* * *
The rendezvous with Kyle went without a hitch.
Maybe that was what kept bothering Ian as the sun began to set for their second night aboard Miss Pris. Absently listening to Rosie and Annmarie as they put away supplies, he stood at the wheel of the flying bridge, steering them toward a remote island he hadn't even told Rosie was their destination. His instincts had kicked up big-time, and he wanted to disappear without a chance of anyone knowing where they were.
The sunset faded from brilliant streamers of orange into a soft lavender as he thought about the conversation with Kyle. Nothing in the refueling or the transfer of supplies from Kyle's boat should have bothered Ian. But, he was bothered. He had brought back everything on the list, including extra ammunition for his .38. So, Ian shouldn't have been bothered. But he was.
Until he figured out why, he wouldn't let it go, nor would he rest easy. He knew better than to ignore the warning twist in his gut.
"I'm climbing up the ladder, Mr. Ian," Annmarie said a short while later.
Rosie hadn't wanted her climbing up and down without one of them being there to keep an eye on her, a safety precaution that she'd turned into a game for the child simply by telling her that it was bad luck to climb a ladder without someone watching.
"Come on up, petunia," he returned, coming to the back of the bridge.
"Mr. Thistle," she said, pointedly as she climbed, "I came to tell you that Aunt Rosie says dinner is almost ready."
"Ah." He picked her up when she reached the top rung. "Want to help me drive for a minute?"
"Sure," she responded. "Where are we going?"
He pointed toward one of the many mountain islands in the distance. "To that island." He set her down in front of the wheel.
"This won't work," she informed him. "I can't see."
"Tomorrow we'll find a stool or something."
"Okay." She looked up at him. "We're not going to Grandma's house, are we?"
"Nope."
"Did the bad men go to Grandma's house?"
He gazed down at her, wishing he could lie. "Yes, they did. But the police came, and the bad guys are in jail and everybody is okay."
"I guess that's why they can't help us. They're busy with Grandma," she said a moment later, her logic sounding reasonable, even to him.
"Makes sense to me."
She was quiet a moment, then said, "There sure are a lot of them."
That he couldn't deny, much as he wanted to.
She sat down on the bench next to the wheel. "That's okay 'cause Rosie and me—we have you to take care of us, don't we?"
"We do," he promised.
She sat up on her knees to better see the direction they were headed, and after a moment's silence said, "The police, they're not too busy to watch over Mommy, are they?"
"They're taking real good care of her. I promise." He crossed a figure over his heart, then extended a hand to her, which she promptly took. He shook it. "She's as safe as a bug in a rug."
"You got it wrong," she said. "It's snug as a bug." Then she scowled. "What's snug mean, Mr. Ian?"
"Safe, kiddo. Safe."
"Oh. Well, that's good." She sat back down and began swinging her feet. "I like my aunt Rosie."
"Your mom knew you would."
"Do you like her?"
"Yeah." In that instant he realized he really did like Rosie. Beyond admiring her self-sufficiency. Beyond thinking she was the most aggravating woman he'd ever met. Beyond his difficulty keeping his eyes on her face and away from the soft curve of her breasts.
"And Sly, too."
"And Sly, too," he agreed.
A moment later Rosie called up to them. "Come and get it."
* * *
"You can't get along without the news?" Ian asked Rosie the following morning. She had the television turned to the news from a television station in Juneau. After not hearing the news for a few days, it all seemed morbidly familiar and depressing. A foreign government in upheaval. An indiscretion of major proportions by a politician. Assaults and murders in various West-Coast cities. No wonder Rosie had decided to chuck it all for her island home.
"It's not the news I want," she said. "I want to see the satellite map for the weather."
"Ah," he said around a yawn, pouring himself a cup of coffee. When he had been in the service, he had frequently gone weeks at a time with too little sleep, but he didn't remember being this tired. He glanced outside. They were still anchored in the cove he'd picked out last night. Unlike last night, misty streamers of fog hung close to the water, obscuring the shoreline here and there.
He held the pot toward Rosie, silently offering her another cup. She came toward him and held out her mug, which he filled.
"Annmarie still asleep?" he asked.
Rosie nodded.
"I think you got her all tuckered out yesterday." He yawned again.
She grinned at him. "She's not the only one. You stayed up all night again, didn't you?"
He met her direct gaze over the top of his cup.
"Looking for us … that would be like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack… If that's what's keeping you up."
"What would make you think so? Maybe I just have insomnia."
"I heard the way you prowled around the boat, like a watchman on rounds. So don't be cute."
"Cute?" He grinned. "You think I'm cute?"
"You know I don't." That eyebrow rose. "If you think somebody needs to be awake and keep watch, we should probably be taking turns."
"Rule nine," he agreed. "Okay."
"Otherwise, we're taking stupid chances."
"Probably," he returned, tacking on, "Rule five."
"What are you talking about?"
Pleased that he'd made her turn around to look at him, he thought about kissing her. And what she'd do if she decided she needed to be defending herself instead of kissing him back.
Deciding that a lack of sleep had seriously addled his judgment, he merely said, "You've just related rules five and nine of Rogers Standing Orders." Her expression clearly indicated she thought he was nuts. "Rogers wrote down the nineteen standing orders that are at the core of how rangers carry out a mission."
He began reciting the orders, and Rosie watched him. It was a good thing he knew them completely by heart, because he was lost in her beautiful dark eyes that were such a contrast to her fair skin and hair. He would like to kiss each freckle sprinkled over her cheeks. He would like to feel the warmth of her skin and see if it was as silky as it looked. He wondered if she was really listening despite her focused attention. Her gaze moved over his face, and he wondered what she saw. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, realizing he hadn't shaved. Not in a couple of days. To her, he probably looked like the outlaw. Shaving, though, was a good idea. If he got as close to her as he'd like, her soft skin wouldn't survive—not without major beard burn.
Beard burn? Like she'd let him that close.
"And nineteen," he said, "Let the enemy come close enough to touch, then jump out and finish him off with your hatchet."
"A hatchet? When was this, anyway?"
"The French and Indian War." He grinned. "Hatchets are very efficient weapons."
"I'll take your word for it." She shuddered.
"So, why the TV, Rosie? I thought you got the weather from the radio."
"I do," she said. "We're still close enough to winter that I like seeing the satellite pictures, though. They give me a better idea of what's likely to happen over the next few days than the forecast from the weather radio." She grinned. "Which is very accurate about current conditions."
He glanced outside. "Cool and foggy. Fifty percent chance of showers."
She chuckled. "Just like the other three hundred days of the year."
"What about the other sixty-five?"
"Oh, we save those for sunshine or snow."
Ian glanced back at the television, his attention caught when Rosie's name was announced by a concerned-sound
ing anchor.
"Rosebud Jensen, a resident of Kantrovich Island, was abducted from her home the night before last," the anchor said. "According to a neighbor, she was taken at gunpoint, along with her niece who is visiting from California. The alleged kidnapper is described as a tall Caucasian with dark hair and eyes, in his early-to-mid thirties. In an apparently related incident, a fishing boat belonging to her family was vandalized in Petersburg. State police had no comment on the disappearance of Ms. Jensen and her niece. A spokesman said no ransom demand has been made nor has her family been contacted. The two are still missing as of this morning."
"Damn," Ian swore. Franklin Lawrence and his henchmen had been brilliant. Force them into hiding where communicating would be difficult and dangerous, then use that silence to their advantage. If they attempted to use the radio, they could be located. And if they didn't, Lily—perhaps even Rosie's parents—would think the story was true. Ian had no doubt that somebody would make sure she heard the story. His attention shifted from the television to Rosie. The color had drained out of her face, her expression stricken.
The newscast went to a commercial, and she punched the on-off button, then turned on him. "Oh, my God, Lily is going to be out of her mind with worry … and why wouldn't she?" She whirled toward the console. "We've got to call her. Right now."
She picked up the microphone for the radio, ready to do the one thing they couldn't … not safely.
Ian covered her hand with his own, waiting for her to jerk away from him. She didn't, which made him want to gather her close and offer her reassurance. Remembering how she had stepped away from him every other time he'd been this close to her, he didn't dare touch more than her hand, though. Finally she turned slightly and looked up at him, her face pale, her eyes wide and filled with worry.
"You're right," he said. "We need to call Lily, but we can't use the radio."
"Why not?" Sudden tears shimmered, and she blinked them away. "This will make her crazy. And somebody is blaming you, in case you missed that part."
"I know. Let's think about this. Worst-case scenario."
"Worst-case—Lily is going to be convinced that she'll be killing us if she testifies." Rosie closed her eyes, and a tear seeped beneath one. She opened them and looked back at him. "We can't wait, Ian. We can't. If I were in her shoes I'd do whatever Franklin Lawrence demanded."
"That's what he's counting on." He gently turned Rosie around to face him, his hands cupping her shoulders, expecting her at any second to jerk away from him. "Think. Somebody is pulling the strings, trying to force us out in the open, to make a stupid move."
She shook her head. "No."
"If we use the radio to patch to a phone line, that's just like calling over the radio. Whoever is listening would have the phone number where Lily is staying. It could reveal the location of the safe house where she's hiding."
Rosie bent her head, her hair grazing his shirt. For an instant he wondered if she might rest her head against him. Her reply, when it came, sounded muffled. "I hate it when you're right. Okay."
He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze and brushed his lips against her soft hair, then moved away from her while he still had the will to do so.
"And, let's suppose for a minute that Marco and company have enough manpower to be monitoring radio transmissions from more than three different locations."
"Triangulation," she interrupted, looking up. "They'd have a very good idea of where we are."
"And," he added, "these guys aren't stupid. It's obvious we have to get to a town to get to a phone."
"Unless we could use Kyle."
"Is that what you want to do?"
He didn't realize he was holding his breath until she shook her head.
"No, I need to talk to Lily on my own." She glanced out the window. "They can't be everywhere."
"So, Rosie, this is where you get to choose. Where do we go?"
"You're the expert," she returned, scowling at him.
He grinned. "Who managed to get shot, remember?" His smile faded. "Marco first caught up with us in Ketchikan."
"Too far," she said, looking around the bridge. "It'll take most of the day to get there. We've got to call Lily way before then. Where are the charts?"
"I wasn't suggesting that we go there." He pulled open a drawer and handed her the book.
"Every place around here has just one dock, which means it's just as easy to keep an eye out in Ketchikan or Wrangall or someplace smaller." She flipped open the book, turned to the page with the island charts for the area where they were anchored. "And, if I were keeping an eye out, I'd stick to the larger towns—it's more comfortable, easier to blend in, and still only one dock to watch plus the airport."
He couldn't fault her logic, her thinking following down the same paths his own had.
"We should go back to Kanwau," she said a moment later.
"The bay?" he questioned.
"The town." She glanced at him. "There's a small town farther on up the bay."
He stared, trying to remember everything he and Kyle had talked about yesterday morning. "Your cousin told me that he sailed up the bay, and he didn't see anybody. He didn't say anything about a town."
She allowed a small grin. "It's not even as big as Lynx Point, but trust me … there's a town. More important, there's a phone at the lodge."
Until he came to Alaska's panhandle, he wouldn't have called Lynx Point a town, which simply showed how small most communities were. He studied the map, noting that Kanwau was off the beaten path. A place not likely to have many visitors this time of year. A place that would surely notice visitors this time of year. Ian agreed with Rosie—the sooner they called Lily the better. Stopping anywhere was a risk—this small village no more so than anywhere else.
"Okay."
Within an hour Rosie had piloted Miss Pris past the island where they had first met her cousin the day before. Ahead of them, the channel became even more narrow, and the walls of the fjord became even higher. Here and there, stone cliffs jutted out of the surrounding forest. Clouds settled over the water for the first real rain they'd had since boarding the boat. The overcast was so dense, telling the time of day from the sky was impossible.
When they came around a sweeping curve, Ian could see a few buildings, a small harbor with a half dozen anchored boats and a float plane, and a weathered dock. The buildings had tin roofs and an ancient, weathered look. The clouds had settled deeply enough, a streetlight had come on, casting a yellowish beam of light across the dock and onto the water. The sprinkles of rain became a full-fledged downpour, pattering against the hull. Not a soul was in sight.
Putting on one of the bright yellow waterproof ponchos stored beneath one of the seats on the aft deck, Ian went outside and secured the boat to one of the cleats on the dock. The rain was just as cold and miserable as it looked.
Inside he watched Rosie talk with her niece. They gave each other a quick hug, and Rosie came outside and retrieved another slicker.
"I could go make the call," he said. "You stay here with Annmarie."
Rosie shook her head. "I know the people who own the lodge." She waved toward the shore. "They'll think I've been down this way delivering seedlings to the Kennebec Company."
"And if they've seen the news report?"
Rosie shrugged. "I'll be surprised." She pulled the poncho over her head, and Sly began wagging his tail in anticipation of a walk.
"You should take him with you," Ian said.
"He'll get muddy."
He grinned and glanced down at the deck that he had mopped then polished to a high gleam the night before. "I don't mind swabbing the deck again, Rosie, and I'll feel better knowing you're not completely alone."
"Okay." She nodded, then turned back around to touch him—the first time she had voluntarily done so except for nursing him that first day. "Promise me something."
"Anything I can."
Her gaze met his with fierce directness. "Annmarie's first,
last and most important. If anything happens to me, you take her and leave."
The request didn't surprise him—it was the same thing he would have demanded of her. But he didn't like it.
"That's a tall order."
"Promise."
"You're gonna be just fine," he said, hedging. "Like you said, you know these people."
"Promise," she repeated. "And if I'm not back here in a half hour, you go. Without me. Got it?"
"You always this stubborn?"
"I'm not stubborn. Promise."
"Okay." He reached for her before she stepped out from under the awning. "Be safe, Rosie Jensen," he murmured the instant before he caught her mouth with his.
Her surprise that formed a soft, whooshing "Oh" allowed him access inside and held her motionless, but he felt her fingers flex into his arms. And her mouth … was just as silky and lush as he had known it would be. He somehow resisted the urge to wrap her close, simply savoring each electric touch of her mouth beneath his, wishing he had all the time in the world to explore her instead of this stolen second.
Her ragged sigh washed through him and, impossibly, her mouth softened even more and her lips clung. He felt as though he had just been handed the most precious of gifts. Gently he cupped his hands around her face, slowly ending the kiss.
He lifted his head and gazed into her wide eyes, so filled with longing and wonder and surprise that she took his breath away. There were a dozen things he wanted to say to her. Instead he released her and held out a hand to steady her as she stepped onto the dock. She gave him one last, considering glance and hurried up the muddy road to the lodge, Sly close at her heels.
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
"Well, I'll be damned," Bobby Lombard said by way of greeting as Rosie came through the door of the lodge. The man was a grizzled old-timer with a perpetual three-day stubble. "Look at what the cat dragged in. It's a miserable day to be out."
"That it is," Rosie responded. Conversations with Bobby always began with the weather. She pulled the poncho over her head and put it on a hook near the front door. "How are you and Bobbie?" The couple were affectionately known as the Bobs, jovial owners of Bobs Bed, Breakfast and Brew.
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