Man with a Past (9 page)

She shrugged and started on a new pot. “I was five-six in the fifth grade and taller than most women with a body to match.” She laughed softly, the sound a bit bitter. “The wives would take one
look at me and give their husbands a glare. Getting adopted didn't matter though.”

He frowned at the hint of hurt in her voice. “Sure about that?”

Silence. “Okay, so it did,” she finally muttered. “I did get taken home one time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once the couples had gone through all the paperwork and interviews and gotten the official okay, they could take the child they were interested in adopting home over a long weekend or out for a day trip. Something where they could…bond. An older couple had gone through the process, passed all the requirements and I was one of three girls they thought they might be interested in. I got taken home first and we hit it off. They—they even took me to the pound and let me pick out a puppy so that whichever girl they chose would have a companion.”

Joe didn't like where the story was headed. “What happened?”

Her hands stilled in the water, her expression carefully distant. “While I was there, the woman found out she was pregnant. Then Sunday afternoon rolled around and they took me back.” She laughed softly. “They kept the dog though. One mutt was apparently enough.”

One minute he stood there drying dishes and the next, Joe tossed the towel aside and pulled her against him, her soapy wet hands against his chest.

“Don't degrade yourself like that.”

She stared up at him, eyes wide. “It's what the kids called me—us. We were mutts nobody wanted.”

He raised his right hand and smoothed his knuckles over her face, down her sharply angled cheek and the jut of her chin.

Ashley's soft skin, the color of honey, called out to be touched. Her lips were darker than her skin tone, more tawny-colored. Full, bare of cosmetics, her mouth beckoned. Wide and kissable and infinitely tempting.

“Joe, we agreed not to make another mistake.”

That they had. And despite wanting to do otherwise, he heeded the warning he heard in her tone and released her to pick up the towel again. “Sorry. But don't put yourself down like that. You're not a mutt and neither are any of the other kids out there in that situation. They're just kids.”

She laughed again, the sound strained. “Yes, sir.”

They both got back to work, silent for a time.

“I didn't thank you earlier,” he murmured finally. “For letting me stay.”

She didn't raise her head from her task. “Don't thank me too much. I can't toss you out when you're the only one willing to take on fixing my house.”

Joe flinched. Yeah, there was that.

 

F
OUR HOURS LATER
Ashley learned exactly how Joe knew to do all the things he did. They'd toured the
house, gone from room to room and checked out window casings, walls and ceilings. All in all, Joe said much the same as the home inspector she'd hired from Cincinnati. She'd gotten a fantastic deal.

The ceiling where the roof had leaked needed repairing, but would soon be good as new. The wiring had been updated in the early eighties, and Joe said extra support boxes might be needed if the house's nine bedrooms were ever filled to capacity, but little else.

“So you took classes?”

He nodded as he descended a ladder. “I'd always been a fixer. I got lucky because the judge who sentenced me sent me to a medium security prison instead of a max, and after I'd paid my dues, I got taken out on a work detail. One of the trucks broke down and I fixed it when nobody else could. Pretty soon that snowballed and I was allowed to transfer to a different prison where they had teachers come in. They taught us building, plumbing, electrical, you name it. Some sort of rehabilitation program.”

“Good for me,” she said with a laugh. “I'm glad.”

Joe shot her a smile, and her heart beat faster in response. No way. Appreciating his talents and abilities for fixing up her fixer-upper was one thing, but the man himself?

She shook her head. Joe was tall and muscled and gorgeous in a rough sort of way, but he was
also hard. Scarred. With a darkness behind his eyes she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

“Maybe one day you can own your own company and put all those classes to good use.”

“Maybe.”

The hardships of taking on such a project hit her then. Finding jobs when everyone knew his past would be next to impossible. Accusations would inevitably be made.

How did someone go about rebuilding their life after prison?

Joe grabbed the ladder and folded the frame. “This was the last room?”

“Yeah.”

“Then once I get the roof done, I'll work on ceilings so you can start painting. After that, I'll work on repairing the damage to the outside of the house and then get started on remodeling the kitchen.”

A weight lifted from her shoulders. “Seriously? It's doable before spring?”

Joe confirmed her words with a nod. “With two people working on it full-time, definitely.”

She clapped her hands together. “I can't believe it! Come on—this calls for a celebration.” She led the way back to the kitchen and retrieved an apple pie from the rack on the stove.

“Wilson will hate us,” Joe commented, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth in anticipation.

Ashley laughed. “Yeah, but it's not like he's at the
hall
playing
bingo,” she countered. “They have a buffet-style dessert bar. He only goes for the sweets.”

Joe chuckled as he walked to the cabinet where the plates were kept. Ashley liked his easy familiarity. Liked how he didn't expect her to wait on him.

He retrieved a couple of plates while she sliced the pie. At the table she leaned forward and plucked up the book she'd left lying there earlier.

“You ever do any landscaping? I went to the diner today and the garden club was meeting. I acted interested and one of the ladies invited me to sit down.” She looked up in time to see his expression change. “What's wrong?”

A muscle spasmed along his jawline. “You didn't say anything about me did you?”

“No, why?”

Joe ran a palm over his face, his apple pie forgotten on his plate. “If you had they probably wouldn't have treated you very well.”

Her mouth twisted. She remembered how hard it had been to stand there and wait while everyone looked their fill and whispered to each other as to why she'd come to their little group. The outsider.

“It probably wouldn't have mattered. All of them pretty much pretended I didn't exist except for one lady. She was nice. She didn't mind Max squirming all over the place, either.” Ashley hesitated. “If you don't want me to say anything about you being here I won't.”

Joe shoved himself to his feet. “Good. Wilson said—”

When he broke off, she blinked up at him. “Wilson said what? It's not like I haven't figured out Wilson knew about your past. He seems to know everything that goes on.”

Joe walked away from her to stare out the window over the sink. “He thinks I might have a better time of it if I work hard, stay low and prove myself again, ease my way back into their good graces a little at a time.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” She hoped for Joe's sake it worked. “You don't agree?”

“Maybe…guess I'll find out.”

A
NOTHER WEEK PASSED
while Ashley mulled over Joe's response to her question. He'd looked sad, so vulnerable, that she'd wanted to reassure him and tell him time would dull everyone's memory to his ex-con status, and he'd be one of Taylorsville's “good stock” again.

A fat lot of good those kind of reassurances would be coming from someone who didn't fit in herself. How could she possibly know how long it would take for Joe to make it back into everyone's good graces? Or what it would take. If she knew, she'd be doing it herself even though a part of her rebelled and wondered why she—or Joe—should have to do anything to belong at all. They shouldn't.

Except Max deserved the best life she could give him.

That meant she couldn't stay in her big, safe house any longer. Ashley squared her shoulders and hefted Max higher on her waist. Juggling him, the book on landscaping, a diaper bag and purse
plus one humongous case of nerves took some doing. But as she walked into Ridgewood Extended Care, her efforts at making sure she and Max were both immaculate and presentable were worth all the trouble she'd gone to given the welcome she received.

“Oh, my. Look at him!”

“Well, hello there!”

“What a gorgeous little boy.”

Ashley forced herself to make eye contact with each and every person who greeted her, and returned the smiles shot their way as she walked to the desk and the older woman behind it.

“Mrs. Hilliard. Hi.”

“Hello, Ashley. I'm glad you decided to accept my invitation.”

She glanced down at Max, suddenly understanding why he always buried his head in her shoulder. “It was, um, it was very nice of you to ask me here to lunch. I appreciate it.”

The older woman grabbed her cane to help her stand. “It's my pleasure. Now follow me, dear. I thought we could sit down on the couches in the cafeteria while they get things ready.”

Ashley fell into step beside the woman. Mrs. Hilliard carried herself with her head held high. Although the woman was bone-thin and fragile, Ashley knew how deceptive looks could be.

She saw past Mrs. Hilliard's thin, elderly ap
pearance to an ingrained kindness and strength she hoped one day to achieve.

Mrs. Hilliard stopped in one corner of the large cafeteria and seated herself on a couch. Ashley set the diaper bag and purse on the carpeted floor before lowering herself and Max down beside her.

Please, Max, behave.

“I, uh, read the book you loaned me and learned a lot.” She grinned. “Probably more than I ever wanted to know about geraniums, too,” she added, earning a smile in return from Mrs. Hilliard. “Have to admit it seems easier to hire a professional, but I honestly can't afford it.”

“It isn't as daunting as it might seem, dear. All you have to figure out is your vision for things. Did you bring pictures?

“A couple,” she said as she held on to Max with one hand while digging the pictures out of the diaper bag's side pocket. She straightened and handed them to her. “I bought the house about six months ago and—”

“
Willow Wood?”
Mrs. Hilliard's startled exclamation drew interested looks from several people nearby. “You're the woman who bought Willow Wood?”

Wondering if maybe Mrs. Hilliard was a friend of Mr. Thompson's from the hardware store, she hesitated. “Yeah, uh, yes, I did.”

The black rims of Mrs. Hilliard's glasses rose on her wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, my dear. The rumors, are they true?” she asked. “You're turning it into a bed-and-breakfast? Oh, it will be
beautiful,
if so!”

Startled at the praise, Ashley could only nod. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Hilliard looked at her expectantly and Ashley realized she hadn't answered her other questions.

“Y-yes, I hope to open my B and B in late spring or early summer.”

“Oh, how exciting. Why, I remember when that house was dressed to the nines and gleaming. People from all around would make fools of themselves to get invitations to the annual Christmas party.”

“I'd have loved to seen it then,” she murmured. “It's kind of run-down and needs TLC now.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “Maybe by next year I'll be on my feet well enough to host a Christmas open house,” she added even while she wondered if anyone would come with her as the owner.

“That would be marvelous. And quite an undertaking for someone such as yourself.”

She stiffened and Max looked up at her with curious eyes, his fingers in his mouth. “Such as myself?” she repeated stiffly.
Had she said something to Mrs. Hilliard about her past?

The woman nodded. “Why, yes, dear. A single
mother with a child and a crotchety old man to care for—it must be difficult to get anything done.”

The air left her lungs with a rush and tears stung her eyes. “I'm sorry, I—”

Mrs. Hilliard laid a hand on Ashley's arm. “It's quite all right, my dear. I understand. It must be very stressful.”

“It's not that, it's just—” How did she compare Mrs. Hilliard's kindness to Mr. Thompson at the hardware store? To the ladies who'd pointedly ignored her after the garden club meeting had ended and their social hour began?

The older woman untucked a carefully folded tissue from beneath her long sleeve and pressed it into Ashley's hand. “Here, dear. Wipe your eyes. The landscaping will need doing soon, I'm afraid. That way when spring comes, the plants will have had a nice, long sleep and be ready to get started growing.”

“Thank you.” Ashley nodded, attempted to smile, and sniffled softly in a vain attempt to get control of herself. “Thank you for—Will you help me?” she blurted suddenly.

Ashley told herself the woman's answer didn't really matter. After all, why would Mrs. Hilliard help her? Loaning her a book was one thing, sketching out a drawing or two and figuring out all the different plants another. It was too much to ask. It was time consuming. It was—

“Why, yes, Ashley. I'd love to.”

—something a friend would do.

 

J
OE ENTERED
the large front parlor, anxious to tell Ashley his news. Instead he leaned against the doorway and watched appreciatively as Ashley danced and sang to a tune from the radio while she painted her way down a wall.

Once again she was dressed in cutoffs and a sleeveless shirt, her toes a colorful shade of red. The sight raced through him like wildfire when he imagined those long beautiful legs wrapped around him.

He shifted against the casing.

She was his boss.

And even though he badly needed to find himself a woman, after working every day and spending every spare moment with his dad, he fell into bed too exhausted to do much more than fantasize about his employer.

Ten years of celibacy and now that he could do something about it, the only woman who appealed he couldn't have. Not without telling her the complete truth first.

Ashley shimmied, the fingers of one hand snapping as she turned to wet her roller with paint. That's when she saw him and her face flushed to a dull burgundy.

Joe grinned. “Don't stop on my account.”

She shot him a glare, the corners of her lips curled up in a sheepish smile. “Hush. What's up?”

“Can't tell you.”

She raised a brow.

“Didn't you just tell me to hush?” He chuckled at her expression and stepped forward, unable to help himself. He was in a good mood and she was easy to tease. “The roof's done.”

She stared at him blankly. “
Done?
”

“Done. Just in time, too.” He indicated one of the open windows. Outside another summer storm brewed in the distance.

“Are you serious? It's done?
Finished?
”

When he nodded she launched herself at him, paint roller in hand as she hugged him and laughed in his ear.

“I can't believe it! Joe, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Her arms tightened even more and Joe decided to enjoy the moment while it lasted. He pressed her close until the heat of her settled against him.

Ashley's laughter ended with a gasp. She pulled away to look him in the eyes, but didn't put any more distance between them. He stared into the honey-bronze depths of her gaze and waited for her reaction. Waited for her to shove him away and stammer something about how she shouldn't have hugged him.

Instead her mouth parted and an instant later
Ashley raised herself on those sexy, red-painted toes. That was all the encouragement he needed. He pressed his mouth to hers, swept his tongue inside. She tasted hot and sweet, musky.

Joe heard her breath hitch in her throat. He grabbed the roller from her hand, uncaring of the paint coating his fingers. He tossed it to the covered floor before he pulled her closer and ground her against him, nudging her in a simulation of what he most craved.

Ashley moaned, soft and needy, the most exciting sound he'd ever heard, before her fingers speared through his short hair and she angled his head more to her liking, one voracious kiss turning into two, five.

Thunder boomed outside, sharp and loud, and the small receiver sitting on a sheet-draped piece of furniture erupted with Max's cry.

Ashley stumbled backward with wide eyes and a hand pressed to her mouth. She stared at him in horror, and it was that component of her expression that got to him, tore through the haze of desire that clouded his mind and pierced deep.

Horror.
When would he learn that he just couldn't have certain things anymore?

Without a word, Joe turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, not stopping until he heard Wilson's walker behind him. He groaned, not in the mood for the old man's comments.

“You going to see your daddy?”

No, but it was a good idea. He'd waited too late the last couple of nights and found himself waking his father up when he'd gone to see him. Going early wasn't an option, either, since mornings were the best time to work given the blazing temperatures.

“Do you need something?” he asked, his voice rough and way too revealing. Maybe the old man wouldn't catch it. He hoped so anyway.

“Nope. You do though. Unless you wanna get struck by lightning on the way.”

Joe turned and found Wilson pulling a set of keys from his pocket. He tossed them toward Joe. “Here. Can't have you gettin' sick runnin' around in the rain.”

Joe caught the keys in one hand. “I don't have a driver's license,” he reminded him.

“Didn't need one back when I started driving. Some folks out there now have one and shouldn't. I figure you'll do all right.”

Wilson's trust humbled him. “Thanks.”

The old man nodded, his normally mischievous gaze solemn. Understanding?

Joe continued on, out the back door, away from Ashley and her son.

Ten minutes later he pulled into the mostly empty parking lot outside the nursing home. Lunch hour was over and those who'd visited loved ones had
gone back to work or home. He was glad. After the intensity of Ashley's kiss and then her response, he felt a little shaky. The last thing he needed to walk into was a center full of people unhappy to see him.

Joe left the truck and ran toward the door, the cold rain seeping into his shirt. Inside, Mrs. H. wasn't at her desk, so he continued on down the hall, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“Mr. Brody.”

Her voice stopped him in his tracks. “No one was at the desk, Mrs. H., so I thought I'd show myself to his room.”

“Indeed. Come this way, please.”

Joe frowned when she turned and led the way to the cafeteria rather than toward his father's room. He followed her, curious. After all, not many people ever disregarded an order from Mrs. H.

She stopped beside an older man who sat hunched forward in a wheelchair. “This is the young man I told you about,” she stated loudly. “Joe, this is Paul. Something is wrong with his chair but his insurance won't cover the expense of fixing it. Perhaps you could help.”

Joe stared. She wanted him to fix the old man's chair? Feeling more than one set of eyes watching him, he knelt beside the wheelchair and checked the battery, the cables, all the general stuff that could be wrong.

“Looks like the connector is broken. If you have
some tools around here, I might be able to get it working again.”

From somewhere behind him a toolbox was produced. Joe found what he needed and spent the next ten minutes repairing the old man's chair. When he finished and the chair worked, he earned a smiling nod of approval from Mrs. H. that somehow made the experience of being under everyone's watchful supervision tolerable.

He replaced the tools into the metal box and stood. “If it gives you any more trouble, let me know and I'll have another go at it.”

The old man opened his mouth. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Then his wrinkled hand lifted as though in thanks and Joe tried not to notice how badly it shook. He took the old man's hand in his. “You're welcome. Anytime.”

Mrs. H. touched his arm. “Now then, Mr. Brody, let's go see how your father's doing.”

Joe allowed her to escort him from the cafeteria, aware he was once again the topic of conversation.

 

H
AL KNOCKED
softly on Melissa's bedroom door, fighting the frustrated anger he felt at not being able to track Joe down. He'd had numerous people call with sightings over the last couple weeks, but by the time he made it to the area, Joe was always gone. Wherever he was staying it was close by.

He couldn't hide for long.

“You ready?”

“Yes. Come in.”

He pushed open the paneled wood. “Storm's dying down so you shouldn't get too wet, but are you sure you want to go?”

“No.” Melissa laughed softly. “I don't want to go at all, but since I'm having a good day, I thought I'd give Mrs. H. a hand. She said they lost their volunteer reader a while ago.”