Where Dreams Books 1-3

by M. L. Buchman

“Isn’t it—”

  “You first.”

  “No, you.”

  He looked grumpy, but she waited him out.

  “Do you come out here often?”

  She shook her head. “My first time.”

  “Me, too. Do you, ah, go to many lighthouses?”

  Her foot caught on a rock and she stumbled forward. He reached out a hand to steady her, but she didn’t take it.

  “Seemed like a nice day for a drive. I wasn’t really going for the lighthouse. I thought the northwest point of the U.S. might be amusing.” She was babbling like an idiot. But she’d be damned before she’d tell him that she’d been collecting lighthouses for the last five months.

  “What about Alaska?”

  “Continental U.S.” You jerk.

  “That always bothered me. ‘Continental U.S.’ Like Alaska is on some other continent.”

  “Contiguous U.S. Does that make you happier?”

  “Immensely.” He started whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Is this your first time?”

  She glanced over in time to see a wolfish grin cross his face for a moment. That definitely hadn’t come out right, but she was not going to blush. Her cheeks didn’t appear to be paying attention to her orders and were heating up abruptly.

  “I meant—”

  “Yes and no,” he saved her with a casual drawl that might still have a bit of the grinning male ego. “First time here.”

  She focused on the trail ahead and continued placing one foot in front of the other.

  “How about you? Are you a lighthouse virgin?” He said it with every sexual insinuation possible dripping from his tongue. She’d obviously given him too much credit. What were they, in high school?

  “Jesus. Do you go out of your way to be insulting?”

  He stopped his damn whistling. Actually, he was no longer beside her and she had to backtrack to where he halted.

  “No.” He shook his head, his voice as soft as the breeze wending its way through the green moss. “No. I’d have to say that you bring out the worst in me.”

  “I’m honored.”

  He bit his upper lip and inspected the sky for a moment.

  “Can we try this again?”

  “You already started twice.”

  “Third time’s the charm?”

  If he’d made it a statement, she’d have left him and to hell with the ferry ride, the three-hour drive, and the stupid lighthouse. But he looked pitiable. How a handsome, broad-shouldered man over six feet tall could look so lost was a wonder. Did he know that she had a weak spot for lost souls?

  She looped her hand through the crook of his arm and tugged him along the trail. Once they were walking together, he unwound a bit. De-stiffened enough to bend his legs in some semblance of normalcy.

  “Hi, I’m Cassidy Knowles. Yes, I’m a lighthouse virgin. This is my first one.” She’d be nice to him for Angelo’s sake, but that didn’t mean she was about to let him one single inch into her life.

  “Russell Morgan, pleased to— I really was pleased to meet you. You seemed like a nice lady at dinner, no matter how I mangled it.”

  “I have rarely been attacked quite so thoroughly.”

  “Well, you didn’t deserve it.”

  She’d thought a lot about what he’d said. Hard not to.

  “I’m less sure of that now than I was then.”

  Where the trail narrowed, he walked awkwardly with one foot in the mud so that she could stay well on the trail. It did make her think a little better of him.

  “You made your feelings for me quite clear in your review.”

  She had, hadn’t she. “I was…”

  “Irritated? Hurt?”

  “Really, really pissed,” but was becoming less so with each step they took together. How was he doing that to her?

  “Ah, well. I’d wager that isn’t something your average date achieves quite so thoroughly.”

  “No, Mr. Morgan. You’re a first. Though there was this one guy.” She told him the story about Richie who had hallucinated her as hell-spawn.

  He told a story about a horrid double-date he’d had with Angelo when they were in high school. Twins that Angelo could keep straight just fine, but not him. Kept trying to kiss the wrong one.

  He was actually charming when he wasn’t in a vicious back-biting mood. Cassidy could feel the muscles under her hand. His strong bicep flexing easily as they moved over the last of the rocks, an unconscious strength easily shifted to aid her balance. She enjoyed holding the man’s arm—of feeling, even for an instant, that they belonged side-by-side. A warmth ran through her that had nothing to do with the May sunshine.

  Rounding the last bend in the trail, they came upon a small viewing platform raised a half-dozen steep steps above the rocky clifftop. She waved him forward, though he tried to insist that she proceed first. There was chivalry and there was climbing a half-dozen ladder-steep steps—that would place her behind right in his face.

  “Jerks before ladies.”

  “Even redeemed ones?”

  “You aren’t redeemed yet, go.”

  He ascended, like most males, using only every other step. Good butt, she couldn’t help noticing. And grinned. Turnabout was sometimes fair play. She followed him up the ladder.

  Then she stopped noticing Russell Morgan at all.

  The sweep of the Cape Flattery shore spread before them. Three-quarters of the horizon was water. To the right was the Straits of San Juan de Fuca. To the left was the endless expanse of the Pacific Ocean. And straight ahead was a rocky, sprawling island, the last land before Alaska and Japan.

  A few hundred yards offshore, Tatoosh Island popped from the water like the bottom of a cooking pot—flat-topped and sheer-sided. The green grass and few firs did little to mitigate the desperate isolation of the lighthouse perched on the edge of the cliff. It was no wonder that a lighthouse keeper and his assistant had attempted a duel to the death over some imagined insult. Both had been saved by another assistant who had removed the lead from the bullets before the three shots were fired.

  Its beacon winked at her across the narrow passage. The light called out: seeking aid or was it offering guidance?

  Perhaps it was both. She scanned the water, right and left. The only thing that was missing was the sailboat.

  # # #

  Russell had finally left to amble along the edges of the high cliff. Even now Cassidy could see him poking along inspecting every nook and cranny of the narrow point, as if he’d lost something. Occasionally he’d snap a picture with that fancy camera of his but even that looked less like inspiration and more like habit. At long last he headed down a side trail that appeared to lead to the bottom of the cliff.

  She took the moment alone to pull out her father’s letter.

  Dearest Ice Sweet,

  You can hold onto something so tightly that your nerves go numb and you no longer notice your deathgrip on it. Not until it is too late, or near enough.

  Adrianne and I spent three years trying to save the vineyard. We sunk every penny we had into it until every belonging was sold and we’d spent almost every ounce of our life’s blood. We often lived on beans and rice to stretch the money. By the time you were two, the last threads were unraveling.

  Adrianne was too busy raising you to ever take to the fields again for those grueling sixteen-hour days. When her parents took ill, she went home to Bainbridge Island, Washington to take care of them. I struggled to save that which was past saving. I stayed on. Sheer damn stubbornness, I guess. Or maybe just blinders.

  April 7th. That was the day. With the lack of water the last harvest had been miserable. I’d spent the winter trying to work the wine, but without your mother’s help and wisdom, it failed miserably. Your mother was gone and I didn’t think she
’d be coming back. I had to choose between my vineyard or her and you. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Thank all the gods, I made the right choice. I sold out and I moved to the Kitsap Peninsula and started living over your grandparents’ garage.

  Beware getting so locked in that you don’t see what you most need to look at.

  Love you, Ice Sweet.

  Vic

  He’d lost a vineyard and she’d never known, a Napa Valley vineyard. That would be worth a fortune now and it sounded as if he lost it for pennies. He’d taken a body blow to the heart because of her. Then he not only lost his vineyard, but his parents-in-law and then his wife. No wonder he didn’t speak much of his past; the pain ran deep roots into his life.

  Russell was heading back toward her.

  She crumpled the letter and shoved it into her pocket. A quick wipe at her eyes and her wet fingers cooled in the offshore breeze. She turned her face into that light breeze; she’d blame her eyes on the wind if he said anything.

  He stopped and scanned the area once more, not even bothering to glance at her. Mr. Sensitive he wasn’t.

  She checked the ocean again, especially back down the Straits toward Seattle, but no blue sailboat braved the waters. No boat at all had appeared in the last hour except for a pair of container ships and a tanker that looked big enough to carry all the oil of an entire country. Okay, a small country.

  She photographed the lighthouse out on the island, but without her sailboat, it looked empty. Felt pointless. It wouldn’t really belong in the series on her wall.

  Each step he took closer to her was followed by a quick glance around.

  “You look as if you’ve lost something.”

  He shrugged.

  “Stood up by your blond girlfriend?”

  He aimed a scathing glance in her direction.

  “Sorry.” She bit the edge of her tongue. “Now I’m the one being bitchy. I’m sorry.”

  His gaze didn’t soften, but he did manage a jerky nod of acknowledgement. Tit-for-tat. The lowest form of revenge. She wanted to crawl away and hide until he was gone.

  He headed back for the parking lot without offering his arm.

  She was a little ashamed that she missed it; not that she actually needed any support along the well-groomed trail. His silence was becoming oppressive. She could just fade back and let him disappear ahead. Maybe she could even pretend she had to go back for something she’d dropped and check one more time for her sailboat. But somehow she knew it wasn’t coming.

  Besides, that was the chicken’s way out.

  Russell strode ahead, not fast, but with hard, jarring steps. He had powerful legs and a well-formed butt that his worn jeans outlined nicely.

  What was she avoiding so much? She stuffed her hands into her pockets and her father’s letter crinkled. That was it. The letter had said the same thing Russell had thrown at her.

  What did she want to do? She’d walked her career path head down like some kind of bulldog.

  Be the best food critic.

  Know all the wines.

  Be hurt when you don’t know about an obscure wine from a remote Italian village.

  She’d dropped nearly four hundred dollars the day after their date ordering every wine she could find from the five villages of Cinque Terre. She’d cataloged over half of them, would never forget them, but most were mediocre wines you’d expect from small village wineries. Only a few surprises in the lot and the sciacchetrà was the best of those.

  “You were right.”

  He stumbled and looked back at her.

  “What?”

  “I said, you were right.”

  “No, I screwed up with Melanie.”

  “I meant about having no long-term plan.”

  For a moment they blinked at each other, both lost on a straight trail with their two cars in clear sight a hundred yards away.

  “Her name is Melanie?”

  “I’m sorry I said that about you.”

  Once again they were at a stop. Both too vulnerable. Both with their hearts out on the trail. She couldn’t do it. It was a cliff she just couldn’t climb. Not with this man.

  “I, uh, are you going to the next lighthouse?”

  He looked down and kicked at the dirt. “Next lighthouse?”

  “There’s one a couple of hours south, called Destruction Island. It’s—” She almost said, “not on the calendar,” but caught herself.

  He didn’t look at her, still hadn’t since rejoining her at the lookout.

  “It’s offshore a couple miles. They say it should be visible…on a clear day…like today,” she finally ran down to a stop.

  He looked about the parking lot. Stared for a long moment at Jo’s car. Hers was in the shop and Jo had leant her the BMW roadster.

  “Nice wheels.”

  “Um, thanks.” What was it with men and fancy cars? It was too racy for her taste, though Russell’s car looked even lower and meaner than Jo’s. Porsche maybe? Jo had always been the fan of sports cars, the only weakness she’d admit to.

  “I think I’ll head home. You?” He didn’t meet her gaze but continued to be fascinated by the dirt.

  “Don’t know really. They say a bull lived there who hated the new fog horn. It kept charging the lighthouse whenever it went off—thought it was a competing bull.” Why was she trying to talk him into coming?

  He finally looked at her; his narrowed eyes indicated that he was certainly asking himself the same question. After a long moment, during which she forgot to breathe, he shrugged.

  “Nah. I’m not really feeling up to it.” He turned toward his little black car, but turned back and returned to stand in front of her.

  He held out a hand.

  She took it out of instinct rather than any desire to share contact with him.

  Rather than shaking it, he covered it with his other hand. Big, powerful, warm hands enfolded hers, warming away a chill she hadn’t noticed.

  His sea-dark eyes looked down at her for a long moment. She could feel her knees going weak. Was he going to kiss her? What would she do if he did?

  “Thanks. It was nice to spend some time with you. Perhaps we can do this again sometime. I mean that. I’m lousy company, but you’re nice.”

  She nodded. He let go and walked back to his car. It started with a dull roar, but he didn’t disappear in a flurry of gravel as she’d expected. Instead he waited. Waited while she fished out first her keys, then Jo’s, got in and started the engine.

  As soon as it came to life, he did roar off, fishtailing so wildly on the gravel parking lot that for a moment she thought he’d crash into the trees. Then he regained control and put his foot down, hard. His engine roared loudly over the quiet purr of the BMW’s engine even after he was out of sight.

  # # #

  Russell let the miles flow through him. He wasn’t even really aware of where he was until he pulled into Port Angeles.

  “Good job, Russ. Real safe way to drive.” Eighty miles had rolled by since he’d left Cassidy in the parking lot without really saying goodbye.

  He got off Highway 101 and threaded his way through town until he hit the waterfront in a pot-holed gravel parking lot. He stopped with the car’s nose pointed toward the water and Canada. He thumped his forehead against the steering wheel.

  “Stood up by Melanie?”

  Not even close.

  “Right about Cassidy Knowles?”

  Not a bit closer. She had more class in her little pinky than he’d had in his whole life. She’d forgiven him slashing at her yet again. Forgiven him being there to meet another woman and being so damn obvious about his disappointment that he totally shut her out.

  He flopped back in his seat and looked at his hands. He could still feel the outline of her strong fingers imprinted on both his palms. Could
still see all of the colors of both spring and autumn in her eyes. Had seen those lips, those lips that he longed to kiss since the first moment he saw them pursed above a glass of wine.

  And that was a path right down the wrong road. Right back into a woman enveloped in a New York state of mind. She wanted to be Craig Claiborne reborn as a woman.

  She was so wrong for him.

  So why hadn’t he been able to stop thinking about her for the last twenty-six days?

  # # #

  “You really look like shit!” Angelo shouted over the serious cranking of the R&B band in the corner of the bar and everyone else shouting to be heard by their companions.

  “Thanks, Buddy. Big help.” Russell looked up at the mirror behind the broad, wooden bar. Bottles of liquor were lined up and down the mirror’s length. He could see only one eye reflected between the silver spouts of a bottle of Johnny Red and the next of Jack Daniels Black. The dark rings beneath the eye made it look more a ghost’s than his own.

  “I’m serious, man. You look even worse than the night I told you what you did to Melanie.”

  “Can’t you just drink in silence?”

  Angelo licked the salt off the back of his hand, knocked back the Cuervo Reserva shooter, and sucked on a piece of lime.

  “Nope, I’m a chatty drunk. You know that.”

  Which usually made them so compatible. Tonight Russell wanted to just… He stared at the one eye in the mirror. He wanted… He didn’t know what. Knocking back his tequila, he reached for a chaser but his beer was gone.

  Angelo was leaning back against the bar, checking out the crowd, and taking a slug from Russell’s pint. He reached for it just as Angelo looked at him and whispered in a quiet shout.

  “Target acquired!”

  Russell glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, a pair of women were sitting alone at a tiny table. Long dark hair, thin but in a Seattle-healthy way rather than a New York-anorexic fashion. She wore a halter top that revealed a nice expanse of shoulder and belly, and enough curve beneath to be very pleasing. Her friend was a perky Japanese with denim shorts cut incredibly short. Her hair barely reached her ears—flat and cute as could be in her clingy tube top. They’d noted Angelo’s and his attention and were very carefully not looking in their direction, but it was clear he and Angelo were being assessed in sidelong glances that included nice smiles.