his leanness, conscience overwhelmed her again. Whether she was mad at him or not, the man had to eat. Fumbling with the button, she rolled down her window.
“Johnny?”
He turned his head to look at her, his eyebrows lifting. Rachel beckoned. His expression was forbidding as he approached her side of the car, but Rachel, already fishing in her purse for her checkbook, didn’t notice.
“What?” Glancing up, she saw that he was now beside the car. Her fingers touched the cool vinyl of her checkbook. Triumphantly she pulled it out.
“I’m going to pay you your first week’s wages in advance.” She flipped the checkbook open as she spoke,extracted the pen that she kept neatly tucked into the fold, and began to write.
He leaned over, one forearm resting on the inch or so of window that had not disappeared into the door, his head coming partway through the opening, his other hand reaching for her.
Startled, Rachel shrank back as his arm brushed her breasts, but immediately she realized that his object was not to molest her. His long fingers clamped around her wrist, preventing her from finishing writing his name on the line marked “payee.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” he said harshly, his fingers almost bruising the soft skin at the sides of her wrist as his grip tightened. “I’m not some kind of fucking charity case.”
Before Rachel could reply, before she could even think of a reply, he made an inarticulate sound under his breath that drew her gaze to his. For a second, the longest second that she ever remembered living through, Rachel held her breath at what she saw as his eyes moved over her face. His lips parted as if he would say something else, then they abruptly clamped shut. His eyes went as blank as if a curtain had fallen behind them. Without so much as a tug on her part to free herself, he removed his hand from her wrist and straightened, turning away.
As she watched him walk away, Rachel was suddenly frighteningly conscious of the accelerated beating of her heart.
7
H e heard the unmistakable sound of a car approaching behind him. Johnny didn’t bother to look or stick out a thumb. Who in his right mind, here in Tylerville, would give him a ride? No one, that was who. He was Johnny Harris, murderer. People gave him a wider berth than a dead skunk.
Hell, he couldn’t even eat right. The memory of his humiliation over supper made him grit his teeth. He’d always eaten with the object of getting his food down before somebody else got to it. Manners and napkins and all that stuff had never been important. But they were important to her . So, damn it, he would learn to do it right. It gnawed at him, being made to look small in Rachel Grant’s eyes. It bothered him, too, that she had tried to give him money. An advance on his salary, she’d called it. He called it charity, and the idea of being the recipient of it burned him up.
A new-looking red pickup whooshed past, its bright color gleaming through the deepening twilight. For a moment Johnny looked after it almost enviously. There’d been a man and a woman and a little girl and a little boy wedged into that cab. A family. He’d always imagined having a family like that. Hell, in those years in prisonhe’d imagined all kinds of things—imagining was what had kept him sane.
But this was here and now, reality. He was plodding along the side of a crumbling blacktop road that led through the poorest section of the county. Tumbledown frame farmhouses with yards full of junk were interspersed with one-story shacks with yards full of more junk. Kids, barefoot and dirty, played in waist-high weeds. Fat women in house dresses sat, bare knees apart, staring at him from rickety porches. Scrawny men in tank-style undershirts scratched their armpits and eyed him as he passed. Skinny, mangy dogs of no identifiable breed rushed toward him, barking.
Welcome home.
As awful as it was, he was a part of this place, and it was a part of him. He had
“Johnny?”
He turned his head to look at her, his eyebrows lifting. Rachel beckoned. His expression was forbidding as he approached her side of the car, but Rachel, already fishing in her purse for her checkbook, didn’t notice.
“What?” Glancing up, she saw that he was now beside the car. Her fingers touched the cool vinyl of her checkbook. Triumphantly she pulled it out.
“I’m going to pay you your first week’s wages in advance.” She flipped the checkbook open as she spoke,extracted the pen that she kept neatly tucked into the fold, and began to write.
He leaned over, one forearm resting on the inch or so of window that had not disappeared into the door, his head coming partway through the opening, his other hand reaching for her.
Startled, Rachel shrank back as his arm brushed her breasts, but immediately she realized that his object was not to molest her. His long fingers clamped around her wrist, preventing her from finishing writing his name on the line marked “payee.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” he said harshly, his fingers almost bruising the soft skin at the sides of her wrist as his grip tightened. “I’m not some kind of fucking charity case.”
Before Rachel could reply, before she could even think of a reply, he made an inarticulate sound under his breath that drew her gaze to his. For a second, the longest second that she ever remembered living through, Rachel held her breath at what she saw as his eyes moved over her face. His lips parted as if he would say something else, then they abruptly clamped shut. His eyes went as blank as if a curtain had fallen behind them. Without so much as a tug on her part to free herself, he removed his hand from her wrist and straightened, turning away.
As she watched him walk away, Rachel was suddenly frighteningly conscious of the accelerated beating of her heart.
7
H e heard the unmistakable sound of a car approaching behind him. Johnny didn’t bother to look or stick out a thumb. Who in his right mind, here in Tylerville, would give him a ride? No one, that was who. He was Johnny Harris, murderer. People gave him a wider berth than a dead skunk.
Hell, he couldn’t even eat right. The memory of his humiliation over supper made him grit his teeth. He’d always eaten with the object of getting his food down before somebody else got to it. Manners and napkins and all that stuff had never been important. But they were important to her . So, damn it, he would learn to do it right. It gnawed at him, being made to look small in Rachel Grant’s eyes. It bothered him, too, that she had tried to give him money. An advance on his salary, she’d called it. He called it charity, and the idea of being the recipient of it burned him up.
A new-looking red pickup whooshed past, its bright color gleaming through the deepening twilight. For a moment Johnny looked after it almost enviously. There’d been a man and a woman and a little girl and a little boy wedged into that cab. A family. He’d always imagined having a family like that. Hell, in those years in prisonhe’d imagined all kinds of things—imagining was what had kept him sane.
But this was here and now, reality. He was plodding along the side of a crumbling blacktop road that led through the poorest section of the county. Tumbledown frame farmhouses with yards full of junk were interspersed with one-story shacks with yards full of more junk. Kids, barefoot and dirty, played in waist-high weeds. Fat women in house dresses sat, bare knees apart, staring at him from rickety porches. Scrawny men in tank-style undershirts scratched their armpits and eyed him as he passed. Skinny, mangy dogs of no identifiable breed rushed toward him, barking.
Welcome home.
As awful as it was, he was a part of this place, and it was a part of him. He had
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