Sanctuary Island

by Everett, Lily

  Ella sat up so she could return the hug. Merry immediately burrowed into her, the way she used to when they were little kids.

  “I promise I’ll come back for the birth,” Ella said, pressing a kiss to the top of Merry’s head. She caught Jo’s soft smile across the cab and added, “But until then, you’ll be in good hands.”

  Rain and wind kept Ella from hearing Jo’s swift, indrawn breath, but she saw it. And even though her mother never took her eyes off the treacherously slippery roads for an instant, Ella knew Jo had heard and understood.

  Satisfied, Ella went back to looking out the window. She was watching for something in particular—something she desperately wanted to see one last time before she left Sanctuary Island.

  And as the truck veered slowly around a curve and the road opened out onto the western wetlands, Ella got her wish.

  On a sand bluff overlooking the ocean, the stark black figure of a horse stood limned in storm light against the rushing clouds. She kept her gaze on that figure until the flash of lightning out over the water highlighted him in a rush. It was the stallion she’d seen that first day, the leader of the wild horse band, with the long black mane.

  He reared and pawed at the hard-packed sand before loping down the small hill to rejoin his mares, and Ella felt the pain in her chest ease by a fraction.

  No, she’d never regret her time on Sanctuary Island. This place had taught her to face her past, to open her heart, and given her a new dream … when she’d believed herself long past the age of dreaming.

  It had taught her to love.

  Maybe that love hadn’t worked out—and oh, the thought of Grady still cut at her like a knife. But even with the pain of that loss so fresh and raw, Ella couldn’t bring herself to be sorry she’d met him.

  Whether he believed it or not, he’d changed her life.

  *

  Grady drove with relentless precision, yanking the Jeep back in line every time it tried to fishtail along the sloppy back roads to Ben’s house.

  The bourbon had worn off completely right around the time Ella called him a coward.

  That wasn’t exactly what she said, a tiny voice tried to tell him, but Grady downshifted and clenched his hands around the wheel to get it to pipe down. Maybe she didn’t say the word “coward” but they were both thinking it.

  Hell, maybe she was right. He probably needed to work on the whole never-leaving-the-island-again thing … even if the very idea made his guts do a sick, roiling tango.

  Bottom line: it didn’t matter. She could try and turn it around on Grady all she wanted. Nothing justified what she’d tried to do.

  All in all, Grady had never felt so sober in his life—a state he hoped to change, as soon as he got to Ben’s place.

  He didn’t want to be alone right now, and God knew Ben wouldn’t hassle him with a lot of questions and attempts at comfort. That’s why they were friends. Ben never held back his true opinions to spare someone’s feelings.

  His brand of harsh, unvarnished truth was exactly what the doctor ordered. Grady wasn’t sure he could take comfort right now—anything softer than a punch in the mouth was liable to shatter him.

  Like Grady, Ben had elected not to live in the most heavily populated part of the island, along Main Street or on the western shore, where Harrison and Taylor lived. In fact, the winding road to Ben’s cabin took Grady up past the turnoff to Wanderer’s Point.

  Luckily, navigating the road took every scrap of his concentration, so it was easy to avoid looking up to the ridge where he and Ella had spent that warm afternoon.

  Where he’d told her how he got his scars … and that he hadn’t left the island in five years.

  She’d seemed so understanding and compassionate that day, her gaze like a caress, her smile telling him everything would be okay. And when she’d leaped off the cliff and into the water, he’d felt alive in a way he hadn’t experienced in years.

  But Ella Preston was a liar, he reminded himself as he turned down Shoreline Drive, where Ben had chosen to build his farm at the edge of the maritime forest.

  Ben was leaning on his porch railing and sipping from a chipped blue mug when Grady slammed out of his Jeep.

  “Tell me that’s something stronger than coffee.” Grady loped across the yard and took the porch steps in one bound.

  “It’s Irish coffee,” Ben replied, watching Grady shake himself dry like a golden retriever. “You look like you could use one.”

  “Or ten,” Grady agreed, throwing himself down on the porch swing and riding out its creaky protests with a sigh. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Watching the storm roll in. Looks like a big one.”

  So far it had mostly been rain and high winds, but as Ben disappeared inside—hopefully to pour a round—lightning flashed, followed by a clap of thunder cracking nearly overhead.

  “More Irish than coffee in mine,” Grady called, rubbing his hands through his wet hair. He was cold and wet, but he didn’t mind it. The physical discomfort was something else to focus on, a decent distraction from the chaos of emotions throbbing in his chest.

  “You’ll take what I give you and like it, since I’m waiting on you hand and foot.” Despite his annoyed tone, Ben was careful as he handed over the mug full of steaming coffee laced with sweet, smooth Irish whiskey.

  “Hey, I didn’t want to come inside and drip all over your pretty, pretty floors.”

  “Just because you’re happy living in a man cave-slash-survivalist bunker doesn’t mean we all have such low standards.” Ben had put in reclaimed pine hardwood, the wood carefully culled from derelict barns and farmhouses all over Virginia, and he was fanatical about taking care of them.

  “Pipe down, princess.” It was an old, old argument between them, and he should’ve known Ben would recognize a halfhearted response.

  Pausing with the mug at his lips, Ben sent him a glance over the rim as he settled into the hand-carved rocker he’d accepted in lieu of payment when Phil Hubbard’s prize goat broke a horn. “Something on your mind?”

  Grady took a healthy swig of his Irish coffee and hissed as it scorched down his throat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  See, this was why Grady came here. Instead of prying, Ben shrugged and went back to watching the storm. The rhythmic creak of his rocker punctuated the steady drum of the rain, the occasional boom of thunder.

  Precisely because Ben didn’t push, Grady found himself bursting out with, “Ella and I had a fight.”

  “She finally figured out you’re a loser, huh?”

  The barb should’ve been blunted by the fact that Grady knew Ben was a rock-solid friend whose crusty exterior hid a depthless, unshakable loyalty and a sneaky, backhanded kindness—but it was aimed a little too well at the open wound Ella had left behind.

  Grady must have flinched visibly, because Ben’s abstract smirk sharpened into real concern.

  Huffing out a breath, Grady palmed the hot back of his neck. “Yeah, pretty much. I guess we were both disappointed—because she turned out not to be the woman I thought she was, either.”

  “You’ve only known each other about five minutes,” Ben pointed out, kicking back to prop his bare feet up on the porch railing. “It’s not surprising you’d still be uncovering new quirks.”

  “Three weeks, not five minutes, and I’d say we got to know each other pretty well. I mean, we spent most of that time joined at the hip.”

  Ben snorted. “Woof.”

  “Not like that,” Grady protested, surprising himself by laughing. The end of the laugh caught in his chest like a cough or a sob, but still, it was better than the dazed, incoherent anger and betrayal he’d been mired in since he left Ella standing in the rain.

  “I didn’t get to know Ella as well as you did,” Ben said with a significant eyebrow arch, “but when we met up to go over stuff last week she seemed okay. I mean, I didn’t like her, per se—”

  “But you don’t like anyone,” Grady filled in as h
is mind snagged on the rest of Ben’s statement. Dread and dismay filled him in a nauseating rush. “Tell me she didn’t drag you into that damn Windy Corner proposal. What lies did she use to get you to help her?”

  Ben’s feet thunked on the porch floor as he sat up with a scowl. “You don’t like her idea?”

  Grady leaned so far forward, the swing almost dumped him out. Wrapping cold fingers around the chain that hung the swing from the porch ceiling, he said, “Do I like the idea of a bunch of strangers roaming all over Sanctuary, messing with the wild horses? No. I don’t. I can’t believe you do. Has everyone on this island gone completely nuts?”

  Blinking at the snarl in Grady’s voice, Ben said, “I would have thought out of everyone on Sanctuary, you’d be first in line to go in with Ella on this thing. It’s right up your bleeding-heart savior complex. But man, even if you don’t want anything to do with it, you’re not saying you’d let a woman like Ella go because she wants to help people? That’s cold, even for me.”

  The coolness in Ben’s tone wouldn’t seem out of place to most people, but Grady knew him well enough to tell—Ben was disappointed. In Grady.

  Feeling like he’d been sucked into a Twilight Zone episode, Grady shook his head. “I’m sorry. On what planet is opening a B and B going to help people?”

  “What are you—” Ben cocked his head. “I mean, I guess there might be clients who’d need long-term care, and a place to stay while they finish out their sessions. Ella didn’t really talk to me about that part of it—she only asked me for advice about what it would take to get the center up and running, what changes the stable facilities would need, and the ongoing medical costs of caring for therapy horses.”

  The words cracked through Grady like a hot poker through a piece of charred kindling. “Therapy horses.”

  “Yes,” Ben said slowly, the way he talked to people he considered too stupid to treat as adults … so, most people. “Therapy horses. For the Windy Corner Therapeutic Riding Facility. Which, to quote Ella’s proposal, aims to provide equine-assisted therapy to wounded warriors and others suffering from anxiety, depression, and PTSD.”

  Boom.

  Grady had no idea if the thunder was overhead or in his head. All he knew was that somehow, he’d made the worst mistake of his life.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Wow.” Ben stared, his ice-gray eyes for once completely free of mockery. “You really are a loser.”

  Grady dropped his face into his palms, the full realization of what he’d done crashing over him now that he’d recounted the whole ugly thing to Ben. “Worse,” he groaned. “I’m a complete asshole.”

  Ben kicked the rocker into furious motion, the way he did when he was thinking. “It sounds like you were both as dumb as a couple of boxes of hair about this whole thing. Yeah, you shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, but why the hell didn’t she call you on it? All she had to do was show you her actual proposal and she could’ve rubbed your face in your complete wrongness.”

  Pressing the heels of his hands so hard into his eye sockets that colors and light burst behind his lids, Grady ground out, “That’s what you would have done.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Ella’s not you,” Grady said, breathing out and standing up to dig his cell phone out of his pocket. “She puts on a tough act, but she’s soft underneath. God, the things I said. I’ve got to talk to her.”

  “There’s no way she’s going to pick up,” Ben predicted sagely.

  “Right. Because you’re such an expert on women.” Grady shot his friend a narrow look while the phone rang and rang and rang. “How many times were you out at Jo’s barn this last week? Five, six? And usually you’re there—what? Once a week, tops? And even with all that, you haven’t said more than a dozen words to Merry Preston.”

  The rocking chair jerked to a stop. “Shut the hell up.”

  “I’m only saying…” Grady started, then swore when Ella’s voice-mail message started playing in his ear. “She’s not answering. I’m going out to Windy Corner.”

  “Good, get off my porch. Jackwagon,” Ben grumbled, still a little red at the tips of his ears. He stood and snatched up Grady’s mug, tossing the rest of the Irish coffee out into the rain-soaked yard.

  “Seriously, man, thanks,” Grady started to say, but broke off when Ben held up an imperious finger and tugged his vibrating cell phone from his jeans.

  “Speak of the devil,” he murmured, staring at the phone screen.

  Grady stiffened. “Ella’s calling you?”

  “It’s Jo’s landline,” Ben corrected briefly. “Hello?”

  “Ask her how Ella is.” Grady crowded close, ignoring Ben’s irritated glare. “Is she upset?”

  Ben didn’t say anything, though—apparently Jo was talking too fast for him to get a word in edgewise. Grady could barely make out the panicked tone of her voice through the receiver.

  But he could read the answering shock and fear that flashed across Ben’s face as clear as day, in the instant before it changed to fierce determination.

  “How long between contractions?” Ben snapped out.

  Grady frowned and racked his brain for which of Jo’s mares might be going into labor.

  “What’s up?” he asked, but Ben was already striding into his house and reappearing a few moments later with the frayed canvas case that held the tools of his trade.

  “Keep her calm. I’m on my way.” Ben tucked the phone in the back pocket of his black jeans and started patting himself down, looking for his keys.

  “Which mare is in trouble?” Grady vibrated with impatience. Every beat of his heart increased his need to get to Ella, to apologize, to grovel if he had to. “Come on, hop in the Jeep, I’ll give you a ride. I’m heading over to Windy Corner anyway, and the trailer on your truck is going to handle like crap with the roads so bad.”

  Ben shook his head with a frustrated grunt before finally unearthing his keys from a zipper compartment on the side of his medical kit. He jumped down from his porch and headed out into the rain toward his truck. “Not a mare. Merry.”

  Shock paralyzed Grady on the top step for a good five seconds. “No way.”

  “Three weeks early and moving fast,” Ben shouted over his shoulder. “She was having pains all day but didn’t tell anyone, the little idiot. No time to drive her down to the ferry, much less all the way to Harbor General. I have to get over there.”

  Finally forcing his heavy legs into movement, Grady strode after him. “I’ll come with you—”

  “No.” Ben tossed his kit in the truck and faced Grady. “Jo needs you to go down to the ferry and try to hold it. Buddy’s not answering his phone, but you know how the cell reception is down at the pier.”

  “I thought you said there wasn’t enough time…”

  “Not for Merry.” Ben hauled himself up into the truck cab and started the engine with a roar. “Ella left Windy Corner fifteen minutes ago, planning to take the afternoon ferry over to Winter Harbor.”

  Grady’s heart sank like a boulder dropped into a lake. “She’s leaving Sanctuary.”

  She’s leaving me.

  “But Merry’s asking for her,” Ben said, as if that sealed the deal. “So you need to go get her. Now.”

  Grady was moving before Ben finished talking, cold rain stinging his bare skin and weighing down his clothes.

  But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but getting to Ella before the ferry left the island.

  *

  Ella held tight to the hard plastic arms of the copilot chair and muttered a fervent prayer that this old bucket wouldn’t shudder to pieces around her.

  Beside her, the grizzled ferry pilot was less silent, and a lot less prayerful. He was wearing a different bowling shirt from the one he’d had on when they took the ferry onto the island three weeks ago. This one was a solid, shiny sky-blue and had BUDDY emblazoned across the back under the unlikely team name THE SALTWATER COWBOYS.

  The foul-smelling, u
nlit pipe clamped between his lips hadn’t changed.

  Wincing as he turned the chilly air blue with another streak of swear words, Ella gritted her teeth. “I thought you said the storm wouldn’t hit until after we made it to Winter Harbor.”

  She’d been nervous when she got to the dock and saw the islanders’ powerboats moored there tossing in the wind like toys in a splashing toddler’s bathtub. But Buddy, the pilot, had spat on the ground at his feet and told her if she’d quit dithering and hurried up, they’d be fine.

  Once Ella deciphered the thick Virginia drawl that made it come out sounding more like “If you harry up, we’ll be fan,” she bit her lip and boarded.

  It might not mean much, considering she’d probably be back on the island in less than a month for her niece or nephew’s birth, but right now, Ella needed the distance. She needed to feel in control of her destiny.

  Making the choice to go back to real life and the real job waiting for her might not fill her with happiness. But at least when it came to the job, she got out of it what she put into it. Her personal life had never worked that way—she didn’t know why she was surprised it hadn’t gone well this time, either, but she was. Surprised, sad, and hurt.

  Lightning zagged through the clouds over the water and she jumped in startled surprise. Buddy cast her a grouchy look that made her think he was reconsidering letting his sole passenger sit in the glassed-in cockpit with him, out of the wind and rain. “First time my knee’s been wrong in twenty years.”

  Ella’s fingers went white-knuckled. “We’re out here on the open ocean in the middle of a thunderstorm on the advice of your knee?”

  Looking taken aback at the shrillness of her tone, he said obstinately, “It acts up when a storm’s coming in. Was fine at lunch, so I figured we had time. Figured wrong.”

  “Oh my God.” Ella moaned, squeezing her eyes shut as the ferry rocked sickeningly through the choppy waves. “We’re going to die.”