  * * *

  ERIN HAD LONG since disappeared into the house by the time Cole showered, changed clothes and made his way from the apartment to her front door.

  They’d worked longer than they should have. He’d suddenly become aware that the quality of the light had changed and he was having trouble seeing. Now, full night had descended.

  Seeing the porch light left on for him stirred uncomfortable feelings. He should’ve politely thanked her and headed out for fast food and a visit to the library.

  Erin had hired him for a dirty job, but it seemed she wanted something else. Cole didn’t get it, didn’t trust the lures she kept throwing out.

  Did she just want him in her bed? If it was completely uncomplicated, there was nothing he’d like better. He wasn’t having a dry spell; he’d had a dry decade. But he had trouble believing Erin was a woman who’d have sex with an ex-con only to scratch an itch. However, raising the subject would make her wary of him.

  He bounded up the new porch steps, liking their solidity beneath his weight and the nonslip treads they’d applied. They’d keep her from taking a tumble some icy day in winter, when he was long gone.

  Uncurling his fingers to ring her doorbell, Cole discovered his palms were sweaty.

  Should have said no.

  From within, she called, “Door’s unlocked.”

  It was. Once he’d opened it, he hesitated before crossing the threshold. The act felt momentous, even dangerous. He hadn’t been inside a house, any house, since the police cuffed him. Wasn’t welcome at his father’s home—he couldn’t think of it as his—or his sister’s.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” Erin added.

  He followed the sound of her voice and the fabulous smell of meat cooking, glancing into a living room lit by a single lamp and then a dark dining room. She was right. The place was seriously dated. Was the wiring safe?

  The kitchen looked 1940s. Truly ancient linoleum, metal-edged counters, not enough cabinets, a small wooden table with two chairs in the middle of the extensive space.

  “The stove isn’t bad, but the refrigerator—” He stopped himself.

  Looking over her shoulder as she pulled a cookie sheet covered with golden-brown biscuits from the oven, Erin wrinkled her nose. “Is an antique. I know. I’ve been here something like two months, and I’ve had to defrost the freezer twice. And chip out ice creeping down into the refrigerator compartment.”

  “Why haven’t you replaced it?”

  She straightened. “I don’t know. It works.” Her shoulders sagged. “It seems wrong just to throw it away.”

  He already knew her sentimental side, but discovered it went deeper than he’d realized. “It makes you think of your grandmother.”

  “I guess so.” She sighed and turned her back to him as she used a spatula to deftly lift the biscuits off the cookie sheet and into a basket.

  He watched her, staggered by how beautiful she was. Usually, he tried not to notice, but now her cheeks were pink from the oven heat; she was clean and her red-gold hair was shiny, bundled at the back of her head with some stretchy thing holding it in place. Above the collar of her T-shirt, her neck showed, long, slender, pale. Were those faint freckles on her nape?

  Cole caught himself taking a step to close the distance between them. No.

  He rolled his shoulders and backed up. “Anything I can do?”

  “Um...” She looked vaguely around. “Get yourself something to drink. I’ll take milk, if you don’t mind pouring.”

  His stomach growled, although if he’d had a choice... His hunger for the meal wasn’t the first he would have satisfied. In fact, he managed to keep his
back mostly turned to her as he poured milk for them both and set the glasses on the table, then took a seat so she wouldn’t see that he was aroused.

  It was the setting, he tried to convince himself. Sexy woman in snug jeans cooking for him. Didn’t explain why he’d been so damn tempted earlier to lift her off the ladder, strip her and lay her down on the grass.

  Brambles, he reminded himself. He’d have hurt her delicate, translucent skin.

  Crap. He cast a single, desperate glance toward the hall and escape.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ALREADY SEATED AT the small table, Cole realized that standing up and walking out wasn’t an option.

  A huge, crockery bowl held the pot roast with potatoes, carrots and other vegetables. Now, Erin set butter and the basket of fresh-baked biscuits on the table, sighed and sank down in her chair. “This does smell good.”

  “Will you actually eat any of it?” His question was probably rude, but also genuine. She nibbled. She didn’t eat.

  Erin made a rueful face. “Yes. It just...doesn’t always seem to be worth the effort. You know?” She took a biscuit and handed him the basket. “Help yourself.”

  She’d set out generous-sized bowls as well as small plates for the biscuits. He dished up a hefty serving for himself and watched as she took less. It seemed to be a reasonable amount, considering she must weigh half of what he did.

  “This is nice of you,” he said finally, long-ago lessons taught by his mother rising from the depths.

  Erin seemed to concentrate on the food in front of her. “It’s okay if you don’t want to eat here. I kind of put you on the spot today. I just...” She shrugged. “I get lonely, I guess. I thought you might, too. Sometimes I look out the window and see the light above the garage and think it’s silly that we’re making separate meals.”

  Get lonely? She had no idea. Having her right in front of him made things worse, increasing his sense of aloneness. It would be hell, being conscious of her every shifting expression, every breath she drew, the tinge of color in her cheeks and the fragility of her too-slender body—when his history felt like an invisible force field that would scald his hand if he tried to reach across it.

  After a pause, he said, “Most people are afraid of me. Even when they don’t know I’m an ex-con, they watch me when I go by as if they expect me to attack.”

  Exasperation flashed in her eyes when they met his. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never been afraid of you.”

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he had to ask. “Why?”

  She blinked a couple of times, as if he’d taken her aback. “I don’t know,” she said finally. Her forehead puckered. “I’m not afraid of much. Or maybe anything.” She talked slowly. “I think...that instinct has been burned out of me. But I wouldn’t have been afraid of you, anyway. Somebody with bad intentions wouldn’t have reminded me that he’d just gotten out of prison. Besides, you don’t have that look.”

  He ignored the last bit. She didn’t know what she was talking about. The only way to survive in the pen was to respond to challenges with quick, vicious strikes. That “do unto others” saying? In there, you did unto others what you feared they’d do unto you.

  What really caught his attention was the middle part of her speech.

  “Burned out of you?”

  She shook her head, as if shedding water. “It doesn’t matter. We all have quirks.”

  True, but an unwillingness to protect yourself? That had to be unnatural.

  “What you did for Mr. Zatloka was nice,” she said.

  “Mr....? Oh. The neighbor.” He filed away the name. “He looked like he’d have a heart attack by the time he was done, or just topple over.”

  Erin laughed. “I had the same thought. But I knew if I offered to help, his male ego would be bruised.”

  Cole smiled. “Probably.”

  Damn, this meal was good. The meat all but melted in his mouth, as did the biscuits. He reached for another one.

  Erin hadn’t put a lot away, but she was eating at least. “Have some more,” she said, nudging the bowl toward him.

  “Did you grow up here?” he asked.

  “No, but my dad did. It’s funny thinking of him living here as a little boy.”

  “Where are your parents?” Apparently, he hadn’t entirely forgotten how to make conversation.

  “Dead. Breast cancer for Mom six years ago, small-plane crash for Dad a couple of years later. He was taking lessons, and there was a mechanical failure.” Clearly, she didn’t want to expand. But she did raise her eyebrows. “What about your parents?”

  “My mother died when I was ten.” One of his worst memories, despite everything that came after. “Sudden, splitting headache. Aneurysm, as it turned out.”

  “Can’t those be familial?” She sounded worried.

  “That’s what the doctor said. My sister and I were tested, but we didn’t have whatever weakness they were looking for.”

  Erin nodded. “Your dad?”

  “He’s alive.”

  He split and buttered a biscuit, hoping she got the message. No more questions.

  “And...your sister?”

  “Dani. We stay in touch.” He hesitated. “Her husband isn’t so sure about me.”

  “Oh.” She squished a potato with her fork. “I’m sorry.”

  Cole searched for something to say. “The house looks good.”

  Appearing grateful for the rescue, Erin said, “I wish Nanna could see it.” Another crinkle of her nose. “Except I don’t think it’s ever been painted any color but white. Maybe she’s rolling over in her grave.”

  “I doubt it. She wouldn’t have left it to you if she didn’t love you. And the trim color reminds me of your hair.”

  “My hair?” She gaped at him.

  A little panicked, he said what he was thinking, anyway. “It’s sort of...peach-colored. With gold and a red that’s more of a russet.”

  She kept gaping. Feeling heat in his cheeks, Cole couldn’t meet her eyes. Way to let her know how much time he’d spent studying her to come up with a description like that!

  Yeah, and so poetic.

  “I... Um, thank you?” When he failed to respond, she said, “So the house and I are coordinated?”

  “Yeah.” Hoarse again. “Something like that.”

  Both ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “Where’d you grow up?” she asked at length.

  “Seattle. You?”

  “Salem, Oregon. Dad taught at Willamette University. Physics, of all things. I never liked any of the science classes I had to take. Mom illustrated children’s books.” She smiled, her eyes momentarily losing focus. “I have copies of the books she illustrated in a box somewhere.” With a one-shoulder shrug, she returned to the here and now. “I didn’t inherit any artistic ability whatsoever. Or musical. Dad played the piano. I took lessons for six very long years before Mom and Dad gave up.”

  “I played the guitar.” He didn’t know why he was telling her this, but his dreams of rock stardom were another good memory, along with playing football. “Had a band. A friend’s mother let us practice in their basement. We played at some parties, got a few gigs at small clubs around Seattle, but I don’t think we’d have made it even locally in the music scene. After we graduated from high school, two of us stuck with it for another year, bringing in replacement band members, but it wasn’t as much fun.”

  Amusement lit her face. “Did you sing?”

  “Howled, more like.”

  She had a rich, full laugh. “Did you prance around the stage?”

  “God forbid. I sulked and brooded and let my hair hang over my face.”

  “You do brooding well.”

  “What?”

  “You d
o.” Studying him, she said, “That wasn’t an insult.”

  “I’m quiet. I don’t brood.” Yeah, he did.

  “Okay, you just look like you’re thinking deep, dark, dangerous thoughts.”

  Exasperated, he gave up.

  He both wanted and didn’t want to ask what else she had for him to do once they’d finished painting the house. Originally, she’d talked about having him take care of the overgrown yard, but he could level it in a day with a weed whacker. Then what?

  Apprehension sat heavy in him, as if he’d eaten too much. He stared down at what was left in his bowl.

  “I could start working on the apartment in the evenings,” he said.

  She frowned. “You shouldn’t have to work twelve-hour days.”

  “I can get a lot done in an hour or two.”

  “Well...” Erin set down her fork. “I don’t know. What should come first?”

  “The outside stairs. Although once I start, I’ll have to work straight through.”

  “I should’ve realized they were rotten, too.”

  He nodded. “Not sure I’d want to haul something heavy like a new shower stall or bathroom cabinet up those stairs right now.”

  “Okay. When we’re done with the paint job, I’ll buy the lumber for you to do that next. And I’ll pay you.” She narrowed her eyes at him until he closed his mouth, ending his protest. “That’s not the apartment. It’s part of the garage, and a safety issue.”

  They talked about the rest. She thought he should gut the bathroom, although he could do it over time. “I can get some reasonably priced stock cabinets for the kitchen area, too. And a new sink and faucets. Probably a new refrigerator.”

  “Or two?”

  Ignoring that, she added, “Plus new flooring.”

  “You know, it’s pretty comfortable the way it is.” Paradise. “You can rent it out without doing that much.”

  “I could charge more if it’s not so run-down. And it would be a selling point if I end up putting the house on the market.”

  Cole nodded. Not his decision. And the longer it took, the longer he could stay.