Rainbow's End (2 page)

Her concern abating, Jill walked to the door, pausing to peer through the sheer curtains that hung at the window beside it. The visitor standing on the porch was hidden from her view, but she could see the blurred outlines of a car pulled up beside the steps. As she reached for the lock, she tried to think of some reason why anyone in their right mind would drive all the way out to her place in this kind of weather. When she couldn't come up with even one, her hand faltered.

All at once the pounding started again. “Hey, if you can hear me in there, please answer the door!”

A man's voice. An irritated man's voice. Jill's hand fell to her side and she took a quick step back. Perhaps she should
just ignore him. If she didn't respond, he'd assume no one was home and go away, wouldn't he? Then she'd be safe. Holding her breath, she leaned closer, listening for evidence of retreat.

Instead, as the silence lengthened, she heard a heavy sigh of frustration—audible even over the sounds of the storm.

“Look, a woman at the grocery store in Eastsound said you might have a cabin I could rent for the night,” the man called out. “She tried to phone, but your line is out. I really need a place to stay.”

This time, Jill heard the weariness in his voice. The I've-had-about-all-I-can-take-before-I-fold tone. Only someone who'd been there would discern it beneath the thick coating of frustration.

Closing her eyes, she sent a plea heavenward.
Lord, my heart tells me to help this man. He sounds like he's in need of kindness. Please keep me safe as I follow the example of the Good Samaritan.

With sudden resolve, Jill tucked the flashlight under her arm and flipped back the dead bolt. But she kept the chain in place, cracking the door no more than the sturdy links would allow. Since the man on the other side was in shadows, she aimed the flashlight at his face.

Muttering something she couldn't make out, he threw up his hands to deflect the intense beam of light. “Could you lower that a little? Try aiming at my chest.” His tone was gruff, but he sounded more relieved than angry.

A flush rose on Jill's cheeks as she complied with the stranger's request. “Sorry.”

A couple of beats ticked by before he moved his hands aside, as if he was afraid she might pin him with the light again. Then
he stared back at her with wary, watchful, cobalt-blue eyes that seemed as uncertain about her as she was about him.

And that was plenty uncertain. Because once Jill got past his eyes, the rest of him scared her to death. Even in daylight, the man on the other side of the door would have made her nervous. His shaggy dark hair was damp and disheveled, and the stubble on his jaw was so thick she wondered if he was just unkempt—or trying to grow a beard. A leather jacket that had logged more than its share of miles sat on his broad, powerful shoulders, gapping open to reveal a chest-hugging T-shirt.

An alarm went off in her mind, and she reduced the crack in the door by the barest margin. But the man noticed. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment Jill was afraid he might try to force his way inside. Her grip tightened on the handle as she prepared to slam the door if he made one wrong move.

The tension emanating from the woman in the house was palpable, and Keith knew he had but a few heartbeats to put her at ease before she shut the door—and left him to face the raging storm with nothing but his car for shelter. Not an appealing prospect. Not when he was this close to a real roof and a dry bed. Yet he couldn't fault her caution—or her alarm. Considering her remote location, she was wise to be careful with strangers. And he didn't exactly look like the boy next door.

As for what
she
looked like—he had no idea. Although his eyes were starting to return to normal after being seared by that blinding light, all he could see through the thin crack in the door was a shadowy form. Not that her appearance mattered. The important thing was that she was his ticket to shelter…
if
he played his cards right. Hoping that she wasn't too spooked by his appearance to listen to his story, he stuck
his hands in his pockets and took a step back, keeping his posture as nonthreatening as possible.

“Like I said, the woman in Eastsound told me there was a cabin on the property that might be available for the night.” He did his best to sound conversational rather than desperate. “Everything else on the island is booked because of the holiday. She tried to call, but your phone seems to be out. I could sure use a place to stay. The storm's bad.”

As if to reinforce his comment, a jagged flash of lightning strobed the sky, followed by a boom of thunder that rattled the window beside Jill. In the wake of that aerial display, the rain intensified. The wind was sweeping sheets of it over the porch railing. Beads of water glistened on the man's leather jacket, and he took his hands out of his pockets to turn up the collar. Yet he didn't step closer, even though such a move would have offered him more protection from the rain.

The notion of having this strange man on her property was disconcerting, but Jill saw no recourse. She couldn't send him back into the storm. That would go against every principle of her faith. And the cabin was on the other side of the meadow, after all. It wasn't as if she was opening her door and bringing a stranger under her own roof. Still, she hesitated.

When the woman didn't react to his first entreaty, Keith tried again. “I know you don't usually rent the cabin, but could you make an exception for one night? I'm willing to pay whatever you think is fair.”

Taking a deep breath, and praying that she was making the right decision, Jill spoke at last. “No…I mean, yes, you can stay there. But there's no charge. You're welcome to use it for the night. I'll get the key.”

Before he could respond, the door shut and Keith heard the
lock click back into place. Surprised by her sudden acquiescence, he stared at the closed door, letting his good luck sink in. He had a place to stay. A haven from the storm. The tense muscles in his shoulders began to ease, and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The woman who lived in this house might be eccentric, but she had compassion.
Bless her for her kindness, Lord.

Twin furrows appeared on Keith's brow. Now where had that come from? Although such blessings had once been routine for him, he hadn't offered one 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.

I
t 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 way too generous a term for the narrow, overgrown lane he'd negotiated across the field last night—the world seemed somehow fresh and renewed. The still-damp leaves of the trees glistened in the morning sun, and the song of the birds was the only sound echoing across the quiet air.

At least it was until the woman began to hammer. As the discordant pounding reverberated across the tranquil stillness, shattering the contemplative mood, Keith increased his pace. The sooner he offered his services, the sooner he could restore the peace that had soothed his soul.

 

So intent was Jill on her task that she was oblivious to her guest's approach until he called out to her from the foot of the ladder.

“I'd be happy to lend a hand with that.”

Startled, she lost her grip on the hammer, then watched in horror as it plummeted toward the ground, heading straight for her visitor's head. If he'd been less alert, the results could
have been nasty. As it was, he jumped back and it landed with a dull, innocuous thud on the wet ground.

A warm flush crept up Jill's neck as she tucked her head into the collar of her jacket and stared down at the man. In the light of day, his presence was even more disconcerting—and unsettling—than it had been last night. With the golden morning glow illuminating his upturned face, there was no question that underneath the stubble and shaggy hair, he was a good-looking man. Close to forty, she estimated, though she couldn't tell if the lines on his face were the result of age or weariness. As he raked his fingers through his hair, she realized that it was much lighter now that it was dry. A medium, sun-streaked brown. His striking, cobalt-blue eyes were vivid in the daylight, though there was a dullness in their depths that spoke of defeat and disillusionment. Right now, however, they were regarding her with a wariness that suggested he wasn't sure whether or not she'd dropped the hammer on purpose.

“Sorry. You startled me.” She set the record straight.

The tension in his features eased. “Then I'm the one who should apologize. Why don't you let me take care of that for you?”

“Thanks, but I can handle it.”

“I owe you for last night. Besides, I'm a carpenter, so a job like that is a piece of cake for me.”

The man didn't seem in the least inclined to budge. But Jill was used to handling maintenance on her own. She didn't need his help. Yet despite the extensive rehabbing she'd done on her house, she wasn't all that fond of ladders. Or heights. Sensing her indecision, the man grasped the ladder to steady it.

“I'm sure you have better things to do than deal with storm damage. Come on down and let me take care of it.”

Capitulating seemed the quickest way to end the conversation, and once on the ground she could make a fast break for the house, Jill reasoned. With sudden decision, she climbed down in silence.

Back on solid earth, she stuck her hands in her pockets and buried her chin deep into the collar of her coat, keeping her face averted. At five foot six, Jill wasn't short. But the man beside her was a good five or six inches taller. “Thanks. I do have some things to attend to in the house,” she murmured.

As she turned to go, a capricious gust of wind snatched her weathered, wide-brimmed hat, tossing it into the sky. With a gasp of surprise, Jill lifted her head and attempted to grab it, but it was already beyond her reach. As she watched, the man's hand shot out and his sun-browned fingers closed over the brim, retrieving it from the wind's grasp. Then he turned to her.

“Looks like the wind…” The words faded from Keith's lips as he stared at his landlady, stunned. Up to this point, she'd given him no more than a shadowed glimpse of her countenance. Now, though her face remained in profile, he realized that the old, wizened widow he'd expected couldn't be more than thirty-five. Fiery highlights in her wavy, light brown hair sparked in the morning sun, calling attention to the long, lustrous tresses that had tumbled from beneath her hat. Wispy bangs brushed her forehead above wide, hazel eyes flecked with gold, and below a straight nose her lips were full and slightly parted. If the voice didn't match the woman from last night, Keith would never have believed that this was the eccentric widow the storekeeper in Eastsound had described.

Yet there
was
a different quality about her. She hadn't yet established eye contact with him. In fact, she was doing her best to keep her face averted. Why?

Curious, he held the hat out to her, letting it slip from his fingers as she reached for it—forcing her to angle his direction as she bent down to grab for it. That move bought him only a quick glimpse of her face. But he saw enough to get his answer. One that shocked him to the very core of his being.

The woman's flawless beauty, which he'd admired in profile, was marred almost beyond recognition on the right side of her face by a large, angry scar that started at her temple, nipped close to her eye, then followed the line of her cheekbone south, catching the very corner of her mouth as it trailed down to her chin.

Before he could mask his shock, the woman straightened. Jamming the hat back on her head, she stared at him for several long beats of silence. Then her expression shifted in some subtle, but disturbing way. It was as if something had shattered inside her. Not in a dramatic way, like a crystal vase smashing into pieces on the floor. It was more like the network of fine cracks that spread across the surface of a piece of pottery when the protective glaze becomes crazed.

Whatever it was, Keith didn't have a chance to analyze it because she turned with an abrupt move and almost ran toward the back of the house. As she disappeared around the corner, her hurried footsteps sounded across a wooden surface before a door was opened—and closed.

At one time in his life, Keith had been good at dealing with distraught people. They'd sought him out for his compassion, his understanding, his sensitivity. Well, those skills had deserted him today. He'd gawked at the woman, stared at her as if she was some freak in a circus sideshow. He'd been rude, tactless, inconsiderate, thoughtless…in other words, a jerk. Of all people, he should know better. He had plenty of scars of
his own. They just weren't visible. But if they were, they'd be as disfiguring as his landlady's. Maybe more so. And how would he like it if they drew the kind of look he'd given her?

The short answer was, he wouldn't.

The bigger question was, how did he make amends?

It had been a long while since Keith had interacted enough with another human being to risk hurting their feelings. And longer still since he'd cared if he did. Yet for some reason this woman had breached the defenses he'd constructed around his heart. Perhaps because she seemed so…solitary. So alone and isolated. Not just in a geographic sense, but at a deeper, more fundamental level. As if she lived in the world but wasn't part of it.

For the past two years, Keith had felt as alone as he'd thought a person could feel. Angry and lost, he'd turned his back on a world and a God that had betrayed him. Yet he had a feeling that this woman, living in this isolated place apart from society, was even lonelier than he was. He also sensed at some intuitive level that she had accepted her solitary existence, knowing that her physical scars would never heal, shunning a world that looked on her with morbid curiosity and pity—much as he had done moments ago.

That was the difference between them, he mused. When Keith had set out on his trek, he'd hoped his travels would help him discover a way to pick up the pieces and start over, healed and made new again. Although that hadn't happened yet, deep inside he held on to the hope that it would. It was the only thing that kept him going. The notion of spending his remaining years in a vacuum devoid of all the things that had once made his life rich and full and satisfying was too terrifying. Yet he had a feeling the woman inside this house didn't have
that hope. But how in the world did she go on, day after day, without it?

She wasn't his problem, of course. He was just passing through, a stranger who knew nothing about her except her last name and marital status. And given her reticence, he doubted whether he'd learn any more. He ought to forget about her.

Yet, as he picked up the hammer, climbed the ladder and set to work on the errant piece of siding, he felt a need to apologize. Trouble was, he didn't have a clue how to do that without calling more attention to her scar and making the whole thing worse.

Years ago, he would 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.