Not on Her Own. Cynthia Reese

P ENELOPE GRITTED her teeth and stretched to reach a huge glob of glazier’s putty from the window. The distance between the top of the ladder and the far edge of the pane seemed insurmountable.

      If she were normal height, with normal legs and normal arms, this job would be a piece of cake.

       Aaargh. If God wanted me to be short, why didn’t He at least give me elastic arms?

      Penelope set her jaw. She would not quit.

       Just think: do this, and you’re done with the windows. Two weeks here, and you’ve got the house livable. Before you know it, you’ll get your studio up and you can start on your project. Just think. In two months, she’d have fifty grand, and she could hire someone to finish up the house. She could do this. She could prove them all wrong, Mom, Dad, everybody who said this was nothing but a fantasy.

      Her pep talk gave her that last, vital half-inch of stretch.

      “Hey! You’re gonna fall!”

      Startled, Penelope screeched and nearly did fall. The tube of putty careened off the ladder, along with the caulking gun. Her putty knife fell to the ground, where a million blades of grass and a couple clods of red Georgia clay stuck to the sticky white putty she’d just saved.

      Penelope spotted the cause of the upset: the grouchy deputy, this time sans uniform. He wore jeans, paired with a cotton tee that showed off his chest in a way that his browns hadn’t. And now that he was without the Smoky Bear hat, she could see that his dark brown hair was clipped short.

      “Didn’t mean to scare you. Brandon Wilkes. I was the deputy who—”

      “Yes, I remember you. Sorry. I don’t usually startle that easily, but I didn’t hear you.”

      “You were busy applying that putty. Need a hand?”

      “I think I’ve got it. It’s high back here.”

      Brandon put his hands on his narrow hips and surveyed the bungalow. “You’ve had a lot done to the place in the past week or so.”

      “I’ve done most of it myself. Except, of course, for the foundation and the roof. The movers put a pier foundation under the house, and I hired a roofer.”

      Penelope climbed down from the ladder and joined him. She inspected the house, ticking off the progress she’d made. A new foundation, a new roof to replace the old one messed up by the move, electricity and well pump hookup, new locks.

      The house was still in sore need of a paint job, but the pressure washing had improved the looks of the house immensely. A thousand more jobs awaited her.

      “I—my uncle lives next door, just up the road. I figured I’d check up on you.” Brandon grimaced. “I mean, check in on you. To see if you needed any help.”

      Penelope decided his slip was Freudian. Since when did grouches with badges offer assistance? She started to say something snarky about being perfectly capable of looking after herself. She stopped short, though. Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt. This was the South, she reminded herself. After bouncing around big, impersonal cities like L.A. and New York, that would take her some time to get accustomed to.

      “Thank you.”

      “I would have called…but I couldn’t find a listing for you.”

      “I haven’t bothered with a landline yet. I have a cell phone.”

      “You really need a landline. Our E-911 system doesn’t pick up the location of cell phones. A woman like yourself, living alone out here…” Brandon trailed off. His attention dropped to her bare left hand. “I mean, I guess you’re living alone out here.”

      Was the deputy trying to hit on her? She suppressed a smile. “It’s just me and Theo.”

      “Theo?”

      “My cat.” She pointed to the window. “The Siamese?”

      Brandon’s gaze followed her gesture toward the long and lanky white cat peering out the windowpane.

      “That’s a Siamese?” he asked. “I thought they were brown.”

      “Flame-point. They’re white, with apricot ears and paws and tail. Everything you’ve heard about Siamese? Well, multiply that by ten and you’ve got your typical flame-point.”

      One of Brandon’s eyebrows arched. “He doesn’t seem to think too much of me.”

      “It’s me he’s mad at. I’ve had to keep him cooped up until I could get the windows fixed. Now he’s got the run of the house and he’s plotting his escape back to New York.”

      “New York? I thought you said you were from Oregon?” Brandon treated her to intense cop-like scrutiny. What was this, an interrogation? Did he think she was lying?

      “I grew up in Portland, moved to Bend when I was a teenager. But New York was my latest stop.” She retrieved the putty knife and scraped the blade against the ladder. “Here.” She handed it to him. “Since you’re here and you offered, I’ll take you up on it. Can you do me a favor and clean the rest of that putty along the top edge?”

      Brandon hesitated before agreeing and clambering up the ladder. The move let Penelope see that his jeans fitted snug over a well-formed backside. The faded denim was as much an improvement over his browns as the T-shirt. “I’m kind of surprised you got the house set down on a foundation so quick,” he observed as he deftly wielded the putty knife.

       Hmm…skills and looks. Not a bad combo, not bad at all, she thought.

      “It was part of the bargain with the movers. They’re the ones who put me in touch with a roofer. Once you move a house, the roof has to be replaced as soon as possible, and this one especially. The whole interior has hardwood floors. I didn’t want them damaged.”

      Back down on the ground, Brandon inspected his work and was apparently satisfied. “So the house was what? Built in the thirties? Forties?”

      “Mid-thirties, despite the Depression. Want to take a look inside?” For a moment, Penelope couldn’t believe she’d offered. He was a complete stranger. And a big one at that.

      But her gut told her this guy was okay. Open, honest face. Nice brown eyes. A lot of smile lines.

      “Sure,” he told her.

      Inside, Penelope pushed away doubts, say, thoughts of how harmless Ted Bundy had looked to his victims, as she showed Brandon through the house.

      They ended in the dinky kitchen with its 1960s atrocity of a kitchen-remodel. Brandon stared, his uncertainty about what to say plain on his face.

      “It’ll get better. I’ll rip out the cabinets, restore a lot of the old look,” she rushed to assure him.

      “It’s…the whole house is…rough,” he said finally.

      “Yeah. But it’s got great bones.”

      “And you’re planning on doing this yourself? You must be handy with a hammer.”

      Brandon Wilkes scored more points with Penelope because his expression was one of admiration; not a drop of disbelief or condescension tempered it.

      “I know my way around a toolbox. It’s the big stuff that’s hard for me. I know how to do it, but when you’re a shrimp like me…”

      He didn’t even offer a short joke. Another point.

      “Well, I’ll be glad to offer some free labor if you need it. Let me know. If I can’t, I’ll point you in the right direction.”

      “Great! Maybe you could suggest someone who could help put up a barn or a shelter?”

      He frowned. “Like a pole barn?”

      “Pole barn?”

      “Yeah, just a barn with