Man with a Past (2 page)

Now as she parked the truck beneath the shaded carport in an attempt to keep the already torn seats from drying up and cracking more, she had a headache that pounded like a jackhammer.

Should she have stayed in the city?

No.
The cost of living would've eaten up her savings and she wanted a career that would allow her to stay home with Max. No way could she have bought a house anywhere near as nice as this one, much less owned her own business.

She'd made the right decision.
It was just days like this that made her wish she'd never gotten out of bed. Made her ache with loneliness and want someone to lean on, just for a little while. Companionship and Mac's husky belly laugh beside her.

The door of Wilson's battered old truck squeaked when she opened it, but the pain streaking through her head was nothing compared to the start she got when she realized a large dog stood two feet away, teeth showing.

What now, a dog bite?

“Go on, get out of here.” She tried to shoo the dog away but the dirty brown animal stared at her, unmoving, a mix between a lab and a retriever. “Go on. Go.”

The stupid dog wagged his tail. Uh-huh, like
she'd fall for that. “Get out of here. Go!” When he still didn't move she swallowed her unease. “You'd better go home, dog. Your owner might find another and ship you off to the pound.”

Its skinny butt wriggled back and forth, tail flying. What was it with people who got a pet and then didn't take care of it?

She eyed the dog's thin frame and wondered briefly if it was hungry enough to make a snack of her. That's when she noted the way it froze and tilted its head to one side. Seconds later she understood the cause.

Her son's angry cries filtered from the open windows of the house and she groaned. So much for him sleeping long enough for her to get something done.

“Oh, Max.” She kept an eye on the dog as she leaned in the truck and searched for the bag with the sink piece inside. Holding it in one hand, her keys in the other and ready to swing if she needed to, she edged out from behind the protection of the door and shut it.

The dog stepped forward.

“Forget it, mutt. Go home.” She pointed to the hill behind the garage and carport, since the closest house was on the far side. “Go on, go!”

At her tone the dog scampered back a couple steps as though waiting for her to throw something at it. Ashley refused the niggle of guilt she
felt at the sight. How many people had run him off? Should she toss him some scraps?

If you do that you'll never get rid of him.

The dog loped several feet in the opposite direction before turning back to look at her again. Max's ongoing cries reminded her that Wilson was on his own inside. She ignored the mutt as best she could and quickly walked toward the house, all the while checking over her shoulder every couple seconds to see if she was being followed, or better yet, chased. No sign of the mutt now.

Ashley pressed a hand to her temple to ease the throbbing as she let herself into the kitchen. She tossed the plastic bag in the general direction of the table only to hear it clatter when it slid off the top, hit the seat of a chair and land on the floor with a crash.

Great. The way her luck was going the stupid
thirty-dollar
part was now broken.

“'Bout time you got back, missy.” Wilson stood next to the crib in the living room, a befuddled frown on his wrinkled face. “Thought I heard you, but then you didn't come in—”

“Sorry, Wilson. Hey, you know you can't pick him up and use the walker at the same time,” she chided.

“Just hate to hear the boy cry. Thought if I got closer he might hush.”

She smiled at Wilson's comment. When the old
man had stopped by the road that night months ago to offer help, she hadn't known what to make of him. Too many years living in the city and in a group home for kids past their prime adoption age had taken a toll. Somehow, though, she'd wound up staying with Wilson, not only accepting his help but his grandfatherly presence as well.

“I was gone twenty minutes. Half an hour tops. After being up all night he should've stayed asleep.” Ashley lifted Max into her arms and snuggled his little body close. “Shhh, Max, it's all right. Mommy's here. It's all right,” she crooned. She bounced him and talked nonsense to calm him down. “Oh, honey, why won't you sleep? You've got to be tired. I know I am.”

Red-rimmed eyes blinked up at her, his lower lip stuck out and quivered. She smoothed her hand over the downy blond hair that was such a contrast to her own, and kissed his forehead. It always amazed her how he had her hazel eyes, but nothing else.

“Oh, you. Stubborn just like your daddy. You know that?”

Max waved a fist in the air before he brought it close to his mouth and sucked on it. He lowered his head to her shoulder and exhaled with a shudder.

“Max okay?”

She shifted her son to get a better grip and turned. “He's fine, but between him not sleeping
and Mr. Thompson's tricks, I'm going to lose my mind. Do you have any idea how much he over-charged me for that part he guaranteed would work? Twenty dollars! I picked up some tarps and stuff for the roof because the weatherman said there would be thunderstorms later, but next time I'm making the drive to Baxter.”

Old Spice lingered in the air as Wilson made his way to his chair. Because of the pain in his hips, he'd moved downstairs several years ago into what had been the servant's quarters. A small sitting room, bedroom and bath located off the kitchen, there was plenty of room for Wilson without him getting in the way of her plans for turning the large house into a B&B.

“Might not be havin' such a hard time if you'd warm up to one of the local boys.”

She groaned. How many times had she heard this lecture? And how many times had she considered it of late? Just thinking about dating again made her feel disloyal.

“Wilson, please. I've got too much to think about and do before next spring to even consider dating.”

Chicken.

“Max needs a father.”

She closed her eyes and rested her cheek on Max's head. Her son
had
a father. One of the few good guys she'd ever known. What were the odds of finding another one?

“Max's father hasn't been gone that long,” she reminded him with a murmur. “And not everyone wants or appreciates an instant family.”

“It's been long enough, missy. Almost two years now,” Wilson countered. “And you said he was in training almost a full year before that. Nobody would blame you for gettin' lonely for someone your own age, but suit yourself. You'll change your mind soon as the boy is old enough to want friends an' comes home crying 'cause he don't have none.”

Ashley carried her son with her across the room, but paused inside the doorway. She wanted to keep going, to ignore Wilson's comment, but her curiosity wouldn't let her.

“What does my dating a local man got to do with Max having friends?”

Wilson released his walker one hand at a time to grip the worn arms of his green recliner. Watching him balance always made her nervous so she looked down at Max and smiled as she waited for Wilson to seat himself.

“This ain't the city, missy,” he said with a relieved sigh. “You want Max to have friends then you got to be accepted as one of the town. To do that, you got to be kin whether it's by blood or marriage.”

He didn't have to tell her that. Being related, or rather, her
not
being related to anyone in town other than Max, was a fact she knew well. But
what did she know about family? Roots? In the group home the mantra was every kid for herself.

She was so out of her element here.

“Might not be right, but it's the way it is and if you ain't gonna get married, then you've got to go out and get involved in things. Make friends.”

“How? What
things?
” Exasperation sharpened her tone. Lack of caffeine, lack of sleep and the unpleasant memories of her difficult childhood made the thought of putting herself out there iffy at best, and disastrous at worst. She wasn't a “get involved” kind of person. Especially not when gaining attention usually meant inviting trouble and getting picked on.

How could she fit into this small, close-knit town when she never seemed to fit in anywhere else, including the base where Mac had been stationed? The military wives had pulled together after shipping their husbands off to war, but she'd never felt a part of that. And while she'd dated her share of guys as a stupid teenager, they were casual relationships that only lasted as long as the fun. She didn't want to go back to that, couldn't now that she'd known Mac's love. Where did that leave her in Taylorsville?

“Are you telling me I have to join the quilting circle and PTA just to buy plumbing supplies without getting ripped off?”

“Wouldn't hurt.”

She rolled her eyes and instantly regretted the movement when pain shot through her skull. “Wilson, I want Max to have a home, roots, to grow up somewhere safe and nice—”

“Like you didn't have,” he said, nodding.

“So what happened to small towns being open and friendly? You know…
Mayberry?
”

“You been up watchin' reruns again? There's too many weirdos in the world now, that's what happened. People's got to get to know you first and with you always holed up workin' on this house, nobody don't know what to make of you. You've got to be the one to get out there. Ain't a soul going to bring a cake to your door these days. You've gotta go to them.”

Go to them?

Ashley rubbed her nose against Max's. “Yeah, well, I can't deal with that now. I've got a sink to fix if we want water. Don't I, Max?”

“Be better off hirin' a plumber since I cain't get under the sink to help you. Bobby Butcher's son's a plumber. Think he got divorced a year or so ago, too. Then again,” he said with a frown, “I think his wife caught him cheatin' with Don Boyle's girl. Maybe you could call—”

“Wilson?” She pasted a smile on her face, more than a little overwhelmed and slightly panicky. “Thanks for the advice, and when I'm ready to date you can fill me in on all the Billy Bobs out
there—I'll listen to every word—but in the meantime, all I can concentrate on is Max and fixing the sink. It isn't rocket science. I've read the book, I've got the right part now… I'll have it repaired before lunch.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can do this,” she insisted. “I don't need a plumber.”

Wilson chuckled and slowly shook his head back and forth. “Just remember us
Billy Bobs
sometimes know a thing or two,” he called as she walked into the kitchen carrying Max. “And I say you'd be better off callin' a plumber!”

T
HE DOORS OF
the nursing home swooshed as they opened. Inside, patterned, coffee-stained carpeting led Joe forward in blessedly cool air until he came to a desk manned by a gray-haired lady wearing a red hat. She looked up at him, squinted over the broad, black rims of her glasses and frowned.

He remembered that frown. He remembered those glasses. The hat was new. “Mrs. H.?”

Her lips firmed and showcased the lipstick that had leaked out into the multitude of lines around her mouth. But other than grayer hair and a lot more wrinkles, she hadn't changed a bit since high school English.

“Mr. Brody,” she said, carefully enunciating each syllable like always. “You're back.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She pushed herself away from the desk and stood. Holding the handle of an elegantly carved cane, she limped around the desk. “Follow me. We don't allow just anyone to roam the halls amongst our dear patients. When you're ready to leave, use
the phone in your father's room to contact the desk and someone will escort you to the door.”

Jaw locked, Joe stared at the red bow bouncing atop the hat before giving in and following her fairly quick pace. “Is that normal? Escorting the visitors to and from the rooms?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

She slid him a sideways glance. “For some, Mr. Brody.”

Joe shook his head but didn't say anything else as he shadowed Mrs. H. down the hall and to the right, down another hall past a cafeteria where a smock-clad woman led a bingo game and two men in wheelchairs played checkers.

She stopped at room 209.
Ted Brody.

Joe stared at the numbers, at his father's name written in black marker on a small white message board attached to the door, and a sudden case of nerves racked him. He'd always thought of his father as being invincible. The kind of man who'd go out with a bang instead of slow and painful as his body wore out.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at the teacher who'd been so brusque and demanding in high school. She'd been hated by some of the students because she'd made them strive to be better. Always reminded them to do their best, be their best, whether anyone watched or not.

“Thanks, Mrs. H.”

The old woman's faded blue eyes narrowed on him from behind the thick glasses. “You always were a nice young man, Mr. Brody,” she stated as she turned to walk back the way they'd come. “Too bad you weren't when it mattered most.”

Joe stared after her, futile anger knotting his stomach. Everyone believed him guilty. And maybe he was. He certainly hadn't known what he was doing as an eighteen-year-old kid turned father. Maybe if he had, Josie would still be alive.

“Who's out there? Murray? I'm awake so just come on in! The board's a waitin'!”

His father's voice brought back a flood of memories. Joe pushed Mrs. H.'s cold reception and the incident at the diner to the back of his mind and stepped inside the room. The cloying smell of antiseptic and bleach tackled his nose as he dropped his duffel to the floor and smiled.

“
Joe?
”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and rushed forward, leaning over the hospital bed to wrap his arms around a frail body that couldn't possibly belong to his larger-than-life pop.

Thin arms surrounded him and hugged his neck, weak and shaking now that they weren't separated by glass and guards. “Ah, Joe. My boy's finally home, eh?”

“How ya doin', Pop? Flirtin' with the nurses?”

A gruff laugh rumbled out of his chest as his
father pushed him back to arm's length and patted him roughly. Gnarled fingers slid up his arms to cup his face. “Let me look at you. Ah, Joe, you look good. You still growin'?”

Joe nodded, straining to hold back his tears. “We got a new guy at the home a month or so ago. He's a chef in training and he fed us well. Think I'll actually miss his cooking.”

Him being in prison had taken a toll on his father. At seventy-four, his pop looked eighty-four, maybe older. Deep lines creased his face, and his hair had turned a blinding shade of white. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and he'd lost weight. At least twenty or thirty pounds since he'd last seen him in person two years ago.

“I can't believe it's been so long.” He squeezed Joe's forearm. “I'm so sorry I couldn't make it up there.”

“It's all right, Pop, I understand.”

“Had that stroke and just learned how to walk again when I fell and broke my hip. Been here ever since.”

Joe nodded. He'd heard the apologetic story in every letter and call his father had made to the halfway house where he'd been moved before being released. And he'd gotten angrier and angrier because his brother, Jack, should've been there for him since Joe couldn't. Shouldn't have taken off and left their pop to face the town alone.

“I know you would've come if you could. I'm just glad you're healing up. I'll go home and get things ready for when you're released and then we'll… Pop?”

Something was wrong. His father looked away, a deep, ruddy color in his cheeks.

“There's nowhere to go, Joe.”

He leaned against the bed rails, but stopped when the frame rolled a bit and forced him to lock his knees. “What happened?”

A tear trickled down his father's cheek. “Shameful. Man my age behaving like this.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

He rubbed his hands together repeatedly, the movement creating a sandpapery sound. “I couldn't make it, Joe. I tried to hold on, but I had to sell out to pay all the bills. The hospital and the home here. I—I lied to you in my letters about the insurance. Didn't want you to worry none.”

Shocked, Joe looked around the room at the cold metal utilitarian chairs and trays instead of the antique rocker and quilt rack his great-grandmother had brought from Ireland.

A lone picture of him and his mother was on the table opposite, another one of the four of them, taken before his mom died, topped the television. Joe stared at Jack's face, wondering why his brother couldn't have believed in him the way his dad did.

“You needed what little money you made, Joe.
I wasn't going to take that from you. Would've only dragged things out longer and ended the same way regardless.”

His old man reached beneath his pajama shirt and pulled out a length of string with several keys on it. “Got a little cash in a safe-deposit box from the sale. It's not much, but you go get it and find a place to stay.”

“I can't take what you've got left, Pop.”

His father's mouth trembled. “It's all I got to give you with the house gone. I did keep some of your mama's things. Gave 'em to a friend to keep for me.”

“Where?” he rasped. Surely his father hadn't sold everything?

“Willow Wood. Remember that big house up on the hill outside town? Met him once or twice through the years, but never really knew the man before I had to share a hospital room with him. You go on there and Wilson will give everything to you.”

“Where's Jack? Has he been here to visit? To help?”

“Haven't seen or heard from your brother since the day he left.” He wiped a hand under his nose. “Don't expect to anymore. I tried to stop him but he made his choice. Maybe one day he'll come home, or maybe he won't.”

The warm metal of the safe deposit key bit into his calloused palm. Joe squeezed it tight. Four
years younger, Jack hadn't been able to handle the talk and speculation surrounding Josie's death. Hadn't been able to handle being a murderer's brother. The day he'd graduated high school, he'd hopped on the back of his bike and roared off without a backward glance. Maybe he didn't believe in Joe's innocence, but Pop deserved better.

“How soon will you be released?” Joe asked, shoving the memories and pain aside. He needed to know what he was dealing with. How much time he had to find a job, a place to live. Somewhere decent where he could take care of his old man. It was his fault his family was so divided.

His pop's chin firmed, the tears dried up and Joe was glad to note some starch reappeared in his shoulders. “Docs say it'll be another few months at least. But I'll show them, you just wait. After all this time without you, I'm going to get out of here. I won't burden either one of us with paying the bill for this place.”

“Don't push too hard or you'll injure yourself again,” Joe said.

He acknowledged Joe's words with a nod. “Town's growing fast. Lots of work to be had. Saw jobs in the paper yesterday morning. You check those out. Promise me you'll find something close by. I want to see you every bit I can.”

Joe forced a smile to his lips and nodded. “Sure thing, Pop. I'll have a job in no time.”

 

“Y
OU JUST GOING
to stand there and watch it gush?”

Ashley turned toward the sound of Wilson's voice. He hovered outside the kitchen doorway, and for the first time since she'd bought the house from him, she was absurdly thankful the floor slanted. At least the living room wouldn't flood.

You hope.

But as she presently stood ankle deep in water in the middle of her antique wood floor, she figured it was only a matter of time.

“Well?”

Ashley swore under her breath and grabbed a wrench from the toolbox she'd left on the table. She fell to her knees and gasped as water hit her in the face and surged up her nose.

“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.