Man with a Past (3 page)

Chauvinistic old geezer.

She'd read the book on how to repair the sink. Done everything the so-called expert said. It
wasn't her fault the pipe had sprung a leak when she'd gone to check on Max.

“Are you all right? You banged your head pretty hard.”

“What do you want?”

The man's expression tightened at her rudeness and given his help earlier in the day and his supposed concern now, her guilty conscience forced a mostly sincere apology from her lips.

“Sorry.” She indicated the mess around her. “It's been a bad day.”

“Yeah.” The man hesitated before he stuck out his hand. “I'm Joe Brody.”

She transferred the wrench to her left hand so she could shake his right and noted how his gaze darted away from her. “Ashley Cade.”

“Joe turned off the water and saved the day,” Wilson informed her, a gleam in his rheumy eyes.

“Right place, right time. I, uh, saw the flyer posted at Meenick's Garage. You still looking for a handyman?”

“Are we ever.”

Ashley glared at Wilson and wondered for the millionth time how wise she'd been to agree to Wilson's stipulations for selling her his house. Despite the hugely discounted price—and it was huge—she'd agreed to let him live there for as long as he was able to take care of himself. She'd felt sorry for him, alone, no family. She knew what
that felt like and now she couldn't imagine life without the old man.

Except on occasions such as this.

“Ashley cain't fix a darn thing and with my new hip, I cain't, either. Whole house'll fall in soon if we ain't careful.”

Their visitor acknowledged Wilson's words with a slow nod. “We'd better get these plank floors cleaned up before they turn and warp.”

“We?” Did she want a complete stranger walking into her house and immediately making himself at home? After she checked his references, maybe, but—

Hellllo? What is a B and B, if not strangers coming in and making themselves at home?

She fought off a wave of unease. Doing this with her husband at her side was one thing—Mac was one of those guys who'd never met a stranger—but…could she
do
this?

“I, uh, came to pick up the things my father left with you,” the man murmured, his blue eyes focused intently on Wilson.

So intently Ashley got the feeling she was being deliberately ignored.

“But I'm also looking for a job and I'm good at work like this.”

She tried not to be irritated by the fact he obviously thought Wilson still owned the house and was responsible for contracting the work.

Ashley's hands settled on her hips and the independent woman in her bristled as she took in his all-male appearance of scuffed work boots, old, well-worn jeans that molded his long legs and thighs with indecent familiarity and an equally faded black T-shirt that stretched across impossibly broad shoulders and arms any bodybuilder would envy.

The man's nose had taken a beating and appeared to have been broken multiple times, a small scar lined the right side of his mouth and chin while another, more prominent scar cut across a good three inches of his neck before it disappeared beneath the band of his shirt. He'd been in his share of fights. But had he won them?

“We're certainly lookin' to hire—”

“But we need references.” She shot Wilson a pointed glare she hoped would remind him whose name was now on the deed. “And pay is mostly room and board, very little cash.”

Joe Brody looked around at the dated seventies kitchen. She could practically see his mind working.

“How little?”

She wet her lips and stated the figure that had made the last guy laugh so hard, he'd left the house wiping his eyes and short of breath.

Mr. Brody didn't look happy about it, either.

“I'll take it,” he murmured with a slow nod.

She stared, unsure she'd heard him correctly. “You acc—”

Halle-lu-jah!

The man nodded again. His gaze flicked about the room rapidly, but paused on her for a few seconds before he looked away. “My father's in Ridgewood, the nursing home,” he clarified, voice husky. “I need to stick close until he's released.”

Ashley frowned at his behavior, not sure she liked how he wouldn't hold her gaze. “So when your father's released you'll quit? Getting this house ready to open as a bed-and-breakfast at the end of next spring is a long-term job, Mr. Brody, and—”

“Joe.” His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and shifted his weight from foot to foot. The water at their feet rippled. “Call me Joe. And we can, uh, discuss this later.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth and jaw.

“Why later?”

He swallowed again, the sound audible. A groan?

“Just thought you might want to change into dry clothes, that's all.”

Mortification deluged her. Could she really have forgotten she stood there soaking wet?

She lunged by the wanna-be handyman, each step a humiliating splash as she crossed the flooded floor. “I'll be back,” she muttered, absurdly upset her statement wasn't more Schwarzeneggerish.

“I'll get him started on the cleanup, missy. No problem.”

No problem? Yeah, right. The first man to agree to take on the job of repairing her house and she'd just given him an impromptu peep show.

Ashley pulled the T-shirt away from her body as she stomped her way up the stairs. Her pace lightened to a tiptoe when she passed Max's room and entered her own, but once her door closed with a
snick
of the antique latch, she sagged against its frame and covered her face with her hands.

What had she done to deserve this?

A shiver racked her despite the heat of the day and she grabbed the fabric clinging at her waist, yanked it over her head and shivered again when water trickled down her back. She ignored the goose pimples, and stalked into the bathroom between her room and the nursery.

Her last freshly laundered towel awaited in the linen closet but her hand froze over the cloth. She wouldn't have time to do laundry today the way things were going so if she wanted a fresh towel tonight after her bath, well—

“This is what you get for thinking a hundred-year-old Victorian would make a great fixer-upper.”

Changing directions, she grabbed the already damp towel hanging on a hook by the tub and dried off. When she finished, she wrapped it around her dripping hair and stalked back into her bedroom for underwear and a change of clothes.

The warmth of the shower called to her and she
wished she could jump in and stay there until Joe Brody gave up and left. But hiding equaled defeat.

No, no way. She relegated the coward within her to a firmly locked closet in her mind, yanked on fresh jeans and grabbed her favorite T-shirt, which was black with “Bite Me” in bold white letters on the front. She needed that sassy attitude now.

In her haste she forgot the towel wrapped on her head and wound up fighting with it before she managed to pull it off through the neck hole of the T-shirt. Finally dressed, she glared at the offending towel and ground it under her heel as she stalked back into the bathroom.

She had work to do. A house to fix up, a son to raise. Stupid, archaic
countrified
rules to figure out so Max would have friends. She didn't have time to worry about anything else.

Attitude
was
everything and in this case, her attitude was the only thing that could get her through going back downstairs where she had to present herself as the man's potential boss all the while aware he'd seen her at her absolute worst and virtually topless thanks to the wet T-shirt.

References.

Ashley lifted her chin, determination stiffening her spine. What were the odds his references would check out? Did she actually want them not to? Just because of a stupid incident?

She had to prove to Joe Brody—and herself—
that she was capable of doing what a man would do given a similar situation. Go down there and be strong, confident and capable, the personification of a take-charge, kick-butt, streetwise woman.

Not an orphan who never belonged anywhere, or a somewhat desperate widow running out of time.

She nodded firmly. She could do this. After all, it wasn't like the man had never seen a woman's breasts before.

“C
LOSE YOUR MOUTH, BOY
.
Gonna choke on a fly gaping after her.”

Joe snapped his mouth shut and turned toward the old man. He hoped he had his body well enough under control that he didn't embarrass himself any more than he had already by not being able to keep his eyes off her and the T-shirt stuck to her like a second skin.

Ten years in prison and then to see something like that—

“She's—” He indicated the stairs off the kitchen where Ashley had disappeared.

“In my day we called girls like that top heavy,” Wilson acknowledged with a grin. “And, yup, that she is. Now mind your manners and open the door on your right. Grab that big broom and make yourself useful.”

Joe followed orders, grateful to have something to occupy his hands and take his thoughts off the woman upstairs.

“How's your dad? He doin' any better?”

Joe nodded. “Mad at himself for falling and looking forward to getting out of there.”

“Can't blame him. In places like that it's hard to avoid the vampires always out to suck your blood.”

He chuckled at the description of the nurses, but didn't comment. Instead he grabbed the broom and used the thick bristles and his excess sexual energy to shove the water toward the back door, all the while conscious the old man hovered behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye Joe saw his father's friend lean against the peeling, chipped woodwork with a grunt, his face screwed up in a grimace as he settled himself.

“We need somebody who'll work hard and get the job done on time. No shoddy work or slacking off.”

Joe glanced over his shoulder, surprised he was still in the running since the old man appeared to know so much about him. “I've got a good work history. No complaints.”

“You know how to plumb?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carpenter?”

“Yes.”

“What about roofin'?”

“That, too.”

“Don't suppose you can provide references for Ashley? She's a stickler for those. Comes from reading all those how-to books.”

References he had, but they were through the
work release program and from the teachers the state hired to come to the penitentiary. He nodded once more. “Yes, sir, I do have references, but—”

“Been about ten years now hasn't it?”

Joe paused long enough to meet the old man's gaze. “Yes, sir. I served ten years of a fifteen year sentence. Under the statute change, the review judge released me with time served due to good behavior.”

Wilson nodded again. “Your daddy talked about the letters you sent him. Proud of you, he was.”

Proud? Joe lowered his head and swivelled the broom around to shove some more water out the door.

No, not proud. His father couldn't be proud to have a son convicted of manslaughter.

“Said you'd turned a tragedy into something good. Tried to make something of yourself instead of sitting there rotting your brain or joining a prison gang. Bragged on what good grades you made taking all those courses. From the sound of it, you've done good.”

“Thank you, sir, but—”

“Wilson. Wilson Woodrow.” The old man laughed. “My father thought it'd be funny since they always call a person's name out last name first.”

“Wilson,” Joe said, smiling at the comment. “Nice to finally meet you. I'm one of the many who've always admired this house from town.”

Wilson accepted his words with a grin. “That
so? Well, the way I see it, it'll take some time for people to get used to havin' you around again. You'll prob'ly need to lay low for a while and this job would help you do it. Keep you mighty busy earnin' your keep, but it'd sure be a good way to show folks things.”

Joe paused again. “The chief has made it clear he doesn't want me around. I already had a run-in with him in town.”

Wilson glanced at the staircase. “He's a tough one, Hal is. But a good man. Person's gotta keep in mind people change when they lose so much at once like he did. But Hal will come along and get used to seeing you if you do things right. Take things nice and slow. And like I said, a big old house like this will take a while to repair. Shouldn't have let it get so bad, but I couldn't keep up with it once my Maddy got sick.”

Joe tightened his grip on the broom. “Mrs. Cade isn't from around here, is she?”

“Nope.”

“Then she probably doesn't know what happened. Once she finds out she won't want an ex-con under her roof. Not many people would.” He couldn't blame her, either. Wouldn't blame anyone when, ten years ago, he'd have felt the same way himself.

Wilson straightened and Joe found himself ensnared by the old man's unblinking scrutiny as he used his walker to cross the wet floor.

“Be careful you don't f—”

“Ted said you didn't do it,” Wilson murmured, cutting him off. “Now if that's the case, I don't see no need to go telling Ashley unless your daddy's wrong and you did.”

Was he actually asking? Joe couldn't believe it. Once a person's accused of something—especially something like murder—everyone assumes him guilty until proven innocent. Even his own brother. Having been convicted
and
imprisoned had written his guilt in stone.

“Come on, boy, this is your chance to speak up. Did you?”

The words stuck in Joe's throat as memories overwhelmed him. Holding his baby girl in his arms, her tiny little body so still, then trembling uncontrollably as seizure after seizure racked her. He'd been so scared. Didn't know what to do.

Footsteps and the low murmur of Ashley's voice pulled his thoughts from the past. Joe turned, and in an instant, shock and nausea battled for control.

He stared at the sleepy-eyed baby boy on Ashley Cade's hip, all the while conscious that Wilson took in his every blink and reaction.

“Did you do what?”

 

A
SHLEY WASN'T SURE
what she'd walked into, but the tension in the air led her to believe it was more serious than the condition of her aging kitchen pipes.

“Did you do what?” she repeated.

“Lock the wrench I left outside by the pump. If it's not tight and comes loose off that valve, it'll leak again.” Wilson nodded firmly and jerked his head in Joe Brody's direction. “My Maddy knew Joe's mother, God rest their souls. And I got to know Ted in the hospital. You know that?”

“No, I—”

“Told Joe that was good enough for me. And he can carpenter, plumb and roof. Cain't turn away a man who can do all that.”

Irritated that Wilson had promised Joe the job without her permission, she frowned. “What about electrical work?”

“Now you cain't expect a man to—”

“I'm a certified electrician.”

Wilson's brows rose as though he were impressed by that bit of news, and she had a hard time curbing her own desire to jump up and down.

Joe Brody was too good to be true. A gift sent straight from above.
But if he's so well-trained, why was he willing to work for a pittance?

“References,” she blurted suddenly. “I need references. Do you have people who'll vouch for you? Places I could maybe go to see your work?”

“Now I done told you, Ashley, I know his parents. There's no call for pesterin' people. I've already warned him there'll be no slackin' off. Besides, Joe here's not like those contractors that
take your money and leave you high and dry. He's good stock.”

Her arms stiffened protectively around Max. Living with Wilson the last six months, she'd grown to trust him and he'd yet to steer her wrong, but by referring to Joe as
good stock,
Wilson had hit a sore spot.

An outsider to Taylorsville, she knew exactly what the term meant to the townspeople as far as whether or not they'd claim a person as one of their own. And with her big-city license tags,
good stock
she wasn't. Nor was she related through blood or marriage as Wilson had already pointed out once today.

“How's my boy?” Wilson continued, wagging a finger in Max's direction. “You gotta stop keepin' your mama up at night, youngun. She's gonna fall asleep in her cereal one of these days.”

Ashley used Max as an excuse to distance herself. She smoothed her hand over her son's sleep-flushed cheek and kissed his forehead as she moved farther into the kitchen.

Once she'd securely buckled Max inside his high chair and adjusted the tray into place, she added his favorite toys looped together with hard plastic rings and attached them to the chair so they wouldn't fall to the floor.

That done, she turned her attention back to the room. Joe stood broom in hand, stock-still, staring
at Max like he'd never seen a baby before in his life.

“This is my son,” she said by way of introduction. “Max, short for Maxwell Allen Cade, the second.”

“Named after his father,” Wilson supplied needlessly.

“And this, little man, is Joe. Can you say ‘Joe'?”

In response, Max blew a slobber bubble and shook two chubby fists in the air, his mouth wide as he drooled. Ashley laughed softly, captivated as always by her baby's every action, and grateful for the distraction where her new employee was concerned.

She faced Joe, prepared to get down to business, then laughed again. Her earlier embarrassment receded when she noted his discomfort. “Relax, I don't expect you to babysit or change diapers. Now, you ready to talk terms while we clean this up?”

 

H
AL
Y
ORK ENTERED
his home and quietly shut the door behind him, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Ever since he'd walked into the diner this morning after a call from the manager, he'd been in a surly mood. Snapped at his officers and barked out orders that had reduced more than one of his civilian help to tears.

But seeing Joe Brody sitting there at the diner's bar drinking coffee had pissed him off like nothing
ever had. How could he not be mad when the justice system he'd spent his life serving had let him down?

Time served. In his opinion Joe had deserved the death penalty.

A life for a life.

Instead he'd gotten three meals a day and satellite television. An exercise yard where the tall, scrawny kid he'd known had turned into a formidable man, stronger than before thanks to the workout equipment provided. Where was the justice in that?

He dropped his hat onto the kitchen table and made his way down the hall. He paused at Melissa's room and peered inside to find his daughter's eyes open but unseeing as she stared blankly at the television.

Hal rapped softly on the door and forced a smile when she turned her head and caught sight of him. She looked like hell.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Fine. Been a rough morning?” Melissa asked, her voice raspy from lack of use.

He stepped into her bedroom and ambled over to the side of her bed. “Just hectic.”

Her brow raised, or at least what would have been her brow had the hair covering the muscle and skin still been there. Thanks to chemo and steroids, Melissa's face was smooth and more rounded than usual.

“Mrs. Morris brought over chicken and dumplings for lunch. They're in the fridge.”

“You eat?”

She inhaled and sighed. “I'm not really hungry today.”

“So you were sick again? Mel, you've got to keep some food down or else—”

“When were you going to tell me, Dad?”

He tried to pretend he didn't know what she meant. “Tell you what?”

Melissa frowned at him. “Mrs. Morris couldn't wait to tell me Joe was back in town. Did you know he was coming?”

“Nosy busybody.” He stalked away from the bed to the window overlooking the backyard. “No, I didn't know.”

“But he is here? In town?”

Hal could still picture her out there. His baby girl, pigtails flying as she pumped her legs to swing higher, faster.

“Not anymore. I ordered him to leave. Last I saw of him he was headed out with his duffel over his shoulder. My boys are keeping an eye out for him.”

“Why?”

Incredulous, he turned to face her. “You're asking me why I ran a murderer out of my town? Away from the people I've sworn to protect?”

Melissa flinched at his tone. She managed to keep her tears at bay although he could tell by the
redness rimming her eyes and coloring the tip of her nose, they were close. Tears were the norm these days. Expected and understandable. He knew the routine well, having been through breast cancer with her mother before she'd lost the battle.

He shoved the helplessness away. God's will be done. He had to remember that. It just didn't make it any easier.

“What…did he say?”

He ran a hand over the muscles beginning to spasm in his neck. “Don't you worry—”

“Dad, what did he say? I have every right to know, now tell me.”

He stared out at the empty yard. How he wished Melissa's mother was alive and she and Mel were
both
healthy. Wished his little girl had never fallen in love with Joe.

“He didn't say much,” he answered honestly. “Just drank his cup of coffee at the diner and got up and left like I told him. Heard from George Thompson he'd been in looking for a job. A few others said the same thing. Everybody in town turned him down.”

“Poor Joe—”

“
Poor Joe?”
Hal cursed. He closed his eyes and pictured the little girl he'd held within moments of her birth. “She'd be ten, Mel.
Ten.
I can't pass the school when it's being dismissed because seeing those girls makes me wonder what she would've looked like. Who would've been her friend.”

A sob brought him out of his rant and he turned to find Melissa's face buried in her hands, shoulders quaking. He moved back over to her bed and sat on the edge. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said— Mel, don't cry.”