Rainbow's End. Irene HannonЧитать онлайн книгу.
for two long years. Yet the request had slipped out. Force of habit, no doubt. A result of weariness and relief rather than a firm belief that the Lord might listen—let alone answer.
The lock rattled again, and once more the door opened no farther than the chain would allow. A hand slipped through, holding a key, and Keith reached for it.
“The cabin’s about a hundred yards east of the house at the far side of the meadow. It’s rustic, but it does have running water. There’s a narrow, overgrown graveled track that leads to it across the edge of the field, off the driveway. If you need…” As their fingers brushed, Jill’s words trailed off. The man’s hands were like ice! One thing she’d discovered since coming to the island—even nice summer evenings could be cool, and stormy nights were apt to be downright chilly. This man hadn’t learned that yet. She cleared her throat and retracted her hand. “There’s a portable propane heater in the closet if you get cold.”
“Thanks. Are there candles out there?”
“I don’t keep candles on the property.” She turned away briefly, then her hand reappeared through the crack, clutching a large flashlight. “This should get you through the night. I expect the power will be back on by morning.”
The husky quality of the woman’s voice intrigued him. She didn’t sound old. But it wasn’t a young voice, either. Curiosity about his temporary landlady warred with the need for shelter. Shelter won. Besides, it was obvious that he wasn’t going to get more than a shadowy glimpse of her tonight.
“Thanks. I’ll be fine.”
As he took the flashlight and turned away, directing the beam on the path in front of him, he sensed that she was watching him. Making sure, perhaps, that he followed her instructions and went on his way. And that was fine by him. He’d much rather have a woman intent on getting rid of him than one who…
Unbidden, an image of Susan Reynolds flashed across his mind. Blond, vivacious, attractive—and lethal as a viper. Keith’s mouth settled into a thin, grim line as he slid behind the wheel. He’d never known hate until she’d swept through his life like a hurricane, leaving death and destruction in her wake. Never known the kind of all-consuming rage that could rip a man’s heart to shreds and leave him helpless and bereft and destroyed, railing against the God who had once been the center of his world. Crying “Why?” into the black void that had become his life, with only the hollow echo of his question coming back in response.
A crash of thunder boomed across the meadow as his headlights tried with limited success to pierce the gloom. The rain beat against the roof of his car in an incessant, pounding, staccato beat. Gusts of wind buffeted the vehicle as he struggled to stay on the obscured, overgrown track, and find his way in the darkness when all the forces of nature seemed to be conspiring against him.
But Keith knew he was close to his destination. That if he persevered, in a couple more minutes he’d find physical refuge from the storm around him.
He just wished a reprieve from the storm within was as close at hand.
Chapter Two
It wasn’t noise that roused Keith from a deep slumber the next morning. In fact, the stillness was absolute. Instead, the culprit was a cheery beam of sunlight that danced across his face and tickled his eyes until he finally gave in and opened them.
For a few seconds, he lay motionless, taking stock of his surroundings—his usual orientation ritual after a year of waking up in a new environment on a sometimes-daily basis. What wasn’t usual, however, was the odd sense of…peace, was the word that came to mind…that enveloped him, like the cozy, soothing warmth of a downy comforter on a cold winter night. Calm had replaced the restlessness that had been his constant companion for more months than he cared to remember. The question was, why?
His mind went into rewind. He was on Orcas Island, in the widow woman’s cottage where he’d taken refuge from last night’s raging storm. A storm which had now blown out to sea, if the rays of sunlight slanting through the grimy windows of the tiny cottage were any indication. His location didn’t seem to offer the answer he sought, however. But whatever the cause, this sense of serenity was a balm to his soul. Instead of trying to analyze it, he’d just enjoy it while it lasted.
Throwing back the patchwork quilt on the double bed that was crammed into the miniscule, spartan bedroom, Keith rose and stretched muscles stiff from too many hours behind the wheel. His wet jeans and shirt lay on the floor where he’d dropped them the night before, when he’d been too weary to do more than kick them into a soggy heap. Stepping over the limp pile, he padded into the only other room in the structure—a combination living-eating area that was furnished with an eclectic mix of odds and ends. A tiny galley kitchen was tucked into a corner alcove, the door to a bare-bones bathroom beside it. Not quite the Ritz—but at least it was dry.
Cleanliness was another story. When he bent to pick up his bag from the floor, then dropped it onto a dated plaid couch, a puff of dust rose, generating two monumental sneezes. His landlady might be charitable, but her housekeeping skills seemed rusty, at best.
Fifteen minutes later, however, fortified by a hot shower and clean clothes, Keith took a better look at his temporary home and revised his assessment. This didn’t seem to be the sort of place that required housekeeping. Although the cottage was furnished, suggesting that someone had lived here at one time, it now seemed to be used more as a storage shed. Several wicker baskets were piled on the kitchen counter beside the crumpled paper from the sandwich he’d wolfed down last night. A stack of boxes labeled Miscellaneous Kitchen Items stood beside the couch. And artist supplies were piled in one corner. An easel, blank canvases, brushes of different sizes, a bag of rags, some well-used palettes. Had the previous tenant been a painter, he wondered?
A sudden, loud rumble from his stomach distracted Keith, reminding him that his eating habits of late had been dicey, at best. His appetite had vanished along with the life he’d once known, and these days he only thought about food when meals were long overdue and his body began to protest. Considering that his diet yesterday had consisted of a doughnut and a deli sandwich, the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t surprising.
A quick inspection of the cabinets in the tiny kitchen and the refrigerator yielded nothing edible, as he expected. Why should an unused cottage be stocked with food? He’d been lucky to find a dry—albeit dusty—place to lay his head.
Shoving his palms into the back pockets of his jeans, he wandered over to the window and looked across the field toward the widow’s house. The compact two-story structure looked far more trim and tidy than his humble abode, and a lush, well-tended garden edged the foundation. Except for a missing piece of light gray siding on the second level—storm damage, he speculated—it seemed to be in pristine condition.
As if to confirm his theory, a figure in a bulky jacket and wide-brimmed hat, wielding a large ladder, appeared around the corner of the house. From his distant vantage point, it was hard to determine the age, weight or even gender of the person, though he or she was struggling a bit with the awkward piece of equipment. Was it the widow? he wondered. But when the ladder was turned, lifted and propped against the house with minimal effort, he dismissed that notion. Most older women wouldn’t have that kind of strength. Still, he’d gotten the impression that the widow lived here alone. And there was a certain grace of movement, an inherent lithe fluidness in the person’s posture, that suggested femininity. Perhaps the figure in the distance was, indeed, his landlady. If so, she seemed quite capable in the handyman role.
Another rumble from his stomach reminded him that he needed to scrounge up some food. But his conscience nagged at him. The woman had, after all, given him shelter from the storm—at no charge. The least he could do was repay her kindness by taking care of the siding problem. His father had instilled good carpentry skills in him, and he could bang out that job in ten minutes. Maybe that wasn’t the way he’d planned to start his day, but it was the right way.
Trying to ignore his protesting stomach, he slid his arms into his jacket and stepped out into the cool, clear morning air. As he set off down the gravel path—road was