Island Haven

by Amy Knupp

  Whoever it was didn’t see fit to get his point. It sounded as though another horse stopped right next to Serrano.

  Scott didn’t move a muscle except to clench his teeth, still determined not to socialize.

  “You need to get a hat.”

  The familiar honey-sweet voice behind him wasn’t enough to soothe his irritation.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked, still refusing to turn toward Mercedes as she dismounted her horse. He could hear her rustling in her saddlebag before she walked toward him.

  A tube of sunscreen landed next to his jean-clad thigh. Mercedes’s worn, utilitarian boots entered his field of vision and stopped two feet from him. Surrendering to the last shreds of hope for privacy, Scott looked up at her.

  Damn if she didn’t make the prettiest cowgirl he’d ever seen. Light blue denim, dusty from her ride, stretched the length of her legs, hugging those hips the way he dreamed of doing, in spite of himself. She wore a thin pink button-down blouse, the top few buttons undone to reveal a fitted camisole with a lace trim beneath. The ends of the shirt hem were tied in a knot just above the waistline of her jeans and he found himself fixated once again on that strip of skin.

  She lowered herself to the ground next to him and sat cross-legged. On her head was a light brown cowboy hat with turquoise bead detail at the front.

  “You’d look good in a Stetson.” She rested her hands behind her in the grass and braced her weight on them. “And it’d keep the sun off your face.”

  As soon as she said it, he noticed the blaze of the midmorning sun on his cheeks. Instead of obeying her unspoken command to apply the cream, he raised his water bottle to his dry lips and took a swig. He nodded at it. Gave her some of her own medicine. “You should have water out here. Easy to dehydrate.”

  Mercedes’s glance darted away as if she knew he was right. “I forgot to pack any. I don’t plan to stay out too long, though.”

  “Didn’t figure today was your riding day since you went last weekend,” Scott said after a lull in their back-and-forth. He’d been banking on that, in fact, when the thought that he might run into her had hit him on the drive. “You following me?”

  “I needed to get away. That’s the one good aspect of my sister being here. Easier to have a couple of hours free.”

  She could barely find the opportunity to be alone and he could barely be convinced to try not to be alone. One more way they were opposites.

  “Maria told me when I got here that you’d taken Serrano out. Long drive out here. Next time we should carpool.” She smiled at him before checking out the landscape that stretched below them for miles.

  “They ought to open a place on the island. On the north end. All that undeveloped area would make an ideal place to ride.”

  “You should mention it to her. Maybe she and her husband are looking to expand.”

  “Maybe.” He’d be gone soon anyway. It wasn’t his concern beyond selfish reasons, though the drive all the way out here had been therapeutic in its own way.

  “Was Gemma awake when you left?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “She’s been having trouble sleeping. She says she’s getting uncomfortable, but I think it’s stress.”

  “With good reason. She’s got guts, I’ll give her that.”

  He felt Mercedes staring at him but refused to acknowledge it.

  “You almost sound like she’s become more than a roommate.”

  “Decent housekeeper, too.”

  “Nice.” She whacked him on the arm.

  One of the horses nickered softly, but other than that, silence stretched out between them and around them. An expectant silence. He knew it was a matter of time before she broke it, likely with pesky questions he wouldn’t care to answer, so he ended it himself.

  “So what gives? Thought you only came out every other weekend.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect avoiding me was the reason you did decide to ride today.”

  He took another drink and watched a small, rabbit-size animal tear across the dirt into the trees in the distance below.

  “Stressful week,” Mercedes said eventually. “Riding helps me forget about it for a couple hours. Same for you?”

  Looking more closely at her, he noticed her milk-chocolate eyes lacked their usual sparkle. Faint shadows darkened the skin beneath, and now that he thought about it, her smile earlier had been thin somehow. Hollow.

  “What’s bugging you?” he asked, in large part to avoid her inquiry. He had zero desire to discuss his dad.

  She absently plucked the dried grass out of the ground as she continued to stare off into the distance. “My sister.”

  “Charlotte?”

  The half smile she gave him was almost gratifying, but he had the fleeting thought that he wanted to hear her laugh. Odd. Her laugh couldn’t fix any of his problems and he’d never been one for fixing someone else’s, unless they happened to be of the emergency-medical type.

  “I did tell you she hates that name, right?” she asked.

  “Must’ve slipped my mind. What’s up with Sister Charlie? You said she just moved back to town?”

  “Not back. She’s never lived on the island before. The longest she’s been here was eight days and, come to think of it, that was probably the previous longest eight days of my life. Or definitely in the running.” She picked more grass. “She’s living with Gram and me until fall.”

  “Looked like you got along okay the other night.”

  “You were with us during the magical fifteen minutes she and I were on good terms.”

  “Why don’t you get along?”

  Mercedes tossed her pile of grass down and cradled her knees to her. “It’s a sibling thing. You know how it—oh. I guess you don’t know how it is.”

  “Sibling is a taboo subject in my house.”

  “It’s becoming one in mine. Living in the same house as adults… We were never very good at it when we were kids. We’re worse now. I’d like to get along better with her, but every time I try to do something nice for Charlie, it backfires.”

  “Maybe you’re going about it all wrong,” he suggested.

  “Yeah? What would you suggest, oh sibling expert?”

  “Don’t try to do nice things for her.”

  She smiled sadly. “Kind of my flaw. I can’t help myself. I’ve always been the one that handles things. I like handling things.”

  “Things?”

  “Okay. Everything.” She glanced down at the sunscreen. “Are you going to put that stuff on or are you going to make me do it for you?”

  “You try to take care of everybody, don’t you?”

  “There are worse afflictions,” she said stubbornly, as if she’d had this argument more than once.

  “Worse than caring too much?” He picked up the tube and unscrewed the cap. Squirting a modest amount into his hands, he slathered it onto his cheeks and nose. “I suppose so.” He had a handful of worse afflictions himself. Matter of fact, his “afflictions” made her overhelpfulness seem an awful lot like a virtue.

  She rested her chin on her arms and looked as if her dog had died. The desire to give her a hard time for being a better person than he’d ever be suddenly disappeared.

  Without thought, Scott reached out and touched her shoulder. Squeezed it briefly.

  Mercedes turned her head and met his eyes with a steady intense gaze he found himself unable to break at first. In that moment of connection, he wanted to do more to make her feel better than just brush her shoulder, and for once it wasn’t a sexual urge. Not entirely, anyway.

  Averting his eyes, he rose. “Time for me to head back.”

  He wasted no time in striding the dozen feet to where Serrano stood switching his tail. Scott stuck his empty water bottle into his saddlebag and took out the other he’d bought on the drive in. Then he climbed up and swung his leg over till he was settled in the saddle.

  “Mercedes,” he said
to her back.

  She turned around and he tossed the water to her before gently jabbing his feet into Serrano’s sides and retreating.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IF SCOTT WAS GOING TO MISS anything about San Amaro, it’d be the people he worked with. Though he tended to be one of the least social in the department, there was no way to do this job without feeling part of the brotherhood.

  Outside of the station, the EMS staff and the firefighters acted as a single unit. They worked together as one department, volunteered together for events, played on the same intramural teams, particularly when the opposition was the police department.

  But at the station, all bets were off. Especially when any sports or competitions, spontaneous or otherwise, were involved.

  Penn Griffin had found a football outside the station this morning. After lunch, he and Cale Jackson, a fire lieutenant, had challenged Scott and Rafe to a scrimmage out back in the sand.

  Rafe had the ball and Penn was putting pressure on him as he tried to pass. He finally got one off and Scott ran toward their makeshift end zone, where the ball was headed. Cale was on him hard. They both went up for the ball and Scott managed to come down with it.

  “Touchdown!” Rafe yelled, his hands in the air.

  Joe Mendoza, the fire captain on duty, opened the patio door and came outside. “Who’s winning?”

  “We are, of course,” Rafe said. “Twenty-one to seven. My boy Scott has some skills.”

  “You paramedic types just have more free time to goof off at work and practice.” Penn stole the football from Scott, tossed it straight up and caught it.

  “When’s the last time you had a big fire?” Scott said, having overheard them complaining about a lack of action earlier today.

  Penn ignored the question. “You play in high school?” he asked Scott.

  “Wide receiver. You?”

  “Same.”

  “Someone’s here to see the short-timer,” Joe said.

  It wasn’t until everyone looked at him that it clicked with Scott. He was the short-timer.

  “Who is it?”

  Joe shrugged. “Some kid. He’s in the reception area.”

  Scott headed through the station’s living area and down the hall to the public door. The “kid” was as tall as he was. Thin as a pole with black hair. He was checking out the memorial plaque on the far wall, his back to Scott.

  “Can I help you?” Scott said as he approached the guy.

  He wasn’t really a kid, Scott saw as the guy faced him. A few years younger, but by Joe’s forty-something standards, he might as well be an adolescent.

  “Hi,” he said, holding his hand out to Scott. “Greg Wolf.”

  “Hi, Greg. Scott Pataki. Good to meet you.” They shook hands. “What can I do for you?”

  Greg glanced around nervously. “Is there somewhere we could talk? It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”

  Scott nodded to the main door. “Looks like the courtyard’s empty. That work?”

  Greg nodded and they walked outside. Scott followed him toward the back of the long, curved wall that held the fire-service mural painted by Evan Drake’s wife. When Greg leaned his forearms on the top of the wall, Scott followed suit, curiosity jabbing at him.

  “I just wanted to thank you,” Greg said, looking out across the street toward the department training facility. “For saving my life eighteen months ago.”

  Scott didn’t know what to say. He didn’t remember seeing this guy before, didn’t remember saving him. “You’re welcome,” he finally said hesitantly.

  The guy studied him then looked away. “I tried to kill myself. Took a bottle of pills. Came damn close, from what the doctors said. They also said one of the reasons I was alive was because of you. My heart stopped beating. You got it started right away. Got meds in me to counteract what I’d taken.”

  Scott still didn’t remember—he’d worked too many overdoses in his time. “No problem. I was just doing my job.”

  “My outlook is totally different now. I like my life.”

  “How old are you?” Scott asked.

  “Nineteen. I’ve got a lot of years left.”

  Greg took out his wallet from his back jeans pocket and opened it, then held out a photo of himself with a petite girl with arresting brown eyes. Her whole face was lit up with happiness—and so was Greg’s in the picture, for that matter.

  “This is Elena,” Greg said. “I married her five weeks ago.” He was grinning widely, his eyes coming alive. “She’s the love of my life, man.”

  “Congratulations,” Scott said, meaning it. Something about this guy’s happiness was contagious.

  “Thanks. But that’s not all.” Greg turned toward him. “We found out today we’re going to have a baby.”

  Scott laughed and shook Greg’s hand again. “Double congrats, then. Awesome news.”

  Greg nodded, still grinning. Then he sobered and looked Scott in the eye. “I was messed up before. She’s helped me turn my life around.” Emotion made his voice thick. “I wouldn’t have this chance if you hadn’t, you know. Done your thing.”

  A knot formed in Scott’s chest and all he could do was nod.

  “This baby that we’re going to have, it wouldn’t even exist…” Tears filled Greg’s eyes and his Adam’s apple rose and lowered as he swallowed. He burst into an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry.”

  “No. Nothing to be sorry about. I’m happy you’re doing so well.”

  Looking down, obviously still a little embarrassed, Greg nodded. “I just wanted to let you know, man. It’s because of you. Thanks again.” He shook Scott’s hand one more time, nodded awkwardly and walked off toward the visitor’s parking lot, smiling the whole way.

  Scott stared after him and belatedly realized he wore a goofy grin himself. He sniffed, glad the lump-in-the-throat sensation was fading. Blinking several times, he told himself the moisture in his eyes was because of the wind. He again leaned on the wall, his back to the station, and worked to collect himself, to suppress the emotions that had blindsided him.

  * * *

  FOR THE FIRST TIME, Mercedes was starting to believe that maybe Gemma had a chance of making it on her own with her baby. She didn’t doubt the teenager’s devotion and ability to be a mom—it was the money angle that made Mercedes, and probably Gemma herself, lose sleep.

  The second job could make all the difference. Claudia Winn, one of Mercedes’s favorite clients, was as desperate for a weekend babysitter as Gemma was for more income. It would be long hours, between Claudia’s kids and the other thirty-hours-a-week babysitting gig, but Gemma’s relief this evening was tangible. After one more congratulatory hug, Mercedes had said a quick goodbye and let herself out.

  While she’d been inside, the downpour had stopped, at least for a temporary reprieve. She eyed the heavy clouds as she took the wet stairs slowly down to the parking lot.

  She was about to get in her car when Scott’s sports car two spots over caught her eye. Gemma had mentioned she hadn’t seen him at all since two nights ago before she’d gone to bed. Though he came and went as he pleased and didn’t report in to Gemma, forty-eight hours was longer than his usual.

  When Mercedes looked closer, she realized he was sitting in the driver’s seat of his car. The engine was off. His head was reclined and he didn’t move. She kept watching as she got into her own car, waiting for him to get out and go inside. Or even stir.

  She stuck her key in the ignition absently but didn’t start the car. Waited some more, still keeping an eye out for a sign of…anything. The rain started to pick up again, which blurred her vision, but she could see enough to know he hadn’t moved.

  What in the world? Was he drunk? Dead?

  A knot in her stomach tightened as she yanked her key out, opened her door and hurried through the rain to his window.

  His eyes were closed, face drawn, and when she tapped on the glass, he didn’t respond. A second panicked tap with her keys made him slowly
turn his head toward her. He stared at her with disconcertingly flat eyes, unseeing.

  “Scott, what are you doing?” she said loudly enough to be heard through the door and over the weather.

  Instead of answering, he turned his head forward again. Closed his eyes. Her hair and clothes were getting increasingly wet and she shivered, though it had nothing to do with the rain and wind.

  “Scott!” She hit the window hard again in frustration, and when he didn’t react at all, she ran around to the passenger side, mumbling to herself about how she was going to kill him if he was drunk. Double kill him for driving his car.

  She whipped open the passenger door, thankful it was unlocked, and dropped into the bucket seat. Pushing her wet hair out of her face, she turned to him, ready to rail. And froze.

  His eyes were open now, staring in front of him, and his face was noticeably pale. He wore jeans and an EMS T-shirt, wrinkled and filthy. It looked as if he’d lived in it for a week.

  “Scott?” She touched his arm, gently at first, then she grasped it, panicked. “What is wrong?”

  His lids lowered and she shook his arm.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  Finally he shook his head. “Not yet.”

  She was so relieved that he wasn’t tanked that it took several seconds for the implications of his reply to sink in.

  “Not yet? You’re not drinking anything. Tell me what’s going on, Scott. Please.”

  He opened his eyes. Swallowed hard. The silence stretched with her tension and she forced herself to loosen her grip on him. He opened his mouth as if in slow motion and she noticed his lips were abnormally dry.

  “I lost him.”

  “Lost who?” Mercedes slid her fingers down his arm and took his hand in hers. He didn’t grasp hers, but he didn’t pull away, either. “Did something happen at work, Scott?”

  Again, he opened his mouth, but no words came out. He closed it, shook his head slowly, with so much pain etched on his face. Emotional, gut-wrenching pain.

  “Why aren’t you at work now?” she continued as all kinds of possibilities shuffled through her mind. Was he hurt? Sick?