“Tell me his name.”
“There’s no reason for you to know his name, because he’s already . . . I killed him.”
It took every bit of willpower he possessed, and some he didn’t know he had, not to roar. “Would you mind at least telling me where the bastard’s body is buried?”
He nearly lost the battle when she looked up—not at him, merely toward him—and Gunnar saw tears threatening to spill from her utterly emotionless eyes.
“I believe it’s still buried under several tons of snow on some mountain in the Swiss Alps.”
Of course it was, because I buried it in Idaho would have made too much sense.
She stood, the movement finally freeing her tears to form two damp tracks in the dust on her cheeks. “This conversation is over,” she said, striding toward the trees.
“Katy.”
She stopped and looked directly at him, those two dusty tracks now muddy rivers. “In fact, we never had it. And if you ever try to bring it up again, I won’t . . . I’ll probably kill you, too.”
He believed her, Gunnar decided as he watched her quietly walk away. Not the killing him part; but the bastard who’d raped her was indeed dead. Gunnar believed Katy believed she was somehow responsible. He closed his eyes and dropped his head onto the table with a growl, wishing she hadn’t beaten him to it. And then he began another battle with himself, this one to replace the image of her being drugged and bound and brutalized with images from this past month of a vibrant, flirtatious enchantress captivating him with killer smiles and life-saving kisses.
Hell, he wouldn’t have disappeared for two weeks; he’d probably still be running.
And she’d been dealing with the consequences. Alone. Thousands of miles from home. Telling strangers in some clinic or emergency room what had happened, then hiding in Idaho while she healed—also alone. Because if Katy had told anyone in her family, she sure as hell wouldn’t be in Spellbound Falls now; she’d still be locked in her childhood bedroom in Pine Creek, her parents probably too shaken to let her even walk to the store by herself.
He wouldn’t blame them, because even though he couldn’t begin to imagine the hell Katy had gone through—and still was and likely would be forever—he wanted to hunt down the bastard and kill him himself. Or kill him again if he truly was dead, even if he had to climb a goddamn mountain to do it.
Gunnar sat up taller. That’s why Katy hadn’t told her family; not because she was afraid they wouldn’t have let her out of their sight for the next hundred years, but because she knew they would have gone after the bastard.
But for reasons he couldn’t fathom, she’d told him, and unwittingly provided enough pieces of the puzzle to put a name to her rapist. Because the odds of one of the men at the school celebration that night also recently dying had to be a billion to one.
Peering through the trees and glimpsing her sunfire hair at least three campsites down the lane, Gunnar pulled out his phone and called the best damn researcher no amount of money could buy. “I need you to find out if any mountain climbers have died in the Swiss Alps within the last six weeks,” he said as soon as the line was picked up. “I want his name, how he died, and exactly when.”
“Brandon Fontanne, age forty-six, and he suddenly keeled over dead two hundred meters from the summit of the Matterhorn exactly two days ago.”
“You can’t possibly know that off the top of your head.”
“Sure I can, if I’ve been seeing the guy’s face plastered on every cable news channel at least once an hour for the last two days. And thank you for asking,” she drawled. “I’m feeling quite fine today. And yourself? I see nobody’s killed you in the last month.”
Gunnar dropped his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry. I’ve been . . . preoccupied.”
“If that Scottish girl you’re chasing is what’s keeping you too busy to call and see how your dear old aunt is doing, then I forgive you—assuming she’s as sweet as she is pretty.”
Gunnar muttered a curse under his breath. “I am firing Hanson today. I’m not bluffing this time, May. I pay that man to keep his mouth shut.”
“You fire your tech guru and you’re going to be looking for a new researcher, too.”
Gunnar couldn’t quite stifle a grin. “Please tell me he at least got you for more than a couple of apple pies and some cookies this time.”
“Do you know what it costs to overnight pies and cookies to Toronto? And when he finally got around to calling me two weeks ago, the little weasel said that because you were working on something personal, he felt his info was worth a vacation in Reykjavik in my newly remodeled house for an entire month.”
Gunnar openly chuckled. “That should teach you to do business with a computer hacker. And didn’t I warn you about posting pictures of your home on Facebook?”
“What’s the point of getting a master chef’s kitchen if I can’t show it off to my friends?”
“Which tells me you friended someone you knew is a cybercriminal.”
“Whom you pay to commit those crimes.”
Well, she had him there. “So, what’s the problem? You’ve been sending Hanson pies for over two years now, and you’ve got three empty bedrooms and no one to eat your cooking. Offer to let the guy stay for a couple of weeks and feed him until he bursts.”
“Gunny,” she whisper-growled. “I can’t let a virtual stranger into my home. For all we know the man moonlights as a paid assassin. And if he doesn’t kill me in my sleep, I’ll die of mortification when the neighbors start gossiping.”
“Hanson’s just a kid, Aunt May, no more than twenty-one or -two years old. The neighbors will think you’re taking in strays again instead of having a flaming affair with a foreigner.”
“He’s just a kid?” she said in surprise. “On the phone, he sounds old. All this time, I’ve pictured him as a middle-aged, potbellied nerd with thick glasses and thinning hair who’s addicted to sweets. Oh, that poor dear is just a starving child. Now I feel bad for running off.”
His spidey-senses tingled. “Running off? Where are you?”
She chuckled. “Oh, just a little R & R. I’ll be back home before Hanson hits town.”
“Be careful,” Gunnar warned. “You start mothering him and you’re going to find yourself with a permanent guest. And as you well know, I pay that poor dear enough to hire a personal cook. So, are they saying what made the bastard suddenly keel over dead two hundred meters from the summit?”
May paused, like she’d expected him to say something else. “Um, they won’t know until they dig his body out of the avalanche it caused when he fell and then do an autopsy. But you go ahead and keep right on cussing like that,” she snapped. “I’m sure it will really impress Miss MacBain. So,” she rambled on when he snorted, “if you’re in some town in Maine that I needed a magnifying glass to find on the map, why are you asking about a dead mountain climb— Wait a minute,” she muttered, her tone growing soft and distracted.
Gunnar sighed. She must have pulled out her tablet.
“Here it is,” she said after a few moments. “I assumed Fontanne had been highly respected in the climbing world to be making international news two days running, and I see he’s been a guest instructor at the mountain rescue school your Scottish lady attended.” She gave a little gasp. “In fact, he gave a clinic on technical climbing at the session Miss—”
Aunt May fell silent again, and then a heavy sigh came over the line. “Please don’t tell me you’ve spent all this time and energy pursuing the woman only to learn she’s emotionally unavailable. Gunnar Wolfe,” she rushed on in her listen-up-buster voice, “you better not be entertaining the notion you can step in and heal her wounds.” An even longer pause this time. “Oh, sweetie,” she said gently. “Hearts shatter into too many pieces when we’re abandoned or betrayed, and no one—not an eight-year-old boy and not even the amazing ma
n he became—can ever make that heart whole again.”
Gunnar in turn fell silent as memories he’d thought long buried tightened his chest.
“You are such a hard man to pray for,” May whispered. “Half the time I pray you’ll find a woman who deserves you, and half the time I catch myself praying you don’t.”
“This isn’t exactly a case of heartbreak, Auntie,” he returned just as softly. “In fact, I’m pretty sure Katy hated Fontanne’s guts.”
Another deep sigh, and then, “Is she as sweet as she is pretty?”
“You tell me,” he said dryly. “You’ve had her name an entire two weeks now. Hell, you probably know more about Katherine MacBain than I do.”
“Touché,” she said and gave an overly exuberant chuckle that made him a little nervous. “She didn’t go to college,” May continued.
“Neither did I.”
A snort came over the line. “There isn’t a college course you couldn’t teach. So,” she rushed on, “if you’ve spent tens of thousands of dollars flying all over creation, have called in probably another hundred thousand in favors, and are pretending to be a fireman, I’m guessing if this girl’s not sweeter than Mother Teresa, then she must be hell on wheels in bed.”
Gunnar laid his head on the table again. “Right after I fire Hanson,” he muttered into the phone, “I’m taking your name off all my bank accounts and getting my fuel bills sent to my new bookkeeper.”
Another snort. “As if that would get rid of me.”
“Also, I’m a fire chief now. And Katy—” He closed his eyes. “You’d love her, Auntie.”
“I already do,” May whispered. “Because you do,” she added a beat later.
He shot upright. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. And you know what, Gunny?”
“What?” he barely managed to get out as he thumped his head back down on the table.
“I also love you.” She gave a small laugh when his only response was silence—because hell, it’s damn hard to talk with a heart lodged in your throat. “And you know what else?”
He did manage to grunt this time.
“I got my passport renewed last week, and I’ve got a bad case of travel-itis,” she said, her laughter abruptly ending when the line suddenly went dead.
Gunnar opened his hand and let the phone drop to the table with another groan, only to bolt upright with a curse when her words finally sank in.
Son of a bitch, she was coming here!
To Maine.
To see for herself if Katherine MacBain deserved him.
Hell. If he couldn’t find a decent house to rent, he’d have to buy one, because he couldn’t have May traipsing to the bathhouse every time she needed to— No, wait. If he got them a house, she’d stay a month, but she’d hightail it home within a week if he simply bought another sleeping bag.
Gunnar stood and slipped his phone in his pocket with a sigh of defeat. He might be an ass, but he drew the line when it came to making the closest thing he’d ever had to a mother sleep in a wooden tent.
Chapter Fifteen
“So, tell me again what’s so all-fired important out here?” Katy gave her brother her twenty-fifth scowl of the morning.
“It’s hard to describe,” he said and looked out over the Bottomless Sea like he was searching for clues to a treasure hunt.
“When you asked me to come for the day, you might have mentioned we’d be out in the boat, Robbie. I’d have packed a hat.” Libby pushed flailing strands of hair out of her face and shielded her eyes with her hand. “It’s a little blustery.”
“Sorry. This came on sort of suddenly.”
“What came on? And what can we do about it?” The farther out they got, the more Katy’s annoyance grew. She didn’t get that many days off, and while she loved the surprise of time with her mother, it would have been nice to have some say in how they spent it.
“You’ll see soon enough.” Robbie slowed the boat and steered them toward the island off the starboard side of the boat.
“We’re going to the island?” Katy said. “What in the world, Robbie?”
“On the plus side, I guess we’ll know what he’s planning soon enough.” Ever the peacemaker, Libby pushed her hair out of her face yet again and smiled at her daughter.
“Yeah, Katy. You’ll know soon enough.” Robbie flashed her a secretive grin. “Can you tie us up?” He tipped his head toward the approaching dock.
Eyes rolling, Katy hurried to the bow and grabbed the dock line. Poised and ready, she waited until they got a foot or two away and then jumped to the dock platform. Quick as lightning, she secured the line, then hurried to the stern, caught the second line as Robbie threw it her way, and wrapped it around the cleat.
“Nice job,” her mother called.
The sight of her pride over such a small thing softened Katy’s mood. It was really nice to have her mom there, and no matter what Robbie had in mind for them, she couldn’t deny that she really needed to soak up some maternal comfort. Just being around her mom always made her feel better.
“Yeah, seems like you’ve still got it,” Robbie said, face shining like he’d just cured cancer or something.
“Um . . . of course I’ve still got it, brother. My new job keeps me kinda active, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Does it now?” he said with a smirk, then jumped to the dock and held his hand out for Libby to do the same. “Happy to know you can handle yourself, little sister.”
Katy studied him and readied her twenty-sixth scowl. She knew that tone; he was up to something, and not a surprise-birthday-party sort of something. Her brother was winding up for a curveball, his favorite pitch. But before she could figure anything else out, he was scurrying behind her, untying one rope and then the other. Her mouth fell open as he hopped back on the boat.
“Robbie! What are you doing?” Libby’s voice held a tone Katy hadn’t heard in years, not since the days of full-on sibling squabbles.
“Sorry, Mom. This needs to happen. I’m done watching the two of you dance around whatever’s going on.” He fired up the boat and slowly backed away from the dock. “Here,” he called and tossed an insulated bag at Katy’s feet. “I packed you some lunch. Have fun.”
Katy glanced at her mom and saw the same slack-jawed surprise she felt on her own face. A warm blush followed, reminding her that, unlike her mother, she knew exactly what Robbie was talking about. “I am so going to kill him.”
“You’re going to have to get in line,” Libby said, also glaring at their only means of leaving the island racing away.
After a few moments, the two women looked back at each other, and Katy instantly smiled when she saw her mother’s eyes narrow. “Why would Robbie go to all this trouble to maroon us out here together?” Libby asked, gesturing in the general direction of the campsite while keeping her eyes locked on Katy.
“How should I—” Katy snapped her mouth shut when those big brown eyes narrowed even more, then hung her head on a sigh. “Because he loves me,” she whispered. She looked up. “And because he loves you. He doesn’t want there to ever be any secrets between us.”
Libby’s face softened, a mixture of anxiety and concern. “What secrets, honey? What is he worried about?”
Katy hung her head, picked up the insulated bag, and walked toward the shore. “Maybe we should have some lunch,” she said.
After she’d laid out every single item Robbie had packed in the bag—ham sandwiches, homemade pickles, thick slices of cheese, and a tin of snickerdoodles—then doled out bottles of water, paper plates, and napkins, Katy finally felt ready to look her mother in the eye. As soon as her pupils landed on the shimmering wall of love looking back at her, the words came and the whole story tumbled from her lips.
Within minutes, her mother knew it all—the real adventure, th
e man who took advantage, the sordid next morning, complete with her abuser’s brand, and the running and hiding she’d done, particularly from herself. Next, she moved on to what she knew her brother worried about, the reason he’d taken matters into his own hands: her inherited gift. And finally, when she’d purged her body of every secret but the worst one, she pulled that one out like a rotten tooth and laid it at her mother’s feet.
With slow tears and soothing hands, her mother listened. She pursed her lips, wiped her eyes, and squeezed hands tight, both her own and those of her daughter. When the worst of the story came, she reached out and pressed her hand to the side of Katy’s face.
“Oh, my beautiful girl. I’m devastated to know how much you’ve suffered. And I’m so awed by your strength.”
Katy winced. “That wasn’t strength.”
“Oh, but it was, dear girl. Strength on top of strength.”
“And yet, in the end, I’m still sort of a murderer.”
Libby’s head shook in slow, purposeful arcs. “Oh, honey. I don’t think you can ‘sort of’ be a murderer any more than you can ‘sort of’ be pregnant. Either you are, or you aren’t.”
“Then I guess I am.”
Her mother’s eyes grew steely, and she straightened her spine like she meant to do battle. She reached out, gripped her daughter’s arm, and stretched it between them. The flesh, though healed beneath the bandage, seemed to throb with new anger. Katy winced at the memory of the brand, a V turned upside down—Fontanne’s version of a mountain, no doubt—with a tiny letter B at the top, like a flag planted by a victorious climber.
“So you’re keeping that mark to remind yourself that you’re a murderer?”
“Yes. No.” She stood, looked out over Bottomless, and hugged herself. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
“If you keep it, will the man be less dead?”
“No.”
“And if you let me remove it, will you be less of a murderer?”
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