Rainbow's End. Irene HannonЧитать онлайн книгу.
have prayed for guidance in a situation like this. But he didn’t have that option anymore. Instead, all Keith had to rely on were his own instincts. And considering how they’d failed him two years before, he had no confidence that they would help him rectify this situation.
But as an image of the woman’s shattered face flashed once again across his mind, he knew he had to at least try.
Inside the house, Jill stirred the simmering pot of soup she’d made at the crack of dawn, struggling to contain the tears that threatened to leak out the corners of her eyes. Don’t cry! she admonished herself fiercely. As her sister, Deb, used to say, she’d already cried enough tears to sink a ship. Too bad Deb wasn’t here now. In her no-nonsense way, she’d always helped Jill regain her balance when the world began to tilt. She’d done that a lot during the weeks and months after the fire, through the surgeries and treatments and rehab, always an anchor to hold on to when the pain and the grief became unbearable. If it hadn’t been for her older sister, Jill was sure she’d have given up and let the suffocating sense of loss overwhelm and destroy her.
She tried to imagine what Deb would say if she were here. “Get a grip,” no doubt. She’d point out that the man’s shock had been a normal, human reaction, and that he hadn’t intended to hurt her. That once he got to know her, he’d forget about the scars that served as a constant reminder of the tragic night that had forever changed her world.
Yeah, right.
Although Deb meant well, Jill knew better. Oh, sure, people tried to act nonchalant once their initial shock passed. But they were never able to get past the scars. Even here, after two years. The islanders she saw on her trips to church or into the villages were nice. Too nice. That was the problem. They smiled too much, kept up a stream of chatter about inconsequential things, wished her a good day with bright smiles. They tried to act as if they enjoyed seeing her, but in truth they were glad when she left. She made them uncomfortable.
That was just the way it was. The way it would always be. Jill thought she’d accepted that. Thought she’d learned to deal with it. Nowadays, when people stared at her, she felt nothing beyond a twinge somewhere deep in the recesses of her heart. It had been a very long time since anyone had managed to evoke even the hint of tears. Yet this man, a stranger who would soon slip out of her life as suddenly as he had slipped in, had managed to awaken a sadness that she’d long ago subdued. And she had no idea why.
Yes, you do, a little voice whispered at the edges of her consciousness.
Startled, she stopped stirring the soup and grasped the edge of the counter with her free hand, trying to suppress the answer that kept bubbling to the surface much as the herbs in her soup pot were doing. But the little voice wouldn’t be stilled.
Because he’s a man.
It was a truth Jill couldn’t dispute. Her tenant’s reaction disturbed her because he was a man. A scruffy one, no question. Not the kind of man she’d ever have looked at twice in years past. But he was close to her age. And his expression of shock, horror, pity and revulsion had clarified for her, if she’d ever harbored any secret hopes otherwise, that no man could ever look at her again as a desirable woman.
Nevertheless, the strength of her response shook her. Jill had assumed that any romantic yearnings had died along with Sam. After all, she hadn’t thought about love once since then, not on a conscious level. Yet, if the reaction of an unkempt stranger could reduce her to tears….
Taking herself in hand, Jill resumed stirring the pot with vigor and swiped the tears out of her eyes. This was just an aberration. Brought on by too little sleep during the storm-tossed night, she rationalized. As soon as he finished repairing her siding, the man would be gone. Peace would once more descend on her world. She’d have a little breakfast, pay a few bills, then spend the next few hours painting in her sunny studio upstairs. It would be a typical, quiet morning. The kind she always enjoyed and looked forward to.
Except for some odd reason, thinking about her solitary plans didn’t lift her spirits at all. Instead, it depressed her.
The aromas wafting through the kitchen window were driving him mad.
As Keith banged the final nail into the siding, his salivary glands went into overdrive. Chicken soup. That’s what it smelled like. Homemade chicken soup. The kind his mother used to make, its enticing aroma greeting him when he came home from school. To this day, that simple meal always evoked happy memories of home and love and security.
Too bad he’d botched the conversation with his landlady this morning, Keith thought, finding yet another reason to regret his rudeness. He’d have loved to wrangle a sample of whatever was cooking in that pot. But given the woman’s reaction to his insensitive gawking, the odds of that happening were slim to none. Even after the apology he still planned to offer.
Once he double-checked the board to ensure it was secure, Keith descended the ladder, then headed toward the front door and knocked. As he waited for her to answer, he tried to think of how to frame his apology. But when she cracked the door open, he hadn’t yet found the words.
“I’m finished. Where would you like the ladder?”
“Just leave it. I’ll put it away later.” She started to close the door.
“I’d rather finish the job. That means putting away the tools.”
Hesitating, she gave him an uncertain look. “There’s a shed around back. It goes in there.”
Before he could say another word, she shut the door.
So much for the apology, he thought, as he headed back around the house, located the surprisingly well-equipped toolshed and slid the ladder into a slot inside. Someone around here knew tools. And since the woman at the house seemed to be the sole occupant, it must be her. Impressive.
When he stepped outside, a curtain fluttered at the back window. She was continuing to keep tabs on him, it seemed. Not that he blamed her, considering his disreputable appearance. For all she knew, he was some derelict who was up to no good. What surprised him was his reaction. It bothered him that she might consider him dangerous or unsavory. In light of the fact that for the past couple of years he hadn’t cared a lick what people thought about him, his reaction was odd. But for whatever reason he didn’t want this woman to think ill of him—or to regret her kindness to a stranger. All of which brought him back to his apology. It was time.
Combing his fingers through his too-long hair in a futile effort to tidy it, he strode toward the house, stepped up onto the back porch and knocked on that door.
When she eased it open, the delicious aroma that wafted out almost did him in. But he did his best to focus on the reason he’d come to the door instead of listening to the pleas of his stomach.
“I’ll be heading out now, ma’am. I wanted to thank you again for your kindness last night. I don’t know what—” A flicker of movement across the field caught his eye, and he turned just as a small boy darted behind a boulder. “Looks like you have a visitor.”
Curious, Jill opened the door wider, enough to peer in the direction Keith was looking. “Where?”
“Over there, behind the rocks. A little boy. He moved back when he saw me. Is he a friend of yours?”
Leaning farther out, Jill scanned the boulders. It was the same place she’d spotted the boy. “I don’t know who he is. I saw him for the first time yesterday.”
She continued to look toward the rocks as Keith shifted his gaze back to her. She still wore the floppy hat, but he could see the concern etched on her shadowed face.
“Maybe he’ll come out when I leave.”
“No. It’s not you that’s holding him back. He ran away when I tried to talk to him, too.” Her attention remained fixed on the far edge of the field.
This was the time, Keith thought, taking a deep breath. “Before I go, I’d like to apologize for staring earlier. It was a rude thing to do, and I’m sorry if I upset you.”