by BETH KERY
Clinging to the limb like a leech, he reached his goal: a window in the hayloft used for ventilation. It was too small for even him to crawl through. The tiny glass pane was intact. It was open as far as the hinge would allow.
He peered inside the window. The maple tree was now ablaze with first morning light, and it was hard to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the interior barn. Suddenly, there was a flash of brilliant copper in his eyes, and a face appeared in the window. He started back in surprise. He and the girl were only inches apart. Her skin was pale, but reddened. She’d been crying. The next thing he became aware of was her eyes. They were huge and the color of the sea—or at least that’s what he imagined, never having seen an ocean or sea. He recognized what he saw in her eyes from firsthand experience, on the other hand.
Pure fear.
She opened her mouth, but he put his finger to his mouth in an urgent hushing gesture.
“The dogs,” he mouthed, barely a whisper leaving his lips.
“He said they’d kill me,” she whispered, and he saw the wildness in her eyes. Jake knew the layout of the barn. Emmitt had put the girl in the loft and stationed some of their more vicious dogs at the bottom of it. Emmitt hadn’t been boasting. Those pit bulls would tear her to pieces if she tried to escape.
“The dogs won’t kill you,” he whispered, straining to sound confident when he wasn’t. Instinctively he understood that she verged on panic. If she started screaming, it’d waken the dogs, and his uncle in turn. “Stay calm around them. Keep your fear boxed up tight. It’ll only make them more aggressive if they sense it.”
“Who are you?” she whispered after a tense pause, in which Jake realized he’d been gawking at her hair. The sunlight was setting it ablaze, and it was so pretty.
“Jake,” he mouthed.
“Get me out of here, Jake. I want to go back to my parents.” Her soft whimper and trembling, pink mouth sliced through him.
“I can’t,” he whispered. Her desperation was so palpable, it felt like a weight on his chest.
“You have to,” she insisted, those blue-green eyes going fierce.
“I can’t. He’ll kill me,” Jake whispered. Wild to do something, he clawed in his jeans pocket. “Here. I brought you some Pop-Tarts,” he said, holding up the package triumphantly. “They were from my grandma Rose’s groceries, but I don’t think she’ll notice if a few are missing. They aren’t good for her heart anyway, but she loves them so much, I talk Emmitt into getting her some once in a while . . .”
She stared at him like he’d gone mad. He realized how lame his offering was, given the direness of her situation. It struck home again just how lame he was. How inadequate.
“He tied my hands behind my back so I wouldn’t try to get down the ladder,” she whispered. She blinked the tears welling in her eyes. He felt himself dying a little inside.
“Oh.”
“But I am hungry. And weak,” she added.
“I’ll feed it to you,” he whispered. He ripped open the paper package. “Come closer,” he directed. She came nearer, and the sunlight fully illuminated her face. There was a sprinkle of light freckles on her nose. He saw the mottled bruise on the left side of her forehead. It stood in such contrast to her pretty face and pale, smooth skin. He paused in the action of extending his hand.
Anger pierced his helplessness. He recognized Emmitt’s handiwork. She was staring hungrily at his hand, which held the Pop-Tart. She parted her lips, and he got ahold of himself.
He shimmied out farther. The limb dipped alarmingly. Her eyes went wide.
“’S okay. It’ll hold,” he assured. He held out his hand and it crossed the pane of the window. She craned her neck and took a large bite out of the Pop-Tart and, without chewing, bit off another. She was hungry. When had Emmitt taken her? Had it been before she’d had her evening meal? Or were fear, adrenaline, and her injury responsible for her sharp hunger? He wanted to ask her, but her mouth was full as she demolished the Pop-Tart. Then, when she slowed down a little, something else preoccupied him.
Her even, small white teeth and pink mouth.
The Pop-Tart almost gone, he extended his thumb and forefinger with the last bite. Her lips brushed against his skin as she nabbed it. Pleasure tingled through him. Her gaze darted to his face and she abruptly ceased chewing. Had she felt it, too?
“You have to get me out of here,” she whispered after she’d swallowed the last of the Pop-Tart with effort.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Harper. Harper McFadden. He hit me when I was in the showers at the campground.”
“Which one? Which campground?” he added when she just stared at him blankly.
“I don’t know the name. It’s on the river. My parents are Philip and Jane McFadden. Go to the police and tell them I’m here!” she hissed, the idea seemingly enflaming her.
“I can’t do that,” he whispered, thinking intently. “Town is too far away. He might have moved you by the time I got there.”
“You have to do something,” she insisted. A tear spilled down her cheek. She clenched her eyelids shut. He sensed her misery. “He . . . he took off my clothes. I’m . . .”
Her face collapsed. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Her mortification at her nakedness and vulnerability, the stark evidence that she’d been robbed of her basic dignity, made something new and unexpected happen inside Jake. His anger at her mistreatment at the hands of his uncle made him go cold . . .
Cold and hard.
He did have to do something.
She’d lost herself to distress. Her eyelids remained clamped but a few tears escaped down her cheeks. She was holding her breath. He recognized that she was trying to contain her fear and admired her for it. He sensed her terror, and it was huge, but she was fighting it like crazy.
“Breathe, Harper,” he prompted firmly. Her eyelids remained squeezed shut. He stretched his arm and touched her damp cheek. He felt a tremor go through her. Her shimmering eyes locked on him.
“Okay. I’m going to get you out of here,” he said. “But you’re going to have to wait here for a few hours. There are some things I’m going to have to do to make this work. When I do come to get you, you’re going to have to do exactly what I tell you to.”
“I don’t want to stay here alone. Get me out of here now,” she pleaded in a shaky whisper.
He steeled himself. “You have to. I’m sorry. If I don’t put a plan in place, Emmitt will catch us in about two hours flat after he wakes up, probably less. The only way we’re going to get you back to your mom and dad is if you stay strong and stay put. You’re safe, for now.”
“What are you going to do?” she whispered as he started to inch back on the limb.
“Lay a false trail. Then sedate the animals. All of ’em. Including my uncle,” he replied before he shimmied backward on the branch.
Present Day
Jacob jerked on his bed at the still-vivid memory, his hand thumping on the luxurious, cool bedding.
So different, Jake Tharp from him.
He wasn’t sure what drove him to do it, but he switched on a lamp and rose from the bed. He entered his large closet. Behind stacks and stacks of glossy shoe boxes, he found what he was looking for. He pulled down the ragged, faded Converse All Star box and walked with it back to the bed. He tossed off the lid and picked up a folded piece of notebook paper, a feeling of mixed sadness, pity, and irritation going through him at seeing the scrawl.
Harper,
How’s it going? Do you like the seventh grade? I hope math isn’t as bad as you were worried it’d be. It’s been so hot here, they might as well have just extended our summer vacation. Kids’ brains don’t work in this kind of weather. Billy Crider got sent home because he kept falling asleep in science, and about six detentions and threats of more wouldn’t wake him up any. You probab
ly have air-conditioning in your school at Georgetown, right? The heat sure hasn’t been good for Grandma Rose, either. She’s been pretty weak, and she hasn’t hardly eaten anything but half of a Pop-Tart once in a while. I know I should give her something healthier, but it’s the only thing she’ll eat except for some crackers once in a while. It’ll be okay, though. Weather forecast says it’ll get cooler next week.
I started reading The Hobbit, since you said it came before Lord of the Rings. I feel like I already read LOTR, though, because you told me every detail of it. Remember? That night in the cave?
Hope I’ll get a letter from you soon. Thought I’d have one by now, but the mail service to Grandma Rose’s isn’t that great. I’m looking for an after-school job. If I get one, maybe I’ll get a P.O. box so I’ll be sure to get all your letters.
I guess you must know how much I miss you.
Jake
A sharp pain of longing went through him. Longing for what, he couldn’t say. He refolded the piece of notebook paper and shoved it back in the Converse box. He sprawled back on the bed.
She’d never written. Not even one letter.
Despite his bitterness at that, Jacob knew Harper would always be special to him. That was a given, even if there hadn’t been a flicker of recognition in her eyes when she looked at him today.
He hadn’t realized it as a kid, but Jacob recognized it now twenty years later in spades. The moment Jake had made the decision to free Harper McFadden had been the precise moment he’d saved his own life.
eight
Harper plunged into work the next day, glad for the mayoral press conference and the tangible bit of news that came from it. It helped, having something to focus on beyond the bewildering, mind-blowing memory of what had happened on Jacob Latimer’s moonlit terrace last night. Being in South Lake also helped her avoid the newsroom, Ruth Dannen, and her prying questions. It did until two o’clock that afternoon, that is.
“Well? What’s the news from the king’s palace?”
Harper looked up from her layouts. Ruth leaned inside the doorway of Harper’s office.
“Nothing really,” Harper said levelly, glancing back to her layouts. For some reason, she felt a need to protect Jacob Latimer. Or maybe she just felt the need to hide her outlandish behavior on his terrace last night.
“Did you figure out why they asked you?” Ruth persisted, stepping into Harper’s office.
Harper exhaled in mild frustration. Ruth wasn’t going to be easily shaken. Might as well spoon out a small measure of the truth. “I did, in fact. As it turns out, Latimer was a fan of a feature I did at the Chronicle—the one about Ellie and the homeless children of San Francisco? He’d mentioned it to Cyril Atwater—”
“The director?”
Harper shrugged sheepishly and nodded. “I’d never heard of Atwater until last night.”
“I’ll bet Cyril loved that,” Ruth said, smirking. “That man has an ego the size of Texas.”
“You know him?”
“Sure, Cyril is another one of our local celebrities. He gives me an interview once a year about his latest film project. Go on.”
“Well, apparently Latimer mentioned my story to Atwater in regard to making it into a film, and Atwater loved the idea,” she said, hoping to bring the conversation to an end. “I’m going to call Ellie about it. It’s completely up to her whether or not she’d want her life put on film.”
“That’s it?” Ruth asked when she shifted her attention back to her layouts. “Who else was at the party?”
“I really only met Atwater. And Elizabeth, of course.”
“What about Latimer? Did he make an appearance?”
“He did, in fact,” Harper said nonchalantly as she did a markup. “A brief one.”
“Well?” Ruth demanded. “Give me details, the dirtier the better.”
“I haven’t got much to tell,” Harper eluded. “The chardonnay was excellent. I caught a glimpse of the bottle. Apparently, Latimer has his own label.”
“He owns a small winery in Napa.”
“The terrace was fantastic, and so was the house. There was a jazz band.” Ruth looked like she wanted to bite her head off for giving such boring details. Harper hid a smile. Thankfully, her phone started to ring. She reached for it, but Ruth put her hand on the receiver, halting her.
“Did you speak to him? If not, to whom did Latimer talk? How long did he stay? What was his mood like? What was he wearing?”
“What was he wearing? Seriously?”
“The juice is squeezed from every detail, no matter how small.”
“There isn’t any juice. I told you, he only showed up briefly.” She shooed the other woman’s hand from her phone, scowling pointedly at her as she picked up the receiver.
“Sierra Tahoe Gazette, Harper McFadden speaking.”
“Hi.”
A shock went through her. She blinked, her gaze darting to Ruth. Ruth’s expression segued slowly from irritation to dawning curiosity.
“Hi,” Harper managed after a pause.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling you at the office. I’m often told I’m not a patient man,” Latimer said.
She picked up her cup, taking a sip of cold coffee in an attempt to look normal. “What is it you’re so impatient about?” she prevaricated.
“Your answer.”
“Oh. Yes, that. I haven’t spoken to Ellie yet.”
From the corner of her vision, she saw Ruth place her hands on Harper’s desk and lean in.
“That isn’t the answer I was referring to.”
She felt a flickering sensation in her lower belly at the sound of his low, compelling voice. She glanced up at Ruth, who was watching her like a hawk.
“It’s more complicated than you’re assuming,” she said, her manner brisk and professional.
“Is there someone there?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, I’ll make this brief. I’m picking you up at your place for dinner tonight. Six thirty? Does that simplify things for you?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Harper said, squinting at her layout and making a nonsensical change.
“Yes. Well, like I said last night, some complications are unavoidable. Say yes.”
“Yes?” she muttered, confused momentarily as to what he meant.
“Perfect. I’ll see you at six thirty. Dress casual.”
“But—”
The line went dead.
“Who was—”
“Not now, Ruth,” Harper said more sharply than she’d intended, slamming down the receiver. She gathered up several papers from her desk in a random fashion. “Excuse me. I have to see Sangar.”
She glided past a furious-looking Ruth.
• • •
As the clock inched toward six thirty that evening, Harper grew increasingly anxious. Latimer had said to dress casual, but what did that mean, exactly? Casual as in taking a lakeside stroll, or casual as in going to a classy, but easygoing restaurant. Plus . . . her townhome was in a gated community. He had to call to be buzzed in, and he didn’t have her cell phone number or her residence number. Of course, she still had no way to reach him, so she was stuck.
She shouldn’t have let him bulldoze her into making a decision.
It’s just dinner, she thought as she stared at herself in the mirror. You don’t have to make any huge decisions—like about whether or not you want to have a physical affair with a gorgeous, mysterious, complicated male—until you’re good and ready.
She’d finally decided that a silvery gray, button-down maxi-dress along with a soft, cropped pink sweater in deference to the recent cool evenings, could be interpreted as casual. She wasn’t showing much skin, which was good. Although did the sweater accentuate her breasts in a manner that perhaps Latimer would think was intentio
nally provocative?
Was she being provocative?
Her uncertainty on that topic loomed large.
Her doorbell rang as she began to unbutton the pink sweater in preparation to change it. Flustered, she refastened it and hurried to find her purse.
By the time she jogged downstairs and got to the front door, she was breathless. The sight of Latimer waiting patiently on her front porch made it even harder to get air into her lungs. Did one ever get used to looking at him?
His short hair was sexily mussed. There was an evening scruff on his lean jaw. He wore a cobalt blue shirt with the sleeves rolled back, a pair of worn jeans that fit his long legs and narrow hips with a casual, sexy perfection, and a pair of deck shoes. His hands were in his pockets. Harper’s gaze stuck on the vision of his bare, strong-looking, hair-dusted forearms.
She realized uncomfortably that he hadn’t spoken, either. He’d been checking her out like she’d been checking him out, his sharp, hazel eyes moving slowly down the length of her. Did his stare linger on her breasts? He seemed so solemn, despite the male heat in his eyes. Latimer’s brand of appreciation was unlike any other she’d experienced before. By the time he met her stare, only a few breathless seconds had passed, but he’d managed to make her breasts feel conspicuous and tingly, and a warm, pleasant ache to expand in her core. She recalled vividly what it’d been like to have him touch her, and found herself craving the feeling of his skin against hers.
She cleared her throat. “How did you get in?” she asked, forcing a smile.
His eyebrows arched. “I’m not ‘in’ yet,” he replied, deadpan, nodding at the threshold and then at her, his eyebrows quirked slightly.
She laughed and stepped back, waving him into her townhome. He moved past her and she shut the door behind him. “No, I meant how did you get past the gate?”
“I came from the lake, not the road,” he said, glancing around her foyer and peering into her distant living room. He looked especially tall and striking in the familiar setting. And he smelled good.