by Brenda Novak
And that was when she saw it.
A man’s booted foot.
Someone was crouching behind her mother’s old piano.
The scream curdled Isaac Morgan’s blood. He’d seen headlights pass by his place, knew it was probably Claire. It’d been a while since she’d come to her mother’s studio. He had a feeling his proximity served as a deterrent, especially since David’s death. But even the chance of coming face-to-face with him in such a private setting didn’t scare her away entirely.
He usually turned a blind eye to her visits and pretended not to notice. He understood what she’d been through, why she couldn’t let go, and felt she deserved privacy to deal with her demons.
Lord knew he preferred privacy to deal with his.
It was the second set of headlights, appearing only a few minutes later, that had drawn him out of the house. He doubted she’d bring anyone up here; she tried too hard to act as if she was fine, as if the past didn’t bother her, but it did. The amount of weight she’d lost was alarming.
Determined to investigate, he’d walked over. It was the Fourth of July, after all. The last thing he needed was a group of teenagers—teenagers who were even half as reckless as he’d been—coming up here and setting off fireworks. As dry as it’d been this summer, they could start a forest fire that would take every single cabin. But all he’d found was Claire’s Camaro. He’d been skirting the property and using his flashlight to comb through the trees in search of the second car when that scream sliced through him.
Claire!
Forgetting everything except getting to the cabin, he took off at a full run, moving much faster than he should have amid so many rocks, logs, gopher holes, pinecones and trees. With his flashlight bouncing every time his foot landed on the forest floor, the ground blurred beneath him. But he didn’t dare slow down—and that was why he never saw the tree branch that knocked him on his back.
The sudden impact left him breathless. Blinking up at the sky, he struggled to fill his lungs.
By the time he recovered and picked up his flashlight, which had gone flying, an engine roared to life on the far side of the property.
The other car. It’d gone beyond the cabin and circled behind, to an area he hadn’t yet reached.
Isaac almost changed direction. He hated that someone might’ve hurt Claire and would get away with it if he didn’t at least see the car. But if Claire was still alive and needed help, every second could matter.
The driver was tearing out of the forest as fast as possible, regardless of the damage such rough terrain might cause his vehicle. Isaac spotted a flash of taillights through the trees and wished he could see more, but he wasn’t in the best condition to follow, even if whoever was behind the wheel had been moving more slowly. Blood soaked his shirt, causing the fabric to stick to him. That branch hadn’t only knocked him down, it’d punched a hole in his chest.
But he might be in good shape compared to Claire. Afraid he was already too late, that she’d been killed as her mother had most likely been killed when they were in high school, he ignored the pain and hurried to the stoop, where he slowly pushed in the door. He wouldn’t have been able to hear her scream so clearly if she hadn’t been close…?.
Sure enough, there was blood at the entrance. And the door would open only partway…?.
Something, or someone, lay behind it.
When Claire came to, it was pitch-black and she was being carried. Where, she couldn’t tell. A man’s muscular chest provided a resting place for her head; one arm supported her back, the other her knees. She had no idea who she was with or where she was at, but she wasn’t frightened because both her surroundings and this person smelled so familiar.
David’s was the first name she thought of, but she disregarded that guess instantly. Her husband was dead. She’d had to remind herself of that every morning for the past thirteen months and had finally started to believe it, mostly because she felt so empty inside and she’d never felt empty when David was alive. Besides, David had sold insurance; he’d smelled like cologne, the occasional cigar and his briefcase. This man smelled like…soap and fir trees and wood smoke.
Where had she noticed that scent before?
With a groan, she lifted her head in an effort to see his face, but it was too dark. They were in the forest. The thick branches overhead blocked even the moon’s glow, but the beam of the flashlight he held in one hand—the hand cradling her legs—showed the ground and confirmed her location. So did the pine needles that threatened to catch in her long, curly hair as they hurried through the trees.
Why was she in the forest? Who was she with? What had happened?
Then it came to her. She’d been attacked. At her mother’s studio.
The man carrying her hadn’t reacted when she first stirred. He was too focused on getting them wherever they were going. But when she screamed and tried to get down, he dropped the flashlight.
“Shh,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it? “Who are you?”
“How quickly they forget.”
The wry humor in his voice gave away his identity. This was Isaac Morgan. Of course. He lived closest. And it was no wonder she’d recognized his scent. During the two-year period when she and David had split up, when he’d attended Boise State and they’d both dated other people and been undecided about their future, she’d had sex with Isaac at least a hundred times. Maybe more. Often enough for her to have formed an addiction to his touch that hadn’t been easy to break. Even after so long, she avoided him if possible; just the sight of him could send a powerful charge through her. The memories were that good.
She raised a hand to her aching head. “Why—why’d you hit me?”
With a groan, he squatted and managed to recover the flashlight. “I didn’t hit you.”
“Who did?”
The way he sucked air through his teeth as he lifted her again suggested he was struggling to bear her weight, but she couldn’t figure out why. She weighed less now than ever, and he used to lift her up, hold her against the wall as long as he wanted while he—
Stop! She didn’t want to remember, had trained herself not to remember.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said when they were moving again.
The image of a man’s booted foot appeared in her mind. She’d seen that foot just before someone sprang at her and knocked the flashlight out of her hands.
Isaac probably had a similar pair of boots. Most men around here did. But she knew the person who’d shoved her after knocking her flashlight away hadn’t been Isaac. Any confrontation with Isaac happened head-on. The few people in Pineview who’d experienced the brunt of his temper made sure they never tangled with him again. Cynical and remote, he was indifferent to her and, as much as she’d once wanted to believe otherwise, always had been. If she needed proof she only had to remember their last encounter. When she knew David was returning from school, she’d tried to talk with Isaac, to tell him she’d developed feelings for him. She and David hadn’t promised each other anything, but they had a long history and he wasn’t seeing anyone. She’d wanted to determine how she should respond if he called her, whether or not she and Isaac had a commitment—and Isaac had let her know she’d been mistaken in thinking sex equaled love.
That night when she left his house hurt and humiliated, she swore she’d never go back. And despite the terrible cravings he’d evoked over the years—dreams that were sometimes so vivid she woke gasping with the kind of pleasure he’d given her—she’d kept that promise so she could have a more meaningful relationship with David.
And it’d been worth it. Maybe sex with David hadn’t been as all-consuming, as raw, as it was with Isaac. Maybe she missed that bone-melting intensity. But David had made up for it by giving her so much more. Moody, unpredictable men were excellent bait, but the women who bit down on that hook were fools.
She couldn’t believe she’d ever hoped for a comm
itment from Isaac. He wasn’t the type to settle down. She’d known that from the beginning. Although they’d never been close friends, she and David had gone to school with him—they’d been in the same grade—so she’d seen firsthand how standoffish he could be. Ever since she could remember, he’d walked around with a camera, always on the other side of the lens, filming life but removed from it. And, if she’d forgotten how hard it was to connect with him, practically anyone in Pineview could remind her, including the women who’d tried to capture his heart and failed just as miserably.
“Where are…where are you taking me?” She had to make an effort to form coherent sentences. But if she was in Isaac’s arms again, it was definitely time to speak up, to get away if she could.
“Hold still.”
Great. He was being his typical accommodating self. But when he stopped to adjust his grip on her, she knew he’d spoken curtly from necessity. What was wrong with him? He’d never had any trouble carrying her before. Since their sexual heyday he’d become even more muscular, which should be making this easier…?.
“Are you trying to…tell me you think I’ve gotten fat?”
“I’m trying to tell you that it hurts like hell every time you move.”
Suddenly she realized she might not have been the only one who’d had a run-in with her attacker. “The man who hit me…he didn’t…shoot you or…or anything, did he?”
Obviously intent on making progress, he didn’t respond.
“Hello?” she said.
“Just take it easy.” It came out as a command, which didn’t surprise her. He was always in charge.
On second thought, she had to admit there’d been plenty of give-and-take in the bedroom. But she couldn’t admire that without undermining her efforts to maintain some self-respect.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—there were plenty of other things to think about. Maybe he was struggling because the ground was so uneven. Or he’d been carrying her for too long.
Regardless, Claire knew she shouldn’t let herself rely on him. He was dangerous for her, probably even more dangerous now that she had such a vacuum in her life. She missed David, but David was gone and Isaac was very much alive—as alive and capable as he’d ever been. Far too many times in the past six months her thoughts had gravitated to him and how quickly he could put an end to her lonely nights. Maybe he was a cheap substitute for David, but there were times when that seemed better than nothing.
“Put me down,” she said.
He switched the flashlight to his other hand. “We’re almost…there.”
“I can walk.” She wasn’t really sure of that, but she pushed on his chest to convince him to let her go—and immediately regretted it. They both gasped as her hand touched a wet, sticky substance.
He was bleeding. She’d been right; he was hurt.
With a curse, he tightened his hold but didn’t seem to be getting over what she’d done as quickly as she would’ve liked. “Shit, Claire, will you hold still?”
“Claire?” she echoed.
“Isn’t that your name?”
It just sounded funny, coming from his lips after so long. Except for a few incidents when she’d found him staring at her at the tavern, or she’d glanced up while she was getting gas at the Fill ’n’ Go to realize he was there, too, he’d made it look darn easy to forget her.
“Considering all the women you’ve been with, I figured you’d have a harder time keeping us straight, that’s all.” She was trying to hide how shaken she was to have his blood on her hand, not knowing how serious his wound was. He was always getting hurt; he’d often said he had nine lives. But she suspected he’d already used up that many.
Because of the pain in her head and her distress, she had to relax against his shoulder or risk throwing up. Closing her eyes, she shut out the shifting light, which only made her dizzier.
“How bad is it?” she mumbled when her concern for his well-being overcame her resistance to letting him know she cared.
“You’re going to be fine.”
“I was talking about you.”
“We’ll see.”
Then the most terrible thing in the world happened—tears filled her eyes. She wasn’t even sure why, except that she felt so helpless in the face of everything that had gone wrong. When would it end? First her mother’s disappearance, then her sister’s accident, then David’s death, and now she’d been attacked. To top it all, she was being carried through the woods by the one person she’d do anything to hide her pain from—and couldn’t because he was right there to witness it.
Damn it, she didn’t want to be this transparent, didn’t want Isaac to see her so near the breaking point.
Clenching her jaw, she blinked fast, but the tears came, anyway. So she began to pray he wouldn’t notice—and knew that prayer hadn’t been answered when he spoke to her in the same gentle tone she’d once heard him use with a lame horse.
“Shh, it’s okay. Don’t cry.”
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4
Leanne wasn’t happy but that didn’t come as a surprise. To Claire’s dismay, her sister never seemed happy.
She watched Leanne maneuver her wheelchair to reach the nightstand, where she set the glass of water and the pain pills she’d brought in case Claire needed them later. The disgruntled frown that tugged at her lips bothered Claire, but not as much as the low-cut pink nightgown her sister was wearing. Held up by two black ribbons tied in bows, one over each shoulder, it went to her ankles—but it was too low-cut to be worn in front of a man other than an intimate boyfriend or husband.
And this was how she’d answered the door when Myles brought Claire home.
Unable to bite her tongue any longer, Claire broke the tense silence that’d fallen between them as soon as the sheriff left. She knew Leanne had plenty to say about what’d happened at the studio tonight—plenty about how she shouldn’t have been there in the first place—and thought she might as well air her own grievances before Leanne could get started. “You didn’t mind letting Myles see you like that?”
Her sister’s chin jutted out. “Like what?”
“Wearing sexy lingerie?” With no effort at all, Claire could make out the tattoo of a mermaid on her sister’s right breast. When Leanne bent forward, she could see clear to her navel—but glanced away. Leanne’s lack of modesty embarrassed her now as much as it had a few minutes earlier. What had gotten into her lately? Why was she acting like this?
Claire knew she struggled to feel attractive despite her handicap. It was heartbreaking to watch and the primary reason Claire had agreed with Leanne’s decision to get breast implants. She’d even helped pay for the operation. But Leanne had changed so drastically since the surgery, had become so blatantly sexual. Was she trying to prove that she was just as attractive and capable of pleasing a man as anyone who could walk?
It felt that way. But passing herself around to every guy who showed interest wouldn’t solve her self-esteem problem. And it wouldn’t do her reputation any favors, either, especially in such a small community.
“What are you talking about?” Leanne asked. “It’s not like this is transparent or anything.”
It didn’t need to be transparent to be inappropriate. Claire made an effort to hold on to her temper. She knew how easily this could blow up into a major argument and didn’t relish the idea of any more trouble with her sister. They always seemed to be at each other’s throats these days. “But you hate gossip. Why make yourself the focus of it?”
Leanne shrugged. “Folks around here are going to stare and talk no matter what. I have this wheelchair to thank for that. And Mom didn’t do us any favors when she ran off.”
Claire couldn’t stop herself from bristling. Leanne had just thrown her first jab, no doubt one of many. “You don’t know she ran off, Lee.”
“I know that’s the most likely answer—and I’m tough enough to accept it.”
Unlike her. The implication was too obvious t
o ignore. “Don’t start.”
Her sister’s blue eyes, a shade lighter than her own, flashed with the anger she’d kept concealed while Myles was in the house. “You need to hear it. You think finding out the truth will somehow make things better? That you’ll be able to prove she loved you? That’s pathetic. Dad and I have asked you and asked you to leave the past alone, but you won’t. You just have to convince yourself that no one would ever willingly abandon you.”
She meant Tug when she said Dad. They called Tug and Roni Dad and Mom, even though their real dad was alive and in Wyoming with his other family. He was such an angry individual, so difficult to deal with, that Alana had preferred to let him go on his way unfettered—and he’d had no argument with that plan because he’d signed the adoption papers the moment she sent them. He was probably glad to escape legal responsibility for the children he’d left behind so he could pretend he’d never been married the first time. “I’ve accepted that our real dad didn’t love us enough to hang on, haven’t I?”
“That was easier. He took off when you were three and I was a baby. Tug’s the one who’s loved us and looked after us but you don’t care about what’s best for him.” She motioned to the bump on Claire’s head. “And this is what you get.”
Claire shoved herself into a sitting position. “Are you saying I deserved this?”
“I’m saying it could’ve been avoided if you weren’t so damn selfish.”
The barb stung, especially because Claire couldn’t be sure it wasn’t true. “Selfish, Lee? Really? This isn’t about me. There’s more to what happened when Mom disappeared than you think. And I feel a certain…obligation to get to the bottom of it. What I can’t understand is why you don’t feel the same. She was your mother, too!”
“I have some loyalty to the parent who did stick around. Why aren’t you more grateful to Dad?”
Claire remembered what she’d read in the files at the cabin. She almost asked Leanne why she’d never told anyone she’d been out of school for three hours on the day their mother went missing. Where had she gone? And why? Was she being loyal to their father when it came to that information, too?