Unsanctioned Memories. Julie Miller

the massage as an excuse, he didn’t say anything for several moments, giving himself his first opportunity to size up the woman who was going to make his mission a success. The stock of her Remington rested on the generous curve of one denim-clad hip. The woman up on the porch was a far cry from the sophisticate he’d seen in the new-paper’s black-and-white photograph.

      A hole in one knee broke the long line of leg that might be the most distinctive feature of her tall, subtly masked body. While the woman in the photo had worn a strapless evening gown that managed to look classy and seductive at the same time, this woman on the porch was a nature girl. No upsweep of long hair. No jewelry beyond a watch. And not much skin to catch the late September sun. Her modest blue Taylor Construction T-shirt looked as if it belonged to one of her brothers that had shown up in his research. The short sleeves hung past her elbows, and the collar rode high at the neck. The hem was loosely tucked into the waistband of relaxed jeans.

      Body camouflage. She could be plump or thin or anywhere in between, but the outside world would never be able to tell. Sam wondered if Kerry would have hidden her fair-skinned attributes in the same way if she’d survived her rape. Damn. He didn’t need to go off on a tangent like that.

      Suddenly the enormity of all he had lost seized his throat. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to choke the emotions back down. He couldn’t let Jessica Taylor see how much he had at stake in this at-gunpoint job interview.

      When he was in control of himself again, he turned back and lifted his gaze up to hers. He knew most of her stats by heart. Age: twenty-nine. Height: five-eight. Weight: 140. But the stats didn’t do her bright-blue eyes justice. And to say her hair was brown was to miss the whole point of subtle auburn highlights and a loose, face-framing style.

      Stats couldn’t tell him word one about what was going on inside that head of hers. And whether or not she could help him.

      “Okay, Mr. O’Rourke.” She nudged the air with the point of her gun. “Talk to me.”

      “I’m looking for some work to tide me over ’til the end of September, maybe mid-October. I like to get a feel for a place. And, hopefully, make enough money to fix the car and pay my way until the next stop.” He braced his elbows on his bent knees and nodded back toward the road. “The clerk in Lone Jack said you were looking for some help. Seven miles straight down the road didn’t seem like a terrible hike. So I took a chance.”

      “Ralphie, the clerk, likes to look out for me. My regular hand is one of the neighbor kids. Now that school’s back in session, he can only work Saturdays and some nights after football practice.” Was she opening up to him? She might be talking more, but the gun made it hard to tell whether or not he was making progress. “He’s the one who almost ran you off the road on the way in. Derek Phillips. He’s a sweet kid.”

      “He’s a road hog.”

      “He’s eighteen years old. What do you expect?” Okay, so clearly she was protective of her hired help. Or teenagers. Or this one in particular. Did that mean he could rule out a young man as her attacker? She did have a younger brother. Maybe the kid was just a reminder of him, and therefore she considered him safe.

      She definitely didn’t consider him safe.

      Sam thought the conversation had died with his speculation. She stood in silence long enough for him to become annoyingly aware of the sharp gravel digging into his backside. “Can I get up now?”

      “No, I—”

      He got up anyway, slowly unwinding his legs and pushing to his feet.

      “I said no!” She lifted the shotgun to her shoulder and had her finger on the trigger guard again.

      Sam put up his hands in surrender and slouched his weight to the side. But he didn’t retreat. He didn’t want to scare her, but he wanted her to know he meant business. He had no intention of leaving Log Cabin Acres without this job. He had no intention of leaving, period. He’d let his hair grow out, and hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, hoping his vagrant look would earn him an offer of room and board. Even if it meant bunking on a cot in the barn.

      “I have a cramp in my leg,” he said to explain his moderate show of defiance. “Believe me, you still have the advantage.”

      She had good form, he’d give her that. Steady, too. He could see one blue eye, clear and focused, as he looked into the over/under barrel of her gun and on up to the sight. She might have him lined up between the crosshairs, but the fact she didn’t sic the dog on him again made him think she wouldn’t actually shoot.

      Progress.

      “So what about that job?” he asked. “I don’t know much about antiques, but I’ve worked with furniture—repairing and refinishing it. And I’ve done yard work and construction since I was a kid if you need help winterizing the place.”

      That blue eye squinted with doubt. “You’re taking a sabbatical from yardwork and construction?”

      “I have a reference. Virgil Logan.” He’d tried to keep his partner as far removed from his off-the-clock investigation as possible. If anything about this quest for vengeance went south, Sam’s career would be toast. But Virg would be free and clear of any wrongdoing. But surely his old buddy would be willing to say something nice about the cabinets he’d helped him install in his new kitchen last year. “I’ll give you a number and you can call him.”

      Was that slight hitch in her shoulders a pensive sigh? Would a bit more gentle persistence wear her down?

      “The clerk—Ralphie—said you lived alone out here.” With his hands still in the air, he angled his head to the right and left. “It looks like you’ve got plenty of work. I think you need a few muscles to tackle some of these jobs. Unloading that furniture, regravelling the driveway. I tinker around with mechanics, too. I might be able to get that old steam engine tractor I saw out front running again. If you’ve got the parts.”

      She took her left hand off the gun and motioned him to be silent. “Fine. I have no doubt you can do the job. It’s just…”

      Sam lowered his hands to his sides. She was going to have to learn to trust him sometime. “It’s just you’re one woman, living out here on your own. And I’m a big, scary man. A stranger, to boot.”

      His understanding of her fears seemed to suck the argument right out of her. She was almost shaking as she lowered the gun once more and reached down to stroke the dog’s head. “Yeah,” she finally agreed on a soft, wistful sigh. “I have to stay safe.”

      He respected the admission of fear. Jessica Taylor’s honesty would work in his favor. An admission of truth from him might be the first step toward earning her trust. He let just enough of the pain and guilt that riddled him seep into his expression. He kept the rest locked down tightly inside the prison of his heart.

      “I, uh, lost someone very close to me earlier this year. My baby sister. We were all that was left of my family so we were pretty tight.” He inhaled a steadying breath that wasn’t all for show. “I took a leave of absence from my desk job, and I’ve been working on other things to try to get past it.”

      “I’m sorry.” She sounded genuinely moved by his bare-boned version of the truth.

      Sam looked up at her, and for a long, foolish moment out of time, lost himself in a sea of azure compassion. For that one brief instant, his world wasn’t such a lonely place. He wasn’t such a driven man. And his heart…

      His heart almost felt something. Something hopeful.

      Sam blinked and shook his head, looking away. Hell. What was that all about? The only thing that was going to make him feel better, the only thing that was going to make the pain go away, was to get the bastard who’d desecrated and snuffed the life out of the sweetest thing God had ever seen fit to put in his world. He’d swallow his pride, trade his life, whatever it took to put a bullet through that freak’s head or watch him die by lethal injection.

      “So, Miss Taylor…”