The Welcoming Read Free

the place into a service station. Do you like children?”
    He glanced up as he slipped the tire into place. “From a safe distance.”
    She laughed appreciatively at his answer. “Where are you from?”
    “St. Louis.” He could have chosen a dozen places. He couldn’t have said why he’d chosen to tell the truth. “But I don’t get back much.”
    “Family?”
    “No.”
    The way he said it made her stifle her innate curiosity. She wouldn’t invade anyone’s privacy any more than she would drop the lint-covered lollipop on the ground. “I was born right here on Orcas. Every year I tell myself I’m going to take six months and travel. Anywhere.” She shrugged as he tightened the last of the lug nuts. “I never seem to manage it. Anyway, it’s beautiful here. If you don’t have a deadline, you may find yourself staying longer than you planned.”
    “Maybe.” He stood up to replace the jack. “If I can find some work, and a place to stay.”
    Charity didn’t consider it an impulse. She had studied, measured and considered him for nearly fifteen minutes. Most job interviews took little more. He had a strong back and intelligent—if disconcerting—eyes, and if the state of his pack and his shoes was any indication he was down on his luck. As her name implied, she had been taught to offer people a helping hand. And if she could solve one of her more immediate and pressing problems at the same time . . .
    “You any good with your hands?” she asked him.
    He looked at her, unable to prevent his mind from taking a slight detour. “Yeah. Pretty good.”
    Her brow—and her blood pressure—rose a little when she saw his quick survey. “I mean with tools. Hammer, saw, screwdriver. Can you do any carpentry, household repairs?”
    “Sure.” It was going to be easy, almost too easy. He wondered why he felt the small, unaccustomed tug of guilt.
    “Like I said, my handyman won the lottery, a big one. He’s gone to Hawaii to study bikinis and eat poi. I’d wish him well, except we were in the middle of renovating the west wing. Of the inn,” she added, pointing to the logo on the van. “If you know your way around two-by-fours and drywall I can give you room and board and five an hour.”
    “Sounds like we’ve solved both our problems.”
    “Great.” She offered a hand. “I’m Charity Ford.”
    “DeWinter.” He clasped her hand. “Roman DeWinter.”
    “Okay, Roman.” She swung her door open. “Climb aboard.”
    She didn’t look gullible, Roman thought as he settled into the seat beside her. But then, he knew—better than most—that looks were deceiving. He was exactly where he wanted to be, and he hadn’t had to resort to a song and dance. He lit a cigarette as she pulled out of the parking lot.
    “My grandfather built the inn in 1938,” she said, rolling down her window. “He added on to it a couple of times over the years, but it’s still really an inn. We can’t bring ourselves to call it a resort, even in the brochures. I hope you’re looking for remote.”
    “That suits me.”
    “Me too. Most of the time.” Talkative guy, she mused with a half smile. But that was all right. She could talk enough for both of them. “It’s early in the season yet, so we’re a long way from full.” She cocked her elbow on the opened window and cheerfully took over the bulk of the conversation. The sunlight played on her earrings and refracted into brilliant colors. “You should have plenty of free time to knock around. The view from Mount Constitution’s really spectacular. Or, if you’re into it, the hiking trails are great.”
    “I thought I might spend some time in B.C.”
    “That’s easy enough. Take the ferry to Sidney. We do pretty well with tour groups going back and forth.”
    “We?”
    “The inn. Pop—my grandfather—built a half dozen cabins in the sixties. We give a special package rate to tour groups. They can rent the cabins and have breakfast and dinner included.