Rainbow's End

Food. The man was asking about food. It took Jill a few moments to collect her thoughts, but when she did it occurred to her that he must be starving. He’d had no dinner that she was aware of, and there wasn’t a dry cracker to be found in the cabin. She started to open her mouth to direct him to Olga, the closest village, when that persistent little voice in the back of her mind spoke once more.

You could feed him instead.

Again, though she tried to suppress it, she met with little success. The man had fixed her siding, after all. And from the looks of him, he could use a good meal. His jeans sat low on his lean hips. Too low. And she didn’t think it was a fashion statement. Rather, she suspected his spare frame was the result of too many missed meals. It wouldn’t hurt her to give him some food before sending him on his way. It was the hospitable thing to do. The Christian thing. Didn’t the Lord feed the multitudes with loaves and fishes when they were in need?

Besides, there was something about him that drew her, that made her want to find out more about what made him tick. To discover why this stranger seemed able to look past her scars, past the brokenness, and see the whole person underneath. And giving him a meal would buy her a little time to do that.

Taking a step back until she hovered on the edges of the interior shadows, her fingers tightened around the door. “I can give you some breakfast.”

Now it was Keith’s turn to be shocked. The last thing he’d expected from this woman was an invitation to dine. But if the aromas that continued to waft through the door were any indication of her culinary abilities, he was in for a treat. That alone would compel him to accept.

Beyond that, though, he knew that her invitation also meant she’d accepted his apology. And that fact, even more than the thought of a good meal, lightened his heart.

“Thank you. I’d like that very much.”

“Come back in twenty minutes. I’ll have it ready by then.”

As Jill shut the door, cutting her off from the man on the other side, she drew a long, shaky breath. Already she was having second thoughts. Why on earth had she impulsively offered a stranger breakfast? It could be a huge mistake. One she might very well live to regret.

Yet even as that dire warning flashed across her mind, in her heart she somehow felt that she’d made the right decision.

Chapter Three

What in the world was she going to feed the man?

Hands on her hips, Jill scanned the contents of her refrigerator. Too bad she hadn’t gone to Olga two days ago, as she’d planned, to stock up on perishables. She was down to her last two eggs, and there was no breakfast meat of any kind. Nor much of anything else. At one time, she’d enjoyed cooking. But solo meals held little appeal. These days she got by on cold cereal, sandwiches, dairy products and fruit. Homemade soup represented her sole foray into the culinary arts, and she almost always had some on hand—like the pot of chicken-rice soup now simmering on the stove, flavored with the herbs she’d plucked from the pots on her kitchen windowsill. But even though it had once earned rave reviews from family and friends, it didn’t qualify as breakfast fare.

Closing the refrigerator, she turned her attention to the cabinets. At least she had all the basics on hand—flour, sugar, salt, spices. When a bottle of maple syrup—a leftover from her sister’s last visit—caught her eye, she thought of the blackberries she’d picked last season at their peak of juicy sweetness, preserved in her freezer. Inspiration hit…blackberry pancakes!

In no time, Jill was whipping up a batch of batter. Though she seldom made pancakes anymore, the recipe was etched in her mind. Sam and Emily had loved them so much they’d become a Saturday-morning tradition.

Her hand slowed. Funny. She hadn’t thought about that once-a-week ritual for months. Hadn’t let herself think about it. Like so much of her previous life that was gone forever, it was too painful to remember. And now wasn’t the time to start, she reminded herself, resuming her measuring and stirring.

Once the batter was ready and she’d poured three generous circles on the griddle, Jill set a single place at the small table on the back porch, adding a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. Then she returned to the house to flip the fluffy pancakes. When her unexpected guest reappeared at the far end of the meadow, she transferred the pancakes to a plate. After dusting them with powdered sugar, she tilted the maple syrup that had been warming on the stove into a small crockery pitcher and arranged everything on the table. By the time he arrived, she was back inside, working at the sink where she could catch a glimpse of him through the large window in front of her.

In the past hour, the morning had warmed quite a bit, and the northeast-facing back porch was bathed in sunlight as Keith ascended the two steps. In spite of his hunger, he stopped when he saw the carefully set table and the appetizing plate of food waiting for him. It had been a long while since anyone but a fast-food worker or a short-order cook in some diner had prepared a meal for him. Longer still since anyone had cared to provide him with any of the niceties of dining. Like a cloth napkin, with crisp, precise folds. Or a woven placemat. Or the cushion on the wooden chair, added since his earlier visit. Not to mention the small vase of wildflowers that now graced the center of the table.

All of those touches registered in a flash as Keith scanned the setting. So did the single place setting. But it was the plate of mouthwatering pancakes that caught and held his attention.

“Go ahead and eat before they get cold.”

The woman’s husky voice came through the open window in the kitchen, and Keith moved forward. He didn’t need a second invitation. “Thanks.”

Seating himself at the small wooden table, he dived in, making liberal use of the maple syrup and washing down the feather-light pancakes with long swigs of strong, black coffee. In minutes, the plate was empty.

“Would you like some more?”

Glancing up, Keith saw his hostess hovering at the back door. A smile tried to lift the corners of his mouth but his lips balked at the unaccustomed tug, as stiff and resistant as a painter’s brush that had gone too-long unused. “Do I look that hungry?”

“I expect you could manage another serving.”

“You’re right. Thanks.”

While Keith waited, he sipped his coffee, noting that the little boy had returned, still hiding behind the boulders on the other side of the field. When the woman reappeared a few minutes later with another overflowing plate and hesitated at the back door, he figured she wanted him to come and get his food. That way, she could stay in the shadows. Instead, he inclined his head toward the rocks. “Your friend is still here.”

That caught her attention. Jamming her hat farther down on her head, she pushed through the door. As she focused on the far side of the field, she gave him a shaded view of her classic profile. “I don’t see him.”

“He was there a minute ago. I have a feeling he’s been watching the house for some time.”

Frowning, she deposited Keith’s plate on the table and refilled his mug from the pot she carried in her other hand, keeping one eye on the distant boulders. “When I saw him yesterday, he didn’t look very well cared for. He might even be hungry. If I could figure out a way to coax him closer, I’m sure I could find out. I used to be pretty good with kids.”

Her concern for the little boy had overridden her self-consciousness and reticence, and Keith marveled at the change in her. For a brief moment he had an intriguing glimpse of the engaged, self-assured woman she must once have been.

But that window into her past closed the instant she realized he was watching her. Turning abruptly, she started back to the house.

“Aren’t you having any?”

His question stopped her, and she half turned. “I don’t eat much breakfast.”

He wasn’t surprised. Now that she’d ditched the bulky jacket, there was no question about her gender. Her lithe figure was rounded in all the right places. A soft chambray shirt hinted at the curves beneath, and her unpretentious jeans encased her long legs like a second skin.

It had been a long while since Keith had noticed a woman’s physical attributes, and years since he’d taken such a detailed inventory. He had no idea what had possessed him to do so now. And he wasn’t inclined to analyze it. Better to move on to another—safer—topic.

“If you won’t join me, at least let me introduce myself.” He rose and extended his hand. “My name is Keith Michaels.”

He wasn’t sure she would respond, but after a brief hesitation, she dipped her head, stepped toward him and took his fingers in a grip that displayed surprising strength. “Jill Whelan.”

As the stranger held Jill’s hand, he also held her captive with his compelling blue eyes. They seemed to delve into her heart, searching, seeing things she had never given voice to. Of course, such fanciful thoughts were no more than the product of an overactive imagination, she chided herself. But it was an odd sensation nonetheless.

The sudden ringing of the phone broke the spell, and with a slight tug, she reclaimed her hand and turned toward the house. “You’d better eat those while they’re warm. Some things taste just as good cold, but pancakes aren’t one of them.”

Hurrying toward the phone, Jill left the back door ajar instead of closing and locking it, as she had up until now. There was something in the man’s face—character and integrity, certainly, but also a distant sadness as if he, too, had suffered some terrible tragedy—that told her she had nothing to fear from him. Nothing physical, anyway. Her emotions were another story. He’d disrupted those already. But she had a feeling no wooden door would protect her from that kind of danger, anyway.

When she answered the phone, she was a bit out of breath—which didn’t escape her sister’s notice.

“Is everything okay? Did I catch you at a bad time?” Deb queried.

“No, no. I’m fine. I was outside.”

“At this hour? You’re always eating your yogurt and reading the paper now.”

Goodness, was she that predictable? But the resounding answer was: yes! Deb called like clockwork at nine-thirty every Saturday morning, and like clockwork Jill would be reading the local weekly paper, which she saved for that occasion in order to differentiate the weekend from the workweek. Except today she’d forgotten all about the paper and her yogurt and even Deb’s call—thanks to one Keith Michaels, now ensconced on her back porch eating her blackberry pancakes.

“We had a storm last night and a piece of siding got ripped off the side of the house,” Jill explained, redirecting her attention to the conversation.

“I hope you weren’t climbing on ladders.”

“There’s not much choice when the problem is on the second floor.”