The Welcoming

by Nora Roberts

  The night before, he had broken into her cash drawer and examined the bills she had neatly stacked and marked for today’s deposit. There had been over two thousand dollars in counterfeit Canadian currency. His first impulse had been to tell her, to lay everything he knew and needed to know out in front of her. But he had quashed that. Telling her wouldn’t prove her innocence to men like Conby.

  He had enough to get Block. And nearly enough, he thought, to hang Bob along with him. But he couldn’t get them without casting shadows on Charity. By her own admission, and according to the statements of her loyal staff, a pin couldn’t drop in the inn without her knowing it.

  If that was so, how could he prove that there had been a counterfeiting and smuggling ring going on under her nose for nearly two years?

  He believed it, as firmly as he had ever believed anything. Conby and the others at the Bureau wanted facts. Roman drew on his cigarette and watched the fog melt away with the rising of the sun. He had to give them facts. Until he could, he would give them nothing.

  He could wait and make sure Conby dropped the ax on Block on the guide’s next trip to the inn. That would give Roman time. Time enough, he promised himself, to make certain Charity wasn’t caught in the middle. When it went down, she would be stunned and hurt. She’d get over it. When it was over, and she knew his part in it, she would hate him. He would get over that. He would have to.

  He heard a car and glanced over, then returned his gaze to the water. He wondered if he could come back someday and stand in this same spot and wait for Charity to run down the road toward him.

  Fantasies, he told himself, pitching his half-finished cigarette into the dirt. He was wasting too much time on fantasies.

  The car was coming fast, its engine protesting, its muffler rattling. He looked over again, annoyed at having his morning and his thoughts disturbed.

  His annoyance saved his life.

  It took him only an instant to realize what was happening, and a heartbeat more to evade it. As the car barreled toward him, he leaped aside, tucking and rolling into the brush. A wave of displaced air flattened the grass before the car’s rear tires gripped the roadbed again. Roman’s gun was in his hand even as he scrambled to his feet. He caught a glimpse of the car’s rear end as it sped around a curve. There wasn’t even time to swear before he heard Charity’s scream.

  He ran, unaware of the fire in his thigh where the car had grazed him and the blood on his arm where he had rolled into a rock. He had faced death. He had killed. But he had never understood terror until this moment, with her scream still echoing in his head. He hadn’t understood agony until he’d seen Charity sprawled beside the road.

  The dog was curled beside her, whimpering, nuzzling her face with her nose. He turned at Roman’s approach and began to growl, then stood, barking.

  “Charity.” Roman crouched beside her, and felt for a pulse, his hand shaking. “Okay, baby. You’re going to be okay,” he murmured to her as he checked for broken bones.

  Had she been hit? A sickening vision of her being tossed into the air as the car slammed into her pulsed through his head. Using every ounce of control he possessed, he blocked it out. She was breathing. He held on to that. The dog whined as he turned her head and examined the gash on her temple. It was the only spot of color on her face. He stanched the blood with his bandanna, cursing when he felt its warmth on his fingers.

  Grimly he replaced his weapon, then lifted her into his arms. Her body seemed boneless. Roman tightened his grip, half afraid she might melt through his arms. He talked to her throughout the half-mile walk back to the inn, though she remained pale and still.

  Bob raced out the front door of the inn. “My God! What happened? What the hell did you do to her?”

  Roman paused just long enough to aim a dark, furious look at him. “I think you know better. Get me the keys to the van. She needs a hospital.”

  “What’s all this?” Mae came through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Lori said she saw—” She went pale, but then she began to move with surprising speed, elbowing Bob aside to reach Charity. “Get her upstairs.”

  “I’m taking her to the hospital.”

  “Upstairs,” Mae repeated, moving back to open the door for him. “We’ll call Dr. Mertens. It’ll be faster. Come on, boy. Call the doctor, Bob. Tell him to hurry.”

  Roman passed through the door, the dog at his heels. “And call the police,” he added. “Tell them they’ve got a hit-and-run.”

  Wasting no time on words, Mae led the way upstairs. She was puffing a bit by the time she reached the second floor, but she never slowed down. When they moved into Charity’s room, her color had returned.

  “Set her on the bed, and be careful about it.” She yanked the lacy coverlet aside and then just as efficiently, brushed Roman aside. “There, little girl, you’ll be just fine. Go in the bathroom,” she told Roman. “Get me a fresh towel.” Easing a hip onto the bed, she cupped Charity’s face with a broad hand and examined her head wound. “Looks worse than it is.” She let out a long breath. After taking the towel Roman offered, she pressed it against Charity’s temple. “Head wounds bleed heavy, make a mess. But it’s not too deep.”

  He only knew that her blood was still on his hands. “She should be coming around.”

  “Give her time. I want you to tell me what happened later, but I’m going to undress her now, see if she’s hurt anywhere else. You go on and wait downstairs.”

  “I’m not leaving her.”

  Mae glanced up. Her lips were pursed, and lines of worry fanned out from her eyes. After a moment, she simply nodded, “All right, then, but you’ll be of some use. Get me the scissors out of her desk. I want to cut this shirt off.”

  So that was the way of it, Mae mused as she untied Charity’s shoes. She knew a man who was scared to death and fighting his heart when she saw one. Well, she’d just have to get her girl back on her feet. She didn’t doubt for a moment that Charity could deal with the likes of Roman DeWinter.

  “You can stay,” she told him when he handed her the scissors. “But whatever’s been going on between the two of you, you’ll turn your back till I make her decent.”

  He balled his hands into impotent fists and shoved them into his pockets as he spun around. “I want to know where she’s hurt.”

  “Just hold your horses.” Mae peeled the shirt away and put her emotions on hold as she examined the scrapes and bruises. “Look in that top right-hand drawer and get me a nightshirt. One with buttons. And keep your eyes to yourself,” she added, “or I’ll throw you out of here.”

  In answer, he tossed a thin white nightshirt onto the bed. “I don’t care what she’s wearing. I want to know how badly she’s hurt.”

  “I know, boy.” Mae’s voice softened as she slipped Charity’s limp arm into a sleeve. “She’s got some bruises and scrapes, that’s all. Nothing broken. The cut on her head’s going to need some tending, but cuts heal. Why, she hurt herself worse when she fell out of a tree some time back. There’s my girl. She’s coming around.”

  He turned to look then, shirt or no shirt. But Mae had already done up the buttons. He controlled the urge to go to her—barely—and, keeping his distance, watched Charity’s lashes flutter. The sinking in his stomach was pure relief. When she moaned, he wiped his clammy hands on his thighs.

  “Mae?” As she struggled to focus her eyes, Charity reached out a hand. She could see the solid bulk of her cook, but little else. “What— Oh, God, my head.”

  “Thumping pretty good, is it?” Mae’s voice was brisk, but she cradled Charity’s hand in hers. She would have kissed it if she’d thought no one would notice. “The doc’ll fix that up.”

  “Doctor?” Baffled, Charity tried to sit up, but the pain exploded in her head. “I don’t want the doctor.”

  “Never did, but you’re having him just the same.”

  “I’m not going to . . .” Arguing took too much effort. Instead, she closed her eyes and concentra
ted on clearing her mind. It was fairly obvious that she was in bed—but how the devil had she gotten there?

  She’d been walking the dog, she remembered, and Ludwig had found a tree beside the road irresistible. Then . . .

  “There was a car,” she said, opening her eyes again. “They must have been drunk or crazy. It seemed like they came right at me. If Ludwig hadn’t already been pulling me off the road, I—” She wasn’t quite ready to consider that. “I stumbled, I think. I don’t know.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Mae assured her. “We’ll figure it all out later.”

  After a brisk knock, the outside door opened. A short, spry little man with a shock of white hair hustled in. He carried a black bag and was wearing grubby overalls and muddy boots. Charity took one look, then closed her eyes again.

  “Go away, Dr. Mertens. I’m not feeling well.”

  “She never changes.” Mertens nodded to Roman, then walked over to examine his patient.

  Roman slipped quietly out into the sitting room. He needed a moment to pull himself together, to quiet the rage that was building now that he knew she would be all right. He had lost his parents, he had buried his best friend, but he had never, never felt the kind of panic he had experienced when he had seen Charity bleeding and unconscious beside the road.

  Taking out a cigarette, he went to the open window. He thought about the driver of the old, rusted Chevy that had run her down. Even as his rage cooled, Roman understood one thing with perfect clarity. It would be his pleasure to kill whoever had hurt her.

  “Excuse me.” Lori was standing in the hall doorway, wringing her hands. “The sheriff’s here. He wants to talk to you, so I brought him up.” She tugged at her apron and stared at the closed door on the other side of the room. “Charity?”

  “The doctor’s with her,” Roman said. “She’ll be fine.”

  Lori closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’ll tell the others. Go on in, Sheriff.”

  Roman studied the paunchy man, who had obviously been called out of bed. His shirttail was only partially tucked into his pants, and he was sipping a cup of coffee as he came into the room.

  “You Roman DeWinter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sheriff Royce.” He sat, with a sigh, on the arm of Charity’s rose-colored Queen Anne chair. “What’s this about a hit-and-run?”

  “About twenty minutes ago somebody tried to run down Miss Ford.”

  Royce turned to stare at the closed door just the way Lori had done. “How is she?”

  “Banged up. She’s got a gash on her head and some bruises.”

  “Were you with her?” He pulled out a pad and a stubby pencil.

  “No. I was about a quarter mile away. The car swerved at me, then kept going. I heard Charity scream. When I got to her, she was unconscious.”

  “Don’t suppose you got a good look at the car?”

  “Dark blue Chevy. Sedan, ‘67, ‘68. Muffler was bad. Right front fender was rusted through. Washington plates Alpha Foxtrot Juliet 847.”

  Royce lifted both brows as he took down the description. “You got a good eye.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good enough for you to guess if he ran you down on purpose?”

  “I don’t have to guess. He was aiming.”

  Without a flicker of an eye, Royce continued taking notes. He added a reminder to himself to do a routine check on Roman DeWinter. “He? Did you see the driver?”

  “No,” Roman said shortly. He was still cursing himself for that.

  “How long have you been on the island, Mr. De-Winter?”

  “Almost a week.”

  “A short time to make enemies.”

  “I don’t have any—here—that I know of.”

  “That makes your theory pretty strange.” Still scribbling, Royce glanced up. “There’s nobody on the island who knows Charity and has a thing against her. If what you’re saying’s true, we’d be talking attempted murder.”

  Roman pitched his cigarette out the window. “That’s just what we’re talking about. I want to know who owns that car.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “You already know.”

  Royce tapped his pad on his knee. “Yes, sir, you do have a good eye. I’ll say this. Maybe I do know somebody who owns a car that fits your description. If I do, I know that that person wouldn’t run over a rabbit on purpose, much less a woman. Then again, there’s no saying you have to own a car to drive it.”

  Mae opened the connecting door, and he glanced up. “Well, now, Maeflower.”

  Mae’s lips twitched slightly before she thinned them. “If you can’t sit in a chair proper you can stand on your feet, Jack Royce.”

  Royce rose, grinning. “Mae and I went to school together,” he explained. “She liked to bully me then, too. I don’t suppose you’ve got any waffles on the menu today, Maeflower.”

  “Maybe I do. You find out who hurt my girl and I’ll see you get some.”

  “I’m working on it.” His face sobered again as he nodded toward the door. “Is she up to talking to me?”

  “Done nothing but talk since she came around.” Mae blinked back a flood of relieved tears. “Go ahead in.”

  Royce turned to Roman. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Doc said she could have some tea and toast.” Mae sniffled, then made a production out of blowing her nose. “Hay fever,” she said roughly. “I’m grateful you were close by when she was hurt.”

  “If I’d been closer she wouldn’t have been hurt.”

  “And if she hadn’t been walking that dog she’d have been in bed.” She paused and gave Roman a level look. “I guess we could shoot him.”

  She surprised a little laugh out of him. “Charity might object to that.”

  “She wouldn’t care to know you’re out here brooding, either. Your arm’s bleeding, boy.”

  He looked down dispassionately at the torn, bloodstained sleeve of his shirt. “Some.”

  “Can’t have you bleeding all over the floor.” She walked to the door, waving a hand. “Well, come on downstairs. I’ll clean you up. Then you can bring the girl up some breakfast. I haven’t got time to run up and down these steps all morning.”

  ***

  After the doctor had finished his poking and the sheriff had finished his questioning, Charity stared at the ceiling. She hurt everywhere there was to hurt. Her head especially, but the rest of her was throbbing right along in time.

  The medication would take the edge off, but she wanted to keep her mind clear until she’d worked everything out. That was why she had tucked the pill Dr. Mertens had given her under her tongue until she’d been alone. As soon as she’d organized her thoughts she would swallow it and check into oblivion for a few hours.

  She’d only caught a flash of the car, but it had seemed familiar. While she’d spoken with the sheriff she’d remembered. The car that had nearly run her over belonged to Mrs. Norton, a sweet, flighty lady who crocheted doilies and doll clothes for the local craft shops. Charity didn’t think Mrs. Norton had ever driven over twenty-five miles an hour. That was a great deal less than the car had been doing when it had swerved at her that morning.

  She hadn’t seen the driver, not really, but she had the definite impression it had been a man. Mrs. Norton had been widowed for six years.

  Then it was simple, Charity decided. Someone had gotten drunk, stolen Mrs. Norton’s car, and taken it for a wild joyride around the island. They probably hadn’t even seen her at the side of the road.

  Satisfied, she eased herself up in the bed. The rest was for the sheriff to worry about. She had problems of her own.

  The breakfast shift was probably in chaos. She thought she could rely on Lori to keep everyone calm. Then there was the butcher. She still had her list to complete for tomorrow’s order. And she had yet to choose the photographs she wanted to use for the ad in the travel brochure. The deposit hadn’t been paid, and the fireplace in cabin 3 wa
s smoking.

  What she needed was a pad, a pencil and a telephone. That was simple enough. She’d find all three at the desk in the sitting room. Carefully she eased her legs over the side of the bed. Not too bad, she decided, but she gave herself a moment to adjust before she tried to stand.

  Annoyed with herself, she braced a hand on one of the bedposts. Her legs felt as though they were filled with Mae’s whipped cream rather than muscle and bone.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  She winced at the sound of Roman’s voice, then gingerly turned her head toward the doorway. “Nothing,” she said, and tried to smile.

  “Get back in bed.”

  “I just have a few things to do.”

  She was swaying on her feet, as pale as the nightshirt that buttoned modestly high at the neck and skimmed seductively high on her thighs. Without a word, he set down the tray he was carrying, crossed to her and scooped her up in his arms.