The Girl in the Window

by Douglas, Valerie

  For a moment, Beth stared at him.

  Her heart hammered in her chest, fright and apprehension at war inside her. She hadn’t heard him coming and his sudden appearance sent terror lancing through her, reminding her too much of other times. He was right, though, she’d been focused on the lawnmower. It wasn’t his fault. She’d done nothing wrong.

  Those times were in the past, they were long past. Fear wasn’t a part of her life any more, not even here.

  Closing her eyes, with an effort she forced back the memories and the emotions they raised, to consider the situation rationally, as she’d been taught.

  She knew who he was, he was her neighbor.

  His name was Joshua…Josh Randall. The last name was on his mailbox, and she’d heard his men call him the other. Especially the older one, Russ, who always called him Joshua. He owned the ranch or farm or whatever you wanted to call it¸ next door.

  He hadn’t always lived there or she would have remembered him.

  She’d seen him at work with his men, riding out on the farm equipment, bringing in the cattle and other horses. Or standing beside the paddock, his arms folded on the rail. She’d been careful not to look too closely until now.

  Taking a breath to steady her breathing and her racing heart, she debated it, fighting the urge to run.

  She really wanted to get the grass mowed and it was a simple offer. He was just being polite. It wasn’t as if he’d jumped her. It was an act of kindness.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, more breathlessly than she’d have liked, and fought to get her breathing back under control.

  He eyed her and the look in his eyes was oddly disconcerting, strangely understanding.

  “I have to get some tools,” he said. “You don’t have to stay, you can go do something else while I work on it.”

  A little startled, Beth fought the temptation his words offered. A chance for her to retreat, to lock the doors behind her once again. Not just the physical ones, but the emotional and mental ones, too.

  That just didn’t seem right, if he was going to work on her lawnmower. Her foster mother Ruth had taught her better.

  She shook her head. “No, it’s all right.”

  He was a good-looking man up close, with strong face. His hair was a sun-washed sandy brown, his eyes more green than blue. There was compassion and kindness in those warm eyes. He was firmly muscled from working around the farm and a little on the lean side. The thin tee shirt he wore didn’t hide the firm muscles of the chest beneath it or the lean belly.

  “I’ll be right back then,” he said, and walked away.

  She deliberately tried not to watch him go, waiting almost nervously and impatiently as he went past his house to the barn to get the tools he needed.

  Returning, Josh watched as the girl clearly fought the battle between staying and the need for flight. It was clearly an act of courage for her just to stay.

  “I can show you what to do if this happens again,” he offered quietly, so he wouldn’t startle her again. “It’s not hard. I can make a list of the tools you’ll need. Although this should do you for a while if I’m right.”

  She shook her head but watched intently as he removed the plug, wiped it and the cylinder to make sure there was no more oil in either.

  Carefully not to spill the gas, he tipped the machine, looked underneath. Grass was clogged under the mowing deck.

  “Be careful not to mow when the grass is wet, but if you do, make sure you clean underneath,” he said.

  He looked up into her blue eyes and she nodded.

  Getting up, he went to fetch something to clean the grass out of the deck from the shed, not wanting to mess up his own tools more than necessary.

  After opening the door, he wasn’t certain he wouldn’t feel better about using his own things.

  The old man had left the shed spotless. Each gleaming tool was in its carefully marked spot, clearly silhouetted in paint on the pegboard wall so there would be no mistake about what went where. Josh could tell that none had been touched in some time; there was a faint patina of dust on them. There was several hundred dollars’ worth of tools in there.

  A collection of painting materials had been set just inside the shed. He took one of the paint stirrers to scrape out the old grass.

  That took a little time. It was hot, filthy work on a very warm day.

  Somehow, he found he didn’t mind much as he took occasional glimpses at the girl.

  “You should consider getting a new mower,” Josh said.

  Beth looked at him. “Why? This one still works.”

  She heard the echo of her father’s words in her own head and caught her breath sharply.

  Oblivious, her neighbor continued, “The new ones are easier to start and maintain.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, uncertainly.

  Sweat had dampened his hair and t-shirt so they clung to him, to the long muscles of his back.

  To cover her sudden discomfort Beth went inside and came out with two glasses.

  “Here,” she said, softly, “it’s the least I can do.”

  Josh looked at his grease and grass-covered hands, not wanting to soil the clean glass.

  She smiled unexpectedly, and said, amused, “Glasses can be washed. Hands, too.”

  That smile on her usually too-solemn face caught him off-guard, the expression clearly more natural to her than the caution.

  He grinned back. “So they do. Thanks.”

  Taking a sip, he was startled. “Hey, that’s good.”

  His surprise drew a real laugh out of her.

  “That’s because it’s real,” she said, with another smile. “I squeeze the lemons myself and use honey instead of sugar. It needs stirred more than the powdered stuff, but it does taste better.”

  It did, more refreshing, and not as sugary as store-bought.

  “Okay, let’s fire her up and see if she works,” he said.

  A quick pull or two on the rope and the old mower started right up. One thing was certain, the old man had taken good care of his equipment.

  “That’ll do her,” he said. “Just let her run a little bit.”

  “All right. Come on in and wash up,” Beth said, the offer surprising even herself.

  Without flinching, Beth held the door for him so he could enter the kitchen without getting grease and grass on the knob.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, shutting down the mower.

  He had grass all over his arms and a swath on his forehead where he’d accidentally wiped it clearing the sweat.

  The room was redolent with the scent of fresh paint and the walls glowed with new color.

  “Looks good,” Josh said, as she reached to turn on the water and squirt some soap into his hands.

  He was happy to see another of her rare smiles at the compliment.

  Pleased, Beth looked around. “Thank you.”

  Hands clean, he held one out to her and said, “Josh Randall.”

  For a moment, she hesitated, and then she took the offered hand. “Elizabeth Winters. I owe you, Mr. Randall.”

  “No, it’s just what neighbors do for each other, and it’s Josh.”

  “Josh,” she said, trying it out. “All right, then it’s Beth, call me Liz or Bethie and I’ll shoot you.”

  The small joke surprised her. It was a day of surprises.

  He grinned. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  “I can make you a sandwich instead,” she said, emboldened.

  With a nod, Josh said, “I’ll take you up on that.”

  Anything to stay in her company a little longer.

  It wasn’t just a simple sandwich either, Josh discovered, although she put it together quickly enough and competently. Ham, hand-carved and thick, with rough Dijon mustard and romaine lettuce on home-made whole wheat bread. His mouth was seriously watering by the time she handed it to him.

  The first bite was very nearly heaven. He groaned in appreciation.
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br />   Seeing the look in his eyes, the near reverence with which he savored the sandwich, and the moan, made Beth laugh again before she took a bite of her own.

  Gesturing around him, he said, “You do all this yourself?”

  She nodded.

  The sheer physical presence of him seemed to fill the room.

  Suddenly, she found herself trying to resist the urge to take him on a tour of the house.

  It wasn’t finished yet. There were rooms, doors she hadn’t opened. He would ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

  Panic fluttered lightly inside her.

  Josh saw the sudden uneasiness in her eyes as alarm made her tighten and he sensed it would be wise to make his exit now, quickly, gently and easily, or risk losing the ground he’d made.

  “I’ll just be going now,” he said, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  Relieved and a little regretful because she’d enjoyed his company, Beth said, “Thank you for fixing the mower.”

  “No problem, I was glad to help. If you need anything else, just ask.”

  Beth watched him go out the door, caught it so that it wouldn’t bang – something her father had hated – and walk across the grass between the properties. She liked the way he moved, strong, confident.

  She tried not to think about how good he’d looked or how kind he’d been.

  A chill went over her. She wrapped her arms around herself, walked through the house and up the stairs.

  For a moment she looked at the door at the end of the hall.

  Her parent’s bedroom.

  That door, like the one at the end of the hall, and the one to the cellar, was closed.

  Some doors she just wasn’t ready to open.

  Chapter Four

  The morning dawned still and quiet, but for the birds. The first burst of song to greet the day had passed and now they twittered to each other softly. It had rained steadily for the past two days, keeping them under cover and everyone inside. Now they were once again free.

  So was Beth.

  In the paddock the horse seemed to be waiting, his head up. His mane and tail flagged in the breeze as he looked toward her house, almost as if he expected her.

  Or had missed her.

  Beth stood in the window, uncertain whether he could truly see her or whether it was only her imagination.

  Still, something in him called to her.

  Horses were herd animals. So were people, although most wouldn’t admit it. They wouldn’t call the groups of their friends or associations herds, but that was what they were, she thought.

  She supposed she was now the horse’s herd. As he was hers. And Josh Randall’s.

  With a sigh, she walked out of the room, snagging an apple from the fruit basket on the counter and tucking it into the pocket of her light sweater. The morning had dawned cool, but it would warm later as the sun burned off the last of the clouds and fog. That warm light pierced clouds and fog to bath the fields in shimmering gold.

  Even so, she went barefoot, walking through the cold, wet grass. Her feet ached but there was also something freeing, something refreshing, about going without. For once, her feet weren’t trapped within shoes.

  As always, she gathered grass as she went, and she walked slowly so she wouldn’t frighten or startle the horse more than she already did.

  The horse stood, his ears and muscles twitching, watching her as she approached.

  At the last moment his nerve broke and he charged away as she reached the fence.

  Now she flinched only a little at the rejection. She hadn’t given up on him. Not yet. Ruth hadn’t give up on her.

  Resolutely, she held out the sheaf of grass on her open palm.

  The horse spun, danced uncertainly this way and that, before pacing around the paddock, circling her.

  She loved watching him, loved watching the smooth, seemingly effortless way he moved, almost seeming to float above the ground so gracefully.

  Was it her imagination that this time he’d come closer than he had before?

  She didn’t move, held breathless.

  Imagination or real?

  Again, close, closer…or so she thought, before he wheeled about to pace the other way.

  She didn’t move, tried not to breathe. She understood his fear. Her own had melted away.

  As still as a statue and as patient, she waited.

  Inside, observing from the kitchen window, Josh held himself immobile, too, breathless as he watched.

  Slowly, carefully, he reached for his cell phone, glanced at it only long enough to find Russell’s number.

  Against his ear he could hear as Russ’s phone rang and rang…

  Josh’s gut churned.

  They couldn’t lose this moment because Russ’s conscientiousness wouldn’t let him answer the phone while driving.

  “Hello?” Russ’s voice was rough, impatient, tinged as always with an odd high note, like chalk on a blackboard, yet it wasn’t unpleasant.

  “Whatever you do, I don’t care if you’re late, wherever you are, stop,” Josh said, his eyes locked on the slender figure by the paddock and the horse that paced within it. “We might have a breakthrough with the horse.”

  It was always ‘the horse’, not the name. None of them dared become tied to it emotionally. If Josh couldn’t train it, then he’d have to sell it.

  Russ started to speak, but Josh knew the other man would say something harsh and sensible, something that would break the magic of the moment outside with cold logic.

  Sometimes you just had to have the magic.

  He shut his phone and watched.

  Outside, the horse paced around the paddock, mane and tail blowing as his movements and the breeze picked up.

  The girl stood immobile, her arm braced on the rail. Josh had the sense she would wait forever if necessary.

  A strange sense of tranquility settled over Beth, a feeling of peace. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, the horse trotted effortlessly, each leg, each hoof, reaching out in a steady syncopated rhythm. The sound of those hooves was everything and yet she could still hear the birdsong. It seemed she’d suddenly become patience.

  She waited as the horse danced, first one way then the other.

  A moment, a shift, she sensed something change and the balance tipped.

  In almost mid-stride, the horse turned, stopped, and walked toward her almost wearily to lower his head to the offering in her palm.

  He chuffed, blew and lipped at the grass.

  By not so much as a hair did she move as he chewed, contentedly, at the small sheaf.

  She allowed herself a smile.

  Moving ever so slowly, she reached into the pocket of her sweater and drew out the apple.

  The horse eyed her. His ears flicked, one then the other. Muscles jumped beneath his hide nervously.

  The apple sat in the palm of her hand.

  He hesitated, and then he took the apple, too, crunched it between his big teeth.

  Very carefully, Beth reached out to stroke the silken soft muzzle, and then scrubbed lightly between his eyes.

  For a moment, he accepted the caress. He blew out a breath.

  Then he tossed his head.

  It was enough for today, she’d pushed him as far to the boundaries of his trust as he would allow. She understood that, too.

  “All right,” she said, softly.

  His ears twitched forward at the sound of her voice.

  “We’ll take it slow,” she said, and stepped carefully off the rail.

  On her way back to the house, she glanced back once.

  The horse stood, watching her.

  Beth stepped through the back door, catching the screen door automatically so it wouldn’t slam.

  She stood in the kitchen, irresolute.

  If the horse could take that great a leap, could she?

  Taking a breath, she walked up the stairs, looked at the doors at each end of the hall. All the others but those two stood o
pen.

  The one at the far end was closed.

  One step at a time.

  She walked down a hall that suddenly seemed much longer, as it once had, and laid a hand on that forbidden knob.

  As a child this room had been off limits, except for certain occasions.

  Remembering the courage of the horse, and holding onto that odd serenity she’d felt standing with him at the paddock, she turned the knob. Slowly, she opened the door.

  Her heart hammered even so, she discovered.

  The first thing that struck her was the smell.

  It smelled like him.

  It smelled like her father, like his skin, his body, the aftershave he’d used a faded undercurrent.

  Everything in the room was unchanged from when she’d been a child.

  The bed with its headboard of some dark wood, dull with age, scrollwork curling its edges, dominated the room. To one side her mother’s dresser was still scattered with the detritus of her mother’s life, with the purplish lipstick she’d always worn that had been so unsuitable for her coloring, along with the pins for the hair her mother had worn in a bun or French twist all her life.

  Beth knew it was likely that her mother’s clothes still resided in the drawers, the closets, as did her father’s. Who, after all, would have gotten rid of them?

  Not her father.

  The bench where he’d put his shoes on in the morning and took them off at night still resided at the foot of the bed.

  She looked out the high window at the back yard.

  He’d died here in this room they told her.

  They said there’d been a bottle of vodka on the nightstand, empty, and another beneath him.

  She remembered that. He’d always liked clear alcohol to drink, gin or vodka over ice – on the rocks – it was easier to make people believe he was just having a glass of cold water. Or so he’d thought.

  He had a rule, he never drank before noon. The sun had to be over the yardarm.

  Her father been a man for rules. Lots of them. There had always been one for breaking, depending on his mood. As a child she’d broken lots of them.

  A summons to this room had been a cause for terror. It meant she’d done something wrong.

  She’d walked down that long hallway racking her brain for what she’d done this time, dreading the next moments.