Page 6 of Erik's Salvation
She ate another mouthful of cereal, her gaze catching on the flower beds at the back of Mr. Hunter’s house.
Crap, she’d almost forgotten about the flowers.
Her phone kept dinging, but she left it beside her half-empty bowl. The two of them would keep going. She’d probably return to a stream of fifty unread messages she’d have no hope of catching up on.
The old wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she donned her boots, and the second she stepped outside, a gust of wind blasted her skin, causing her flesh to pebble.
Holy cow, it was cold! Unseasonably cold for the start of October in Redwood. Were they really out of sunshine already? God, winter would be long.
For a moment, she considered going back inside and changing into sweats, or at least a piece of clothing that would cover her legs, but she quickly shoved that idea away. She’d be quick.
She pulled the door closed and crossed the yard to the gate between the properties. The flowers had been Mr. Hunter’s pride and joy. Every morning and night, she’d watched him go out there, water them, weed. Sometimes, just stand by the little garden and admire the buds. There was often a sadness to him when he did so. Like he was remembering his wife.
Sometimes she’d go over and talk to him. Bring him some coffee or food. It was just a week before he passed that he’d asked her to water the flowers when he couldn’t anymore. Like he’d known he wasn’t going to be there much longer.
There’d been so much emotion in his voice…his eyes. So she’d said yes. She’d promised the older man that she would keep them alive.
Keeping her head down to protect her neck from the wind, she slipped through the gate and beelined for the bed of flowers against the back of the house. There were golden asters and coneflowers. Hibiscus and lavender. She didn’t regret for a second that she’d promised to look after them. They deserved to be kept alive.
When she reached the bed, she grabbed the watering can and filled it from the wall spigot, wondering again who was paying the bills for this house. Mr. Hunter had passed away at least three months ago, and it had sat empty for just as long, but the water was still on.
Did whoever had inherited it intend to sell?
At first she’d been hopeful that his family would askherto sell it. She’d never met them, though she’d seen a few people regularly coming and going from his place while he’d been alive. But the weeks had turned into months, and the place had never been listed.
Once the watering can was full, she started with the hibiscus. She wasn’t a gardener by any means. A person just had to look at her yard to know that. But over the last few months, she’d found peace in this. Also pride in seeing a plant live and grow because of the water she fed it. She’d even started weeding the garden.
She lowered to her haunches, giving the delicate lavender a bit of extra love.
Once every plant had been watered, she smiled as she rose—and almost ran smack into a tall, dark figure.
She screamed and swung the watering can like a machete. The figure dodged the hit easily, but her arm kept swinging and she lost her balance. She would have fallen if long fingers hadn’t wrapped around her upper arm, tugging her up.
The second she looked into those hazel eyes, everything stopped. Her movement. The rise and fall of her chest.
“You!” she gasped. “Did you…did you follow me home?”
Oh, Jesus, was this man some woman-stalking crazy person? Was he here to kill her? Could such a beautiful man evenbea killer?
Of course he could. Ted Bundy hadn’t been terrible looking, and he’d turned out to be one of the worst serial killers in history.
She was just spiraling down a Ted-Bundy-followed-me-home well when the guy spoke.
“No, I didn’t. Why are you on my land?”
Her mouth dropped open. Did he just… He’d saidhisland, right? Or was that fear-induced psychosis making her hear things? Okay, not all fear. There was a bit of something else. Something hotter that she would not, under any circumstances, be owning up to.
“I…” She shook her head, trying to make her brain process the situation. “Your land?”
“Yeah, honey. You’re trespassing.”
He stepped away, his fingers finally releasing her, and she almost wanted to tug his hand back and curl those fingers around her arm again.
God, she needed to get her head checked. “No, this was Stanley Hunter’s house.”
“I’m his grandson.”
His grandson? Stanley Hunter had been five feet tall, small-framed and sweet. This man was not any of those things. Granted, he was a good fifty years younger…but still, she hadn’t seen him visit Mr. Hunter once.
