The Girl in the Window (4 page)

She’d needed to stand on the lower rail to do the same.

As she’d approached, the horse had moved away with each step closer she’d taken, but she’d expected that.

He grew increasingly agitated as she drew closer to the fence, his ears and hide twitching nervously, but she made no sudden moves. Even so, he charged away as she stepped up onto the bottom rail, eyeing her in alarm. As she got up on the fence, he charged at her so suddenly it was she who was startled.

She’d held out the sheaf of grass.

Snorting, tossing his head, the horse had bolted away, to mill restlessly in the farthest corner of the paddock.

The rejection had stung – the pain of it surprising and astonishingly deep.

Her heart had caught and her eyes had burned.

She’d gone away, gone back to the house where she’d been raised to find herself fighting tears.

Each day she’d passed the door to the room she’d found herself pulled to the window. She couldn’t let it go, something in the horse called to her. Or perhaps she couldn’t stand one more rejection. For once, she simply wasn’t going to accept it.

She’d gone back, each time with her offering.

Then it stopped being about the horse taking the grass and simply became a thing she did. One day he would take it. Or he wouldn’t. In the end, it hadn’t mattered anymore.

As it hadn’t that morning.

But he’d taken it…

Stepping back, Beth eyed the walls of the kitchen.

A whole day had passed while she worked and thought, but it was done.

It was like looking at a different room.

She smiled.

The curtains, white, with cutwork and lacework, waited to be hung on the thin spring rods. She ran to get them, wanting the room – a room – to be done, finished.

When they were all hung just so she looked around the room again.

Something was missing.

She ran outside, gathered some of the daisies and coneflowers and popped them into an old green ceramic and metal coffee pot she’d found tucked away in the back of a cabinet.

They brightened the old Formica-topped table, reflected the yellow of the walls and the green of the glass insets in the white cabinets.

Done.

There was something in that, in having completed something, in having one room in this house that was truly hers.

She had a place now, a place where she belonged.

It was not yet home, but some small part of it was now hers.

Josh stood at the kitchen counter with his coffee in one hand and listened to the sounds coming from the yard of the house next door. He fought a losing battle with himself over whether to offer to help or not.

From the window, he could see the girl as she struggled with the ancient lawnmower, trying to start it. At a guess, the spark plug was fouled or the gas wasn’t properly mixed. What she needed was a new lawnmower, but he suspected she wouldn’t take it if he offered to let her use his.

The old man’s sedate sedan had disappeared shortly after she appeared, probably sold for the money. Did she need it?

He chewed on his lip, watching her, desperately wanting to help.

For once the thin dresses she favored and he liked so much were gone. Instead, she wore a sleeveless t-shirt and a pair of shorts that showed off shapely legs. She had old, faded white sneakers on her feet. Not fancy running shoes, but plain sneakers from a dollar store.

Clearly perplexed and exasperated, she stared at the machine with her hands on her hips.

Josh couldn’t help but think she looked cute in her frustration.

With a sigh, he accepted that she was likely to turn him away, that she might disappear as she always did, but he’d take a page out of her own book and persist.

And her back was to him, her attention on the lawnmower.

Without letting the screen door bang shut behind him as he usually did, Josh walked across the yards.

She bent – sweeping a long swatch of hair out of her eyes impatiently – to unscrew the gas cap and peer inside, tipping the mower a little for the light.

It was a great view until he got closer and saw the thin scars on the backs of her legs. He frowned a little. How the heck had she done that?

He put it aside.

“The spark plug might be fouled,” he said. “If you’d like, I can take a look at it for you.”

She jumped about a mile in surprise and spun, putting a hand over her heart, her pretty lips parting on a gasp as her eyes widened.

He’d been wrong about the eyes; they were as clear a blue as the summer sky. Josh’s heart did a long, slow flip.

She was even prettier up close, he could see, with clean, clear features. The small flaws, like the scar through one eyebrow and the clear sign of an old break in her nose, were oddly endearing.

“I didn’t hear you coming,” she said, clearly caught between staying and fleeing.

“Sorry,” he said and decided it would be unwise to mention he’d done it deliberately. He nodded at the lawnmower. “You were concentrating pretty hard. I think I can help, if that would be okay?”

For a moment, Beth stared at him.

Her heart hammered in her chest, fright and apprehension at war inside her. She hadn’t heard him coming and his sudden appearance sent terror lancing through her, reminding her too much of other times. He was right, though, she’d been focused on the lawnmower. It wasn’t his fault. She’d done nothing wrong.

Those times were in the past, they were long past. Fear wasn’t a part of her life any more, not even here.

Closing her eyes, with an effort she forced back the memories and the emotions they raised, to consider the situation rationally, as she’d been taught.

She knew who he was, he was her neighbor.

His name was Joshua…Josh Randall. The last name was on his mailbox, and she’d heard his men call him the other. Especially the older one, Russ, who always called him Joshua. He owned the ranch or farm or whatever you wanted to call it¸ next door.

He hadn’t always lived there or she would have remembered him.

She’d seen him at work with his men, riding out on the farm equipment, bringing in the cattle and other horses. Or standing beside the paddock, his arms folded on the rail. She’d been careful not to look too closely until now.

Taking a breath to steady her breathing and her racing heart, she debated it, fighting the urge to run.

She really wanted to get the grass mowed and it was a simple offer. He was just being polite. It wasn’t as if he’d jumped her. It was an act of kindness.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, more breathlessly than she’d have liked, and fought to get her breathing back under control.

He eyed her and the look in his eyes was oddly disconcerting, strangely understanding.

“I have to get some tools,” he said. “You don’t have to stay, you can go do something else while I work on it.”

A little startled, Beth fought the temptation his words offered. A chance for her to retreat, to lock the doors behind her once again. Not just the physical ones, but the emotional and mental ones, too.

That just didn’t seem right, if he was going to work on her lawnmower. Her foster mother Ruth had taught her better.

She shook her head. “No, it’s all right.”

He was a good-looking man up close, with strong face. His hair was a sun-washed sandy brown, his eyes more green than blue. There was compassion and kindness in those warm eyes. He was firmly muscled from working around the farm and a little on the lean side. The thin tee shirt he wore didn’t hide the firm muscles of the chest beneath it or the lean belly.

“I’ll be right back then,” he said, and walked away.

She deliberately tried not to watch him go, waiting almost nervously and impatiently as he went past his house to the barn to get the tools he needed.

Returning, Josh watched as the girl clearly fought the battle between staying and the need for flight. It was clearly an act of courage for her just to stay.

“I can show you what to do if this happens again,” he offered quietly, so he wouldn’t startle her again. “It’s not hard. I can make a list of the tools you’ll need. Although this should do you for a while if I’m right.”

She shook her head but watched intently as he removed the plug, wiped it and the cylinder to make sure there was no more oil in either.

Carefully not to spill the gas, he tipped the machine, looked underneath. Grass was clogged under the mowing deck.

“Be careful not to mow when the grass is wet, but if you do, make sure you clean underneath,” he said.

He looked up into her blue eyes and she nodded.

Getting up, he went to fetch something to clean the grass out of the deck from the shed, not wanting to mess up his own tools more than necessary.

After opening the door, he wasn’t certain he wouldn’t feel better about using his own things.

The old man had left the shed spotless. Each gleaming tool was in its carefully marked spot, clearly silhouetted in paint on the pegboard wall so there would be no mistake about what went where. Josh could tell that none had been touched in some time; there was a faint patina of dust on them. There was several hundred dollars’ worth of tools in there.

A collection of painting materials had been set just inside the shed. He took one of the paint stirrers to scrape out the old grass.

That took a little time. It was hot, filthy work on a very warm day.

Somehow, he found he didn’t mind much as he took occasional glimpses at the girl.

“You should consider getting a new mower,” Josh said.

Beth looked at him. “Why? This one still works.”

She heard the echo of her father’s words in her own head and caught her breath sharply.

Oblivious, her neighbor continued, “The new ones are easier to start and maintain.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, uncertainly.

Sweat had dampened his hair and t-shirt so they clung to him, to the long muscles of his back.

To cover her sudden discomfort Beth went inside and came out with two glasses.

“Here,” she said, softly, “it’s the least I can do.”

Josh looked at his grease and grass-covered hands, not wanting to soil the clean glass.

She smiled unexpectedly, and said, amused, “Glasses can be washed. Hands, too.”

That smile on her usually too-solemn face caught him off-guard, the expression clearly more natural to her than the caution.

He grinned back. “So they do. Thanks.”

Taking a sip, he was startled. “Hey, that’s good.”

His surprise drew a real laugh out of her.

“That’s because it’s real,” she said, with another smile. “I squeeze the lemons myself and use honey instead of sugar. It needs stirred more than the powdered stuff, but it does taste better.”

It did, more refreshing, and not as sugary as store-bought.

“Okay, let’s fire her up and see if she works,” he said.

A quick pull or two on the rope and the old mower started right up. One thing was certain, the old man had taken good care of his equipment.

“That’ll do her,” he said. “Just let her run a little bit.”

“All right. Come on in and wash up,” Beth said, the offer surprising even herself.

Without flinching, Beth held the door for him so he could enter the kitchen without getting grease and grass on the knob.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, shutting down the mower.

He had grass all over his arms and a swath on his forehead where he’d accidentally wiped it clearing the sweat.

The room was redolent with the scent of fresh paint and the walls glowed with new color.

“Looks good,” Josh said, as she reached to turn on the water and squirt some soap into his hands.