by C. B. Clark
“Well then, convince me. I’m listening. Tell me what awful thing you believe Angus did to your parents.”
She met his gaze, her eyes bleak. “That’s just it. I don’t know.” She clutched a pillow to her chest, drew in a deep breath, and recited the details of that horrible day. Her voice held little emotion, as if the events hadn’t destroyed her life.
Her tragic tale of a young girl’s pain and loneliness tore at him, all the more because of the ring of truth infusing each word. Whatever had happened that day, she believed her version of the events.
When she finished, she stood and stumbled to the porthole and stared outside. The thin, almost-transparent, oversize white T-shirt revealed the enticing mounds of her lush breasts and her long, shapely legs.
He gulped. Don’t look. The command thundered through him. But he looked. Damn right he did. Not something an Eagle Scout would do.
Definitely not.
Chapter 15
She stared through the porthole’s thick glass and studied the waves crashing on the gravel beach and the familiar rocky headland. How many times had she climbed over those rocks searching for treasures that had washed ashore on the wild west coast surf?
Russ cleared his throat. “You really believe that Angus was involved in your parents’ disappearance?”
“I can’t prove it, but I know he did something to them, something bad.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, his hair mussed from sleep, clad in a pair of navy briefs that only added to his sexiness. “Does anyone else believe your version of the events?” Doubt clouded his golden eyes.
She wasn’t surprised. Why would he believe the adoptive father he’d loved, a man who took him in after Russ’s parents died, was a cold-blooded murderer? Somehow, she found the courage to meet his gaze. “If it’s any consolation, no one else believes me either.”
A swirl of emotion blazed in the depths of his eyes. He stood and enfolded her in his arms, gathering her against him.
His unspoken compassion broke the dam, and tears flooded her eyes, slipped down her cheeks, and dampened his bare chest. She inhaled his male scent and burrowed closer to his comforting warmth. The steady beat of his heart beneath her ear was calming.
As if reluctant to release her, he tightened his embrace, but then he heaved a deep breath and dropped his arms and stepped back. Grabbing his wrinkled shirt from the floor, he tugged the T-shirt over his head and shoved his legs into his jeans and yanked them over his hips.
A sense of loss weighed her down, and she sagged on the bed.
“I’m sorry we anchored here. I can see that the island brings back a lot of upsetting memories, but we needed a safe bay to ride out the storm.” He scrubbed the dark stubble on his jaw, and the rasp of whiskers filled the small space. “As soon as the storm dies down, we’ll sail back to the mainland like I promised.”
Relief coursed through her at the thought of escaping the painful ghosts of the past haunting Shelter Island’s mist-shrouded shores. “Thank you for understanding.”
“No problem. I always look after my crew.” He smiled, releasing that devastating dimple.
Her heart fluttered. His crew. When had that happened? When had she gone from being his sworn enemy to a member of his crew? More to the point—why did she like the sound of it so much?
“In the meantime, why not try and get some rest?” He gestured at the rumpled double berth. “I’ll check the weather forecast.” He headed up the ladder and disappeared through the hatch.
She was exhausted, and her head throbbed. For years, she’d struggled to shut away the painful past, but today she’d ripped off the scab and discovered the pain was as fresh as twenty-three years ago.
Slumping back on the bed, she closed her eyes. The gentle rocking of the boat, the steady patter of rain against the porthole window, the fresh rain-scented air drifting from the open hatch was soothing, and she dozed off only to awaken, her pulse pounding, the old, familiar terror raging.
She jerked up. Pink wisps of dawn’s early light seeped through the porthole. Somehow, she’d slept through the night. The bed beside her was empty with no indication Russ had slept beside her. Relief, mixed with a tinge of regret, washed over her.
In the past few days her world had been rocked to the core. Angus Crawford was dead. That knowledge should have been a relief and ended her nightmares once and for all. But for some inexplicable reason, he’d left her his fortune, and the old terrors had returned full force as if he haunted her from his grave. She shuddered and tugged the blankets to her chin. And now, mere meters of ocean separated her from Shelter Island, the one place populated by the ghosts of the past.
Add in the unexpected complication of her increasing attraction to Russ, and she was in a real mess. She’d expected to detest him like she hated Angus, but Russ was kind and compassionate. To say nothing of his rugged good looks and body like a Greek god. She shouldn’t be thinking of him in any aspect other than the necessary ordeal of settling Angus Crawford’s will, but there was her dilemma. Her brain told her one thing, but her body had entirely different ideas.
Oh man. Did it ever.
Tossing back the covers, she swung her legs off the bed and stood. Her clothes, wrinkled but dry, hung from a wooden rail at the foot of the berth. She slipped out of the oversize T-shirt and grabbed her leggings and wriggled into them, tugging them over her hips. Shrugging her bra and shirt on, she crossed the cabin to the head.
The tiny washroom was compact with no wasted space. She used the toilet, and then washed her face and hands in the miniscule metal sink. Peering in the mirror, she bit back a groan. She hardly recognized the woman looking back. Her face was pale, and dark circles underscored her puffy eyes. Even worse, her hair was a disaster. The short red strands were flattened from gale-force winds, salt spray, rain, and tossing and turning on the pillow. She cupped her fingers under the tap and splashed water on her hair, attempting to tame the unruly locks.
She grimaced. Hopeless.
Opening the door, she left the head and strode to the ladder. She’d reached a decision. If she had any hope of vanquishing the specters of the past, she had to face the nightmare head-on, even if the thought of doing so made her head ache and her heart pound. She climbed through the hatch and stepped onto the deck.
“There you are.” Russ smiled, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay.” She flushed at the blatant untruth. Her stomach churned, and her head throbbed. “How about you? Did you get any sleep?”
He pointed toward the stern of the small boat. “I stretched out on the bench for a couple of hours.”
“Oh. That’s good.” What more could she say? Tell him she wished he’d snuggled in the berth beside her? This thing—attraction? lust?—between them was wrong on so many levels. For starters, he was Angus Crawford’s adopted son. Add in his resentment of her for being the main beneficiary of Angus’s estate, and the circumstances spelled trouble.
Trouble? More like a complete disaster.
If that weren’t enough, she wasn’t into one-night stands. And she certainly wasn’t interested in a fling, no matter how attractive he was. They lived in different provinces, hundreds of kilometers apart. The only possible outcome was a broken heart, and she was too smart for that. Damn right, she was. She ignored the tiny voice laughing inside her head.
“The storm’s pretty much blown itself out.” He rubbed his hands. “We can heave anchor whenever you’re ready.”
Light rain pattered the deck.
She studied the menacing clouds. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I checked the weather report, and things are looking good. Barometer’s rising. We should have a smooth sail home.”
“I…I—” Her voice broke. “—I’ve changed my mind. I want to visit the island.” She inhaled a shaky breath. Every cell in her body protested her decision, but she held firm to her resolve. “Maybe if I see my old home again, I’ll be able t
o move on.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”
“No, but this is something I think I have to do. I should have visited the island long before this.” For years she’d avoided returning to Shelter Island. She’d fought against the suggestion when both her therapist and Aunt Clara broached the idea. But maybe, now Angus was gone, seeing the old homestead, as painful as that would be, would give her closure.
Maybe.
Chapter 16
An hour later, they stood on the rocky shores of Shelter Island. Surf foamed around Athena’s sneaker-clad feet, washing ashore broken pieces of clamshells, sea glass, and smooth pebbles with every surge. Long, ropy strings of bull kelp and eelgrass littered the beach. Red and purple sea urchins and anemones clung to the rocks in the clear tidal pools. Tiny sand crabs scurried for cover under driftwood and rocks, as squawking gulls swooped and dove, hoping for an easy supper.
She led the way as they climbed the slippery wet rocks to the headland. The rain had stopped, but water dripped from the branches of the trees towering overhead. She inhaled the familiar smells of fresh sea air, cedar, and rich, wet earth. “Nothing’s changed. Everything looks the same as I remember.” A slew of memories assailed her, and the lump in her throat made swallowing difficult. The island looked the same, but a lot had changed. She didn’t live on the island anymore, and her parents were gone, vanished from these very shores.
“Your old house is north of here, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Our place was about a kilometer over that hill, on a rise overlooking a small bay. There should be a path here somewhere that follows the ridge. We used the trail when we hiked to this beach to harvest oysters.” She searched under the soaring red cedar, Sitka spruce, and hemlock trees for signs of the old trail.
Hidden in the shadows under the leafy fronds of western sword ferns, Salal, and the tangled mats of huckleberry bushes was a slight indentation in the hard-packed earth. “There’s the trail.” She scuffed her feet through the soft sand, hesitating. Did she really want to continue the trip down memory lane?
As if sensing her indecision, Russ moved beside her. “We can go back to the boat. Just say the word, and we’re outta here.”
“I’d like nothing better than to take you up on your offer, but I have to do this. I should have come here years ago.” She stiffened her spine, set her jaw, and started along the path.
Brambles tore at her leggings as she scrambled over gnarled tree roots and the massive, moss-covered trunks of fallen trees blocking the path. Every step carried the weight of an old memory. The trail wound past an outcropping of smooth, moss-covered basalt rocks that she used to imagine was a castle. She’d stood on top and scoured the sea, searching for attacking pirates.
She paused by an ancient Sitka spruce. The massive tree stretched into the heavens. Its trunk was more than a meter thick, the bark rough and cracked with deep crevasses. The branches, as thick as her thighs, were coated with draping fronds of gray, feathery moss. Her father had told her the tree was over five hundred years old.
She ran her hands over the indentations scored into the thick bark. Maggie, encased in a small heart, was still visible. She’d been six when her father had used his hunting knife and carved her name into the tree. Fearing he was hurting the tree, her tears had flowed, and she’d tried to stop him when the tree sap bubbled to the surface of the fresh wound.
He’d taken her in his strong arms and assured her the tree would be fine, and the wounds would heal, but her name would remain carved in the bark forever. She closed her eyes and, for the briefest heartbeat, inhaled a whiff of the sweet-cherry pipe tobacco her father smoked. Tears stung her eyes.
“You okay?” Russ’s deep voice broke through the haze of memories.
She patted the carving. “Being here is—” She shrugged, unable to express with words her mixed emotions.
He rested his warm, broad hand on her shoulder. “I can’t imagine how difficult this is.”
Fighting the desperate urge to lose herself in his warm embrace, she shrugged off his hand and swung away from the tree. Setting one foot in front of the other, she continued along the trail. If she wanted peace, if she wanted to stop drinking, she had to see this through. But, oh man, was it difficult.
The closer they came to the small clearing where her family home had stood, the heavier her steps. Twenty-three years had passed. The west coast’s punishing winds and rains were hard on manmade structures. Would the house still be standing?
Dark, frightening memories of that last night threatened to overwhelm her, and her pace slowed, each step like slogging through thick, viscous mud. She paused at the final fringe of trees, struggling to gather the courage to enter the clearing.
Russ draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, offering her silent support.
The desire for a drink roared through her, almost driving her to her knees. If it hadn’t been for Russ’s supporting arms, she’d have fallen. It would be so easy to turn back to the boat and sail away from the island, to never face the nightmare of her past. So easy.
But could she live with herself if she took the coward’s way out? She’d wasted too many years living in fear, buried in the past. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out of the dense forest.
Thick, waist-high mats of blackberry and wild raspberry bushes choked the clearing. Wild sea grass and orange-and-purple wildflowers swayed like waves in the ocean breeze. A huge Douglas fir had blown down. The thick trunk lay across the crushed remains of the shed where her father had kept his tools. Beyond the shed, on a slight rise, was the house.
Her breath caught in her throat. The rancher was smaller than she remembered. Moss covered the cedar-shake roof, and white paint flaked from the walls, revealing the faded gray of weathered wood. The glass in one window was shattered, and a tattered, faded curtain fluttered in the breeze as if the building had declared a truce against the unrelenting attack of the elements.
Her father had built the house with his own hands. Every spring he applied a fresh coat of white paint to the outside walls in a futile attempt to stave off the damaging assaults of the damp salt air and fierce nor’easters.
The wooden garden boxes, where her mother had grown vegetables and strawberries, had rotted, spilling rich black dirt onto the weed-choked ground. The old hen house had collapsed in a jumble of rotting wood and chicken wire.
“Your parents picked an ideal location. You can see all over the bay from here.” Russ shoved aside a fallen branch and stepped over a rusted shovel lying half-submerged in the ground.
She smiled through her tears. “Mom loved looking out the kitchen window when she was cooking or doing dishes. She said this spot was her little piece of paradise.”
“The roof is still standing, and the place looks safe. Do you want to go inside?”
Did she want to enter the house? She swallowed.
She did.
And she didn’t.
The last time she was inside the house, the nightmare of her missing parents had spiraled into a terrible reality. But she was there to face her demons. She sucked in a shaky breath. “Let’s check it out.” Placing one unsteady foot in front of the other, she waded through the brambles to the front of the house.
The wooden porch steps sagged, a large, ragged hole where the bottom step had once stood.
“Careful.” Russ grasped her arm and helped her over the gap and up the rickety steps to the small covered porch.
The wood planking groaned and creaked under her weight. Curls of faded red paint peeled off the weather-stained, wooden front door. She thrust off an image of her mother singing her favorite old-time rock and roll songs as she wielded a paintbrush and painted the door a vibrant crimson. Athena had helped by swiping her own brush across the smooth surface, dripping more paint on the porch than the door.
“That might be a problem.”
She wiped her damp face with her sleeve and shot Russ a glance. “What are you talking about?”<
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He pointed at a shiny new padlock hanging on a thick chain between the doorframe and the tarnished door handle. “Looks like someone doesn’t want people going inside.”
“The door’s locked?” She blinked. They couldn’t go inside the house. A spurt of relief washed over her. But she’d come all this way. “Why would it be locked?”
He shrugged. “The lawyer told me Angus had a guy look after his cottage. Maybe he watched this house as well.” He tugged at the chain. “The caretaker still lives on the island. The estate’s paying him now.”
“Why would the caretaker lock this door? I can’t imagine there’s anything of value in the house. Not after all these years.”
His brow furrowed. “Your parents’ disappearance was all over the news. People are still curious about what happened.” He nodded at the padlock. “The lock’s probably to stop nosey people from snooping.”
She tugged on the door handle, rattling the chain. Now that she’d come this far, she refused to be turned away. “Isn’t there something you can do, some way we can get inside?”
“You really want in there, don’t you?”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Okay.” He leaped off the porch and, shoving brambles aside, he strode across the clearing and disappeared behind the collapsed shed. He returned seconds later with a rusty shovel.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Smash the chain.”
She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “That’s breaking and entering.”
“Are you forgetting the terms of Angus’s will? I own this island. I assume that means all the buildings, including this one.” He lifted the shovel over his shoulder and swung, grunting with the effort. The blade struck the chain with a loud metallic thunk.
The links broke apart, the padlock fell to the porch with a clatter, and the chain dangled.
He kicked the lock aside and grasped the door handle and yanked. The door wrenched open with a loud, protesting squeal of long-unoiled hinges. He grinned and gestured. “After you, m’lady.”