Remembering Hoyston's warning, he'd avoided Sheriff Bascomb, although he knew the man was probably well informed about his movements and questions. For that reason Jordan had been careful not to hide his search. He found the hunt exciting, if at times frustrating.
Now the hunt was almost over.
Maybe.
He checked his watch again. Five after three. He wasn't going to give up this early. After two futile weeks, he was willing to wait a little longer.
Chapter 3
Sarah let herself in the back door of the café and silently waved to her cousin behind the counter. Betsy returned her wave with a grin, then continued filling the salt and pepper shakers lined up on the counter in front of her.
Standing at the end of the counter, Sarah had a clear view of the man waiting in the middle booth—Jordan Mathias.
He sat facing the front entrance of the café, his eyes intent on the empty doorway. Without the fisherman's hat, his brown hair fell forward in a boyish wave over one side of his forehead. His features were as strong and unyielding as she remembered and, despite his casual air, she sensed the same self-assurance in him that she'd recognized at the lake. This was a determined man who wouldn't give up his search easily.
She took a deep breath and crossed the space between the counter and the booth, her sandals making little noise on the worn wooden floor. She stood silently at the side of the booth, her body tense, her hands clenched at her sides.
Even if Aunt Cinda was right, even if his reasons for looking for her were innocent, she was still in danger. She'd been unable to explain to Aunt Cinda that Jordan Mathias disturbed her in a way no other man ever had. She was risking more than exposure. Still, she had promised. She waited for him to acknowledge her presence.
Jordan was watching the café entrance so intently it took him several seconds to realize someone was standing by the booth. He turned slightly, thinking it was the waitress. A moment later he forgot the front door completely.
The woman standing beside the booth was small and perfectly proportioned. Her slim, tanned legs looked long and willowy despite her petite height. Her tiny waist above gently flaring hips and her small breasts swelling beneath her crisp sleeveless cotton blouse were definitely feminine.
Jordan shifted, in his seat, turning his body toward her. Their gazes locked, his unbelieving, hers shifting prisms of blue-green light.
Unconsciously, he grasped the table, his knuckles turning white as he stared openly at the woman. The world around him faded away and the wooden floor of the café became the mud of the lakeshore. The quiet hum of the overhead fan was the gentle buzzing of June bugs and honeybees, and the woman's eyes were the deep, mysterious waters of the lake.
"Mr. Matthias? I'm Sarah Wilson. I understand you wish to speak to me?"
Her voice pulled Jordan from his time warp, but those eyes were the same he'd seen by the lake. He was sure of it. Cissie, however, had been about sixteen. Sarah Wilson was definitely a full-grown woman and he'd been right. Her eyes were lethal.
Still bemused, he made an effort to stand, to offer her a seat. She seemed to take his initial movement as an invitation. Without waiting for the words, slid into the seat on the opposite side of the booth.
"You're Sarah Wilson?" He heard and knew he'd been unable to disguise the incredulous note in his voice. "I expected someone else. I mean, I certainly didn't expect you."
She must have recognized the accusation in his voice. Yes, she knew he was referring to their encounter by the lake. She had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable.
"You knew who I was, that I was looking for you," he charged.
"I knew a stranger was asking questions," she admitted. "I suspected it was you. There aren't too many strangers in the valley."
"Then why didn't you say something?"
"Two days ago, I wasn't sure I wanted to meet you," she told him.
"What happened? I mean, what changed your mind? Why did you suddenly decide to talk with me?"
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. "Just a feeling," she finally said.
Jordan scrutinized her face again, looking for more of an explanation. He found none—only the same haunting sense of incredulity he had experienced by the lake. Until this moment, he had refused to acknowledge how disturbing that encounter had been. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was because he refused to accept the fact that he had been so intrigued by, so attracted to, a mere child. It was a relief to know that the child was in reality a flesh-and-blood-woman, and it was exhilarating to realize that she now sat facing him from across the same table.
Then he remembered why he was here. The lady claimed to be a psychic. She took pains to stay out of the limelight and she hid herself like a true professional. She was definitely different from the other pseudo-psychics he'd run across.
His friend, Hoyston, was convinced she was what she claimed because he had no other explanation. With the exception of believing that she was somehow involved in the mugging and kidnapping, an idea easily dismissed by his friend, Jordan had no clues either. At least, not yet.
He let his eyes meet hers across the table, uncomfortable with the fact that he wasn't in control. In spite of his years as an investigator, this time he knew he'd failed to turn up a single clue that would have forced her out of hiding. She was the one who'd broken the deadlock, who decided to meet him. Now she was sitting in front of him, a look of innocence on her face.
No, not quite.
Although her eyes were mysterious, almost hypnotic, they weren't innocent—or trusting. They were wary.
Something of his thoughts must have reflected in his expression. He saw her tiny frown and the shadow of uncertainty that flickered in her eyes. He quickly blanked his expression blank. Damn! She was suspicious, something he needed to defuse.
"You realize, of course, that you're a figment of my imagination," he said in a joking tone. "I mean, you don't really exist. Ask anyone in here. As a matter of fact, ask anyone in town. Sarah Wilson simply doesn't exist. Never did. No one has ever heard of you."
She smiled sympathetically. "Don't be too hard on them," she replied. "They're kin."
"Kin? You mean like relatives?"
She nodded.
"The whole town?"
"It's a small town. Most of us are related one way or another. If not blood kin, or kissing kin, then shirttail kin. If I'm not related to a particular person, then he or she is probably related to some of my kin."
Jordan leaned against the back of the booth. Amazing. He'd been chasing this woman for weeks. If what she said was true, she could have remained hidden until he gave up and left the area. Instead, she'd decided to meet him. She'd known he was looking for her, yet she still hadn't questioned why. Now she sat in front of him, calmly discussing relatives. He knew his face echoed his confusion.
"Let me give you an example," Sarah said, obviously misreading his expression. "The old man who owns the fishing camp where you're staying, he's shirttail kin. Not really a blood relative to me, but his brother is the father-in-law to my cousin Maybelle. Shirttail kin, see?"
So now he knew who delivered the note, Jordan thought. He would also bet that his every movement since he arrived had been relayed back to her. "What you're saying is that this is really a closed community, right?" He tried to keep his voice neutral.
Sarah nodded.
"And everyone I asked about you probably knew you. They were protecting you as part of the family?"
"Protecting my privacy, anyway," Sarah said. "They let me know someone was asking for me. It was my decision whether or not to contact you. You're an outsider, you see."
"Okay," Jordan said. "I think I understand. Now, since I know you, will they talk to me?"
"Oh no. Except maybe about fishing or the weather."
"Why not? I mean, if they know you agreed to meet me?"
"You don't understand our ways," she said. "You were asking about me. It's precisely because I did meet you that they won't talk with you. But i
f you keep asking questions, they'll become suspicious. You see, because you do know who I am now, if you have any questions, you should ask me to my face."
Jordan laughed appreciatively, remembering Jimmy Joe's determination to prove his story. "You're big on face-to-face relationships around here, aren't you?"
Sarah nodded again.
"And," he added, as the thought occurred to him, "you have just set me up. You deliberately selected our meeting place in the town's only café so that it will soon be known that you chose to meet me. Those three old men at the table in front of the door are probably unofficial town criers. If I want to find out anything about you, I have to ask you directly."
"Something like that," she said, giving him a small, satisfied smile. "So, Jordan Matthias, why are you looking for Sarah Wilson? What exactly do you want from me?"
Jordan couldn't help but admire her composure, just as he couldn't help but salute her strategy. He hadn't expected her to be so young, or so lovely. And he certainly hadn't expected to be so attracted to her. He'd have to watch that and focus on the real reason he was here.
He was certain of one thing—it was going to be interesting to discover if Sarah Wilson was for real. He was also delighted with the terms she had set. Face-to-face.
"What do I want from you? Thirty minutes ago I could have told you exactly what I wanted. Now I'm not so sure." He paused, deliberately allowing himself to look into the depths of those unusual eyes. "But I think it's going to be fun finding out."
For the first time since she had slipped into the booth opposite him, he knew he'd caught her off balance.
"Mr. Matthias, I—"
"Call me Jordan."
Sarah appeared to consider that for a moment. "All right, Jordan, I—"
"Good. Then can I call you Sarah?"
She nodded again, her reluctance evident.
Jordan decided he'd pushed enough for the moment. He forced himself to relax. He'd keep it light, light and friendly.
"I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm forgetting my manners." He raised his arm to attract the waitress' attention. "Would you like something to drink? My tea was very refreshing. Or something to eat?"
"Oh, no, nothing," she told him. "I wouldn't care for anything, really, except— Well, you did ask to see me. At least you were asking about me. Everyone in the valley knows that. I—I'd like to know why."
Jordan hesitated for a moment, mentally rehearsing his story. He'd given a lot of thought to what he would do once he found Sarah Wilson. Obviously he couldn't tell her why he was looking for her. Not if Hoyston was right. Yet if he lied, and she really was psychic, she'd probably know. Would part of the truth suffice?
"It's something of a long story," he said, stalling for a little time. He had to stick as close to the truth as possible. Discovering her name on those old Monte Ne deeds had produced an unexpected bonus. They'd given him a lead on another story. The old resort fascinated him. Not as much as the woman, of course, but he had the feeling that the resort would also make a good story. Now all he had to do was convince Sarah Wilson. After all, she owned part of Monte Ne. And she was a history teacher. Surely, those two facts would be enough to convince her that she was the logical one to turn to for help.
"I'm looking for someone to help me with some historical research," he said at last. "I'm a writer, and I want to do a story on Monte Ne. I understand you own part of it."
Sarah laughed softly. "No, I don't own Monte Ne," she told him. "A man named William 'Coin' Harvey built Monte Ne. Both he and the resort were gone long before I was born. All I own is some of the land where Monte Ne once stood—a few scattered fragments, the remnants of Coin Harvey's dream."
"But according to the deed records—"
"My name is on some of the deeds," she admitted. "But there's not much of Monte Ne left. Nothing, actually." She paused. "You do know that most of Monte Ne is now under the waters of Beaver Lake, don't you?"
"Yes. But I'm more interested in what it was than in what it is." Jordan wasn't sure what he'd done, or how. But obviously, he'd made a right move. He'd watched her animated face—not a hint of distrust now. Monte Ne was the magic word.
"Monte Ne must have been unique," he said. "I read a pamphlet about railroad tycoons, maharajas and eastern millionaires, all coming to the Ozarks at a time when most of the country hardly knew the place existed, much less how to get here. I mean, in 1900 this part of the country was pretty isolated, wasn't it?"
"You've obviously done some homework, Mr. Matth—I mean Jordan."
Jordan nodded. "I can collect facts and figures," he told her. "But I think Monte Ne was more than a collection of buildings. I want to capture the feel of the place. I thought you might be able to help. Besides owning part of it, you're a history teacher, too, aren't you?"
Sarah's gasp of surprise was clearly audible. "How did you know I was a schoolteacher?" she asked her voice tight, her expression again tense and wary.
Jordan knew he'd goofed, even before he heard her sharp intake of breath. Now he struggled to keep his expression from betraying him. Damn it! Even in his days as a cub reporter, he'd never fallen into such a trap. Why couldn't he keep his mind on his business? Talking to this woman was like negotiating an unmapped minefield. He braced himself to answer her question, hoping he could brazen it out.
The tax records showed a St. Louis address," he said quickly. "When I tried to find you, I discovered you were a schoolteacher, but by that time you had already left for the summer. So, I came back here." He was relieved to be able to tell her the truth—or at least a slightly edited version of the truth. He remembered how disappointed he'd been when the tax records had listed her St. Louis address rather than a local one. Sometimes the worst disasters really were blessings in disguise.
Sarah sat very still for a moment, considering Jordan's explanation. Had he discovered anything else about her while he'd been in St. Louis? When he'd first said he was a writer, she'd almost panicked. Did he really want to do an article on Monte Ne, or was he after another kind of story?
Sarah was surprised at how much she wanted to believe him. Aunt Cinda said he was looking for Monte Ne. Her great-aunt didn't always see everything, but what she did see was rarely wrong.
She could feel his eyes scrutinizing her face. There was something intense and compelling about this man. She carefully considered her options. She now recognized the flaws in her original strategy. Setting herself up as his primary source of information in the community might have been a mistake. However, it was too late to change her mind now. The only way to find out what or how much he knew, was to continue talking to him.
"How long do you—I mean, how much time do you think it would take?"
"All I can get—but no more than you're willing to give me. You might enjoy it, you know."
"Oh, I know I would," she told him. "There's nothing more exciting to a teacher than an interested student. But I have other obligations."
"A job? I'd be willing—"
"No. Nothing like that. Mostly family obligations. Jimmy Joe and—and some others."
"I know. The whole town. It might be small as towns go, but as a family...." Jordan shook his head. The laughter in his voice belied the frustration on his face. "No wonder I couldn't find out a damn thing."
Sarah allowed herself to relax as the warm tremors of his laughter wrapped around her. His flashes of good humor, the few moments when he relaxed, were as spellbinding as any vibrations she'd ever encountered, and as intoxicating and compelling as any pied piper's music. It was just as well he didn't laugh all that often.
"That's just family," she said gently. "Families are protective of their own."
"I wouldn't know," he said harshly.
The rasp in his voice caught Sarah by surprise. She knew her reaction was obvious when Jordan smiled at her ruefully.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice gentler now. "I didn't mean to sound so harsh. It's just, well, I don't know much about families. Never gave it much thou
ght one way or another. You don't miss what you don't have, at least not until someone points it out to you."
Sarah's eyes softened. So, Aunt Cinda was right. He had no roots, no home. Even though family surrounded her, she understood what it meant to be alone.
Jordan appeared to be lost in thought, and Sarah took a moment to reexamine her choices—as if, she though ruefully to herself, she had any. Tension formed a hard knot in her stomach. The heat inside the café was oppressive, but did she dare leave the protection of familiar ground? With this man? What kind of choice did she have? This time she'd simply have to trust her instincts—and Aunt Cinda's revelations.
"When would you like to start?" she asked.
"What?" he asked, her question obviously taking him by surprise.
"I said, when would you want to start?" she repeated. "The research, I mean. I've decided to help you, at least as much as I can. Monte Ne has always been a bit special to me, but not many people outside the area have ever heard of it. Your article could change that. Monte Ne was important, you know. And I'm not just talking about local pride. It has its place in the greater scheme of history."
"How?"
"Discovery is the excitement of research into the past," she told him in her teasing schoolteacher voice. "I'd rather you discover it for yourself, but if you don't stumble onto it, I'll tell you later. In the interest of scholarship, of course."
"I'll hold you to that," he said. "As to when, how about now? Is there anything left to see?"
"Actually, you're here at a good time. The lake's level is down and low water has exposed a few skeletons. But I thought you were more interested in what was than what is."
"It's a good starting point. You can build on skeletons. Could we scuba? Could we get a closer look that way?"
Sarah shook her head. "Most of Monte Ne land is under shallow water, at least when compared with the rest of the lake, but the currents are still treacherous."
Stranger on the Shore Page 4