Masters of the Hunt: Fated and Forbidden

by Sarra Cannon

  “Wait. This isn’t right.”

  The place was more like a seafood shack than a seafood restaurant, with its blasting disco music—K.C. and the Sunshine Band, and wow he hated that he knew that—with its floors and walls all constructed from the same grey mottled wood, half the restaurant open to the patio and strung with twinkling colored lights.

  “What’s wrong? It seems okay to me. You’re a little overdressed, though.”

  “This was supposed to be a nice restaurant. Classy! The internet said it was four stars.”

  “Well, what were you looking at? Were they user reviews, or did the four stars come from a food critic?”

  His heart sank.

  “I thought it was a site with reviews from lots of different food critics.”

  “Matthew,” she said, laughing and shaking her head. “It’s the internet—everyone thinks they’re a food critic.”

  She tugged his arm. “Let’s go in. This place is great, it looks fun. C’mon, I’m starved.”

  With a great, exaggerated sigh, he followed her to the hostess stand, where they claimed their reservation.

  “A reservation!” Hallie gushed teasingly as they trailed after the hostess to their table. “See? We’re already classing up the joint. And if this doesn’t do it, your cufflinks sure will.”

  He shot her a don’t-mess-with-me glare that he couldn’t hold, not with her cracking up at her own jokes and five waiters doing the Macarena in the middle of the dining area.

  “Says the woman with diamond earrings,” he said pointedly.

  “You mean these things? Plastic.” She stopped and tugged off the sparkling teardrop earrings, then mussed her hair. She gave him a once-over, then tugged his tie loose and mussed his hair, too. “There. Much better. Now we’re perfect.”

  They sat facing each other in a booth beneath a giant plastic swordfish, next to a tall window that overlooked the end of the pier and the sprawling ocean beyond.

  “So,” Hallie said, almost too casually, propping the menu open, “what’s with the fancy hotel and almost-fancy dinner? I feel like a dead woman walking.”

  He frowned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean… we’re done. We tried to find Louisa and we’ve—I’ve—hit a dead end. Now’s as good a time as any to cut and run, or let me down easy. And despite what you say, you’re a good enough guy not to just take off, so I’m assuming this is my easy let-down.”

  He gaped. “What kind of person do you think I am? You really think I’d take you out to dinner just to dump you?”

  And even if that were true, why was she acting so nonchalant about it?

  She shrugged, and though her face was impassive, he also sensed the current of emotions churning underneath her facade. He wasn’t going to let her divert him, though. This wasn’t about him, or about what he might do. This was about her fear, her confusion.

  “Today’s been hell for you,” he said. “I’ll grant you that. But that doesn’t mean you have to quit.”

  Her gaze snapped to his, and she lifted her chin. “Who says I’m quitting?”

  “You sound like you’re trying to quit me, for starters.”

  She set down the menu.

  “I—I just don’t know what I’m doing,” she confessed. “I walked away from everything I had, and for what?” She looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer might drop from the heavens. “I don’t know, in my head I told myself that I could find her and she’d give me these answers that would somehow make everything okay. But it’s not, and it can’t be. What excuse is there, for what she did?” She seemed to really be asking him. “For the way she did it? For all those years I spent asking myself what I did wrong, while she and Dani apparently carried on as if nothing had happened?”

  She stopped and stared out the window at the flat expanse of ocean, which glimmered with the orange glow of the setting sun. “And then, with my dad… and my mom. I’m just—I’m going backward when I need to go forward.” She closed her eyes, as if shutting out something painful, and rubbed her hands over her face. “God. I really can’t believe I gave up Abingford, why did I do that?”

  Matthew cleared his throat, unsure how to respond. I’m sorry seemed inadequate, insufficient compared to the shame and regret that ate at his core. There was no way to deny that dragging her away from her home, even for her safety, was selfish. If he’d been stronger, less selfish, he would have stayed away from her altogether.

  “If I could change things…” he began, but her gaze snapped to his, as if suddenly remembering all of the things that had brought them together and set them on the run.

  “Matthew, I didn’t mean you.”

  “No. You’re right. You’ve uprooted your life, and part of the reason you did was for me. I can’t offer you much.”

  “I made a choice to leave. I didn’t make it lightly. I’m just—”

  “And now you’re regretting that choice. You’re afraid.” He kept his voice placid, not wanting to sound accusatory. God knows she didn’t need a guilt trip on top of everything else. It made sense, to be afraid. Losing Louisa’s trail meant they were out to sea with no more fuel. Drifting. And Hallie had drifted her whole life, so he should have known she wouldn’t want to go back to it. She had goals: settle down, find a career, help people… Grow old with someone who could grow old, too.

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, sounding hurt. “I’m frustrated.”

  She reached into her purse - this one much smaller than the book bag she’d been lugging around—and pulled out a packet of papers, folded in thirds. She handed it to him.

  “I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to think less of me. But those are the papers Louisa needs, to sign over her money to me.”

  At that moment, their chipper blonde waitress sped by, then doubled back, apologizing for the wait and taking their orders. Matthew, still distracted by Hallie’s revelation, asked for tea and some special that included lobster bisque and a shrimp plate; Hallie ordered a salad and a rich-sounding pasta dish.

  “I didn’t, and don’t, intend to use them,” she continued, once the waitress had left. “But the lawyer gave them to me. And maybe if I found Louisa, and talked to her, and promised her that I’d only use the money for school, maybe that would be okay. I know I don’t deserve it.”

  She shook her head, as if disappointed with herself.

  “I know it’s guilt money. But now, since I lost my scholarship… I need it. I could still work for my expenses and rent… I don’t want to live off someone’s good fortune. But I want to be able to afford school. Maybe even become a doctor. I've already done most of the med school prereqs, you know, and I want to help people.”

  At that moment, the waitress returned with their soup and salad; Hallie picked at the lettuce while the waitress made friendly small talk. When she realized that they weren’t in the mood, she hurried off.

  “Of course,” Hallie added, biting her lip, “talking to my father was a dead end, so all of this is moot. We’ll never find her now.”

  Matthew reached across the table and stilled her restless fingers, prying the fork from her hands and linking her hand with his. He was thankful for the raucous singing and chatter in the restaurant. Somehow, it made this moment, this small painful confession of hers, all the more private… and poignant. Finally, she was telling him what she wanted. What she needed. Not just from him, but from life. A life that was theirs, now that they found each other, now that they were connected. Intertwined.

  “Don’t give up yet,” he said, stroking his thumb over her knuckles. “We can find her. And when we do, she will give you your answers. There might not be a good answer, but there is an answer, and you deserve it. Think of her letter to your father. She’s still fighting for you. That’s not someone who’s washed her hands of you.”

  Outside, the waves splashed around the base of the pier, almost directly beneath them. Foamy sea water receded, leaving the pillars that propped up t
he pier dark and slimy with algae.

  “Maybe not,” Hallie confessed. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I might not find her before she…”

  Before she dies.

  “Well, we’ll keep looking. You can make a list of all the campsites you know she frequented, and we’ll visit and ask around. It won’t be easy, but people talk—maybe someone’s heard from her.”

  “She was always outgoing. She’s not the kind of person you’d forget.”

  “See? There’s always an answer. And when it comes to money…” He squeezed her hand. “I’ve had a hundred and fifty years’ worth of jobs, and I’ve always saved and invested. If there’s something you want, you need only say the word. What’s mine is yours. Don’t worry about the money.”

  Her face flushed.

  “I don’t want your money,” she said, tugging her hand away. “I don’t want charity. Especially not from you.”

  “It wouldn’t be charity. I have more money than I’ll ever possibly need. Why shouldn’t I share it with you?”

  “Because you’re my—” She hesitated “—my boyfriend, not my father, or my keeper, or—” She shuddered as if the thought that crossed her mind made her want to jump out of her skin.

  “…or your husband?”

  “I wouldn’t take your money if you were my husband, either,” she said, glaring at him in alarm. “Not that that’s—I mean that’s not even—we’re a long way from… Right?”

  She wasn’t really asking; she was making sure they were on the same page. And they were. As much as he felt for her, they’d moved quickly, like lightning, the longings of past lives mingling with the lust that consumed them today. They still needed to find that third place, where longing and lust mingled with friendship and trust.

  “All I want,” he said carefully, “is this moment with you. Right now. In this crappy seafood disco. I want to spend the night with you.” She blushed. “And I want you to smile… to be happy. Not to worry. If we can have that, after the day we’ve had, then we’ll be okay.”

  — —

  When they finished eating—including the dessert Matthew had insisted on, a—and paid the bill, Matthew led her back out onto the pier, then bowed a little and held out his elbow for her to take.

  “Want to walk for a while, Miss?”

  She curtsied, and thought back to the afternoon she’d introduced herself him, after Dr. Signer’s meeting. How she’d pushed him away, hating the compassion he showed her.

  But she was braver now. She hooked her elbow with his and tugged him close, relishing the feel of his muscled arm, his lean, warm torso pressing against her. They set off up the pier, toward the beach.

  “Tell me about your life,” she said. “After Abingford. Where did you go? What did you do? Who did you meet?”

  He glanced down at her. His searching gaze and the smile in his eyes made her feel adored. Wanted. Cherished. He wasn’t holding back anymore. So why did that terrify her? She looked away, her confidence buckling under his. Maybe she still had a way to go, bravery-wise.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Okay. Well, after Abingford, I spent several years traveling all over the south, looking for Emmaline’s daughter. I never found her. And so much of the former Confederacy was hellish after the war, so then I went north. Lived in New York City for a while, working on the railroads Vanderbilt had bought up to renovate.”

  “What was that like? New York, back then?”

  “Bustling. Diverse. Busy, never slow or quiet. And dirtier than you’d expect. So probably not much different than it is now, though I hear it’s cleaner.”

  She laughed. It was intriguing, hearing him talk about the past without such pain and anguish. A hundred questions bubbled forth, and she didn’t know where to start—it was like talking to a real life time traveler… except he was so much more than that.

  “New York was great,” he continued, “but the pace was too much. And I didn’t want to get too attached to any one place, since I’d have to leave to avoid being found out.”

  He veered them slightly toward the edge of the pier, so they could look out over the water as they walked.

  “Did anyone ever suspect anything?”

  “Ah… not in New York, no.”

  “Then somewhere?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t push, not wanting to ruin the moment. Hip, Latin fusion music spilled out onto the pier as they passed another packed restaurant.

  “So after New York,” he continued, “I worked for the railroads, moving my way out West. Eventually, I got a job setting type for a San Francisco newspaper, and I worked my way up once they found I had a knack for photography.”

  “So you became a photojournalist?”

  He nodded. “They started sending me out on assignment: first local stuff, then state-wide stuff, then all over. I spent a year in Mexico, hitchhiking my way down to Panama. I came back with lots of great photos, which I sold to magazines in New York. They hired me on as a war correspondent in Central America. And then they sent me on more assignments, farther away. Europe, mainly.”

  “When was this?”

  “I did it for a while. Made it to Europe around 1911, 1912.”

  “Did you like it?”

  "What - Europe?"

  "No, being a photographer. Traveling. Seeing what you saw."

  His face sobered slightly, then he frowned. “In some ways, yes. It was good for me not to be in one place. Partly so people wouldn't ask questions, but also because it was easier not to make attachments."

  She gently extracted her elbow from beneath his arm, sliding her hand down his forearm to intertwine their fingers. “I know that’s been the norm for you, but I don’t like thinking of you alone.”

  “It’s not so bad—”

  Matthew stopped suddenly, grimaced and pressed his hand to his stomach.

  “Ugh. That’s the last time I let you talk me into a seafood disco,” he said.

  Hallie tried not to laugh. “You okay?”

  “Just feeling kind of nauseous.”

  As they neared the end of the pier and turned to walk on the beach, more lights flickered on around them. Families were packing up their beach chairs and towels and herding their children back up to the parking areas. The beach they left behind was messy, full of holes and crushed sandcastles, littered with a few empty cups, the occasional hot dog wrapper, and one or two forgotten sand buckets. Still, the view was beautiful, the blue clear ocean washing up against evidence of so many happy family vacations. In the distance, Hallie could make out the lights of a few carnival rides, including a pink and blue ferris wheel.

  She nudged him and pointed. “Should we try for round two?”

  His amused eyeroll morphed into another grimace, and she frowned.

  “Are you all right? I wasn’t serious about the ferris wheel.”

  He bit his lip, cheek twitching. A sheen of sweat had sprouted on his forehead and glistened in the twinkling lights from the pier.

  “I’m fine, I just… I don’t feel too well.”

  “Like, you’re gonna be sick?”

  He nodded.

  “Let’s head back, then. Can you talk to me while we walk? It’ll distract you. What was Europe like?”

  “Different,” he grunted, then took a deep breath. “Pretentious. Tons of great history, though. And art—and architecture.”

  “Did you meet anyone? Any girls?”

  She didn’t know why she was asking—morbid, self-loathing curiosity, she guessed. Matthew was reticent.

  “There was a girl,” he said gruffly.

  “What was her name?”

  “Isabella.”

  “That’s pretty.” As pretty as Emmaline, she thought, feeling somehow inferior to these long-ago girls. “Did you date?”

  “Not exactly. We met—” he broke off, clearing his throat and rubbing his hand over his mouth, “— we met near the end of the War. That’s World War I.”<
br />
  “Were you assigned to take photos of the war?”

  He laughed harshly, then pressed his hand over his mouth again. “I enlisted,” he said. “I was on the front. Most of my fr— guys I knew died over there.” He cleared his throat. “That’s how I met Isabella. In a hospital in England.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hallie said softly. “I don’t mean to pry…”

  “You’re not,” he said, though his jaw was tight from the nausea that had gripped him. “You deserve to know. I want you to know about me.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “So, Isabella?”

  “She suspected things, but I never told her the truth. I didn’t know her long before she died. Spanish Flu. It was a pandemic.” He shook his head, remembering. “Nasty. Killed the healthy, the young. People with futures. Just like the war had done.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the renewed crashing of the waves. Despite being removed from town and the busy pier, it wasn’t a long walk—they were almost back. But as they began the walk up the resort driveway, he stopped, clapped a hand over his mouth, then ran over to a leafy hedge and vomited in the dirt.

  She tried to approach him, but he waved her away. “I’m fine, go on ahead.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not leaving you here.”

  But when he opened his mouth to argue, he heaved again, and Hallie wrung her hands, torn between worry and wanting to give him space.

  Screw it. She rushed forward and lay her hands on his shoulder and his arm, then rubbed his back in long soothing strokes.

  “Can you make it upstairs?”

  He straightened, wiped his mouth and streaming eyes, and nodded. His cheeks were flushed, but the rest of his face was pale and clammy.

  Once inside, she sent him up the elevator, then stopped to talk to the concierge and purchased a handful of aspirin, nausea medication, and antacids from their small selection. She tried not to drop the little packets and bottles while she fumbled with the key card to their room.