Where Dreams Books 1-3

by M. L. Buchman

  Patos Island

  First lit: 1893

  Automated: 1974

  48.789 -122.9715

  The Isla de Patos, “Island of Ducks” is 210 acres of trees, rock, and sea caves making it a great favorite of smugglers over the years. In the early 1900s the lighthouse keeper and his family made a once per month trip across twenty-six miles of water to Bellingham, Washington for supplies. His nearest neighbor? The Canadian lighthouse keeper on Saturna Island over five miles in the other direction.

  When smallpox struck his family, he flew the lighthouse flag upside down as a distress sign to passing ships. By the time help arrived, three of his thirteen children had died.

  AUGUST 1

  Mt. Baker rose like a beacon, soaring up into the heat of the summer day. Russell’s boat slid up to the public pier in Anacortes. He’d told her it was a two-day trip to sail from Seattle to Patos Island and back. Cassidy had covered most of the distance in the two-hour drive north in order to avoid sleeping aboard. He’d promised she could be as safe as she wanted, which was sweet. But since they’d never been together for more than an hour without ticking each other off, she chose to meet him at the closest port.

  His boat looked sharp, graceful, prettier than it had before. He’d finally repainted it. The bowsprit now had copper handrails wrapped around it. The dinghy was upside down on the top of the cabin. Everything looked shipshape, even elegant. His grin of pride was infectious.

  The boat slid up to the dock and, with a brief, low rumble from her engine, came to a halt in front of Cassidy. He dropped the lifeline and helped her aboard with an extended hand—warm, strong hand.

  He retreated to the cockpit and moments later, the dock was sliding away. She didn’t feel the pull of the dock as she had before. This time she was glad to be aboard. Some part of her, a wild part, the one that didn’t always want to do precisely the right and cautious thing, had won out, perhaps for the first time in her life. She’d driven here with the windows down, the sunroof open, and the oldies station blasting.

  “Here, take the tiller.”

  She stared at the stick of polished wood, longer than her arm. “I don’t know how to steer a boat.”

  Even as she spoke, he grabbed her daypack and lowered it through the hatch. In moments, she was sitting as she’d seen him sit, the wood smooth and warm beneath her hand.

  “Just choose a point and aim for it.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Mt. Baker should be fine for the moment.”

  He moved off and began working with the ropes.

  “But I don’t know…” He probably couldn’t hear her over the dull throb of the engine.

  She stared at the mountain. It was a little off to the right, starboard. She pulled the tiller that way…and the mountain got further away. Maybe there was a current pushing them the opposite way. She pulled the tiller harder, right into her lap. The situation just got worse.

  “Russell!”

  He called over his shoulder, without even turning around to help her.

  “It’s opposite. Steer left to go right.”

  “Steer left to go right. What kind of a silly system is that?”

  Well, right wasn’t helping so she pushed the tiller the wrong way—away from her to port.

  The boat swung obligingly until its bowsprit was aimed right at the mountain. And then it kept going past the other side.

  She pulled it back into her lap. Russell stumbled toward the right rail, she shoved it to the left.

  He didn’t say anything, just steadied himself and started untying a rope from around the sail.

  Smaller corrections. A little pull, a little push, and she finally had it centered on the mountain. As the boat lifted over the small waves, the bow went to the right and as it settled back into the water it went to left, but it was the best she could do. The average was about right and it wasn’t as if there were highway lanes on the water she had to stay in. The only other traffic around were two small sailboats, a water skier, and off in the distance a pair of monstrous oil tankers anchored in the broad bay.

  Russell pulled up the sails with an easy hand-over-hand motion. As the great flaps of red mainsail slid upward, she expected that there was more muscle to the process than it appeared. He made it look easy.

  He tied off the first one and raised the one up front—the jib.

  “Turn off the key.”

  There was one at the end of the cockpit, right next to some dials and meters. Who knew sailboats had keys? With a click, the rumble ceased and the world was suddenly quiet. Several of the dials flopped over to zero.

  “Aim for Lummi,” he pointed negligently off the left side. Port side. Four letters in port and left, more letters in starboard and right.

  “Which one’s Lummi?”

  “The third island.” He returned to the bow, ending the conversation.

  Stupid man. Third island? She didn’t see any islands, just a line of green hills. Maybe the third hill was the third island. She pulled the tiller toward her and the bow moved the wrong way. She caught it quickly and pushed it away.

  Russell didn’t stumble this time. Maybe she was getting smoother control—or he’d prepared himself now that he knew she didn’t have a clue.

  The boat had been coasting since she’d turned off the motor…then the wind caught the sails. In moments they were sliding ahead. The meter labeled in knots slid upward four, five, six and the boat heeled over.

  It took some pressure to keep the tiller straight, but not a lot, just enough to know she was steering the boat. Russell took his time tidying up various ropes along the deck. He even stopped to play with his cat. When they were done, he tossed the cat at the sail; it slid down to the boom and settled quickly for a nap.

  Damn them both.

  By the time he finally returned to the cockpit, she was getting the hang of steering. It was the most powerful feeling she’d ever had—the great craft answered her whim and the force of the wind drove them forward with a happy splashing of the waves down the side. She didn’t really want to give it up, but it was his boat.

  Russell slid into the cockpit and sat on the bench seat, but made no move to take the tiller.

  “Hi, Cassidy. Thanks for coming.” He set his feet on the opposite bench and rested his elbows along the back. “Not much wind in August, but it’s nice not to be fighting some gale to get to a lighthouse.”

  He looked great. Cutoff shorts, still showing some of the stains that matched his boat’s deck, revealed muscular legs. His dark t-shirt was a perfect match for his dark eyes. The wind tugged at the curls of hair. Bare feet.

  “Pirate.”

  “What?”

  “You look like a pirate. Well, a modern pirate.”

  “I seem to have misplaced my sword. And you seem to have misplaced your heading.”

  She was aiming square at the second hill, island. She shoved the tiller over. The sails snapped loudly at the sudden change. He pulled on one of the lines and the boom swung closer over the deck.

  There was a loud mew from the top of the boom.

  “It’s okay, girl. Just a newbie on the crew. We pirates can’t be too choosy, just have to scavenge what we can find on the high seas.”

  A man who talked to his cat in whole sentences.

  “I must have a thousand photos of that silly beast. I’m thinking of producing a book of cat photos. You know, the cute point-of-sale things by the cash registers.”

  “Cats of the world?”

  “Cats of the world?” He rolled the sound over his tongue. “That’s perfect. A whole series. Cats of the South Seas.”

  “Caribbean Cats.”

  “Mediterranean Cats.”

  “Coy Cats of Cancun.”

  He grinned at her. For the first time since she’d boarded, he really looked at her. And she totally lost her heading. Th
e sails flapped. Nutcase mewed loudly and thumped down onto the deck. But she couldn’t look away.

  He’d sent her roses on the last day of her class. Not a little bouquet, he’d sent an armful. Dozens of long reds, yellows, and whites delivered in the middle of class right in front of everyone. She hadn’t been able to speak over the applause and good-natured laughter.

  He slid a hand over hers on the tiller. With a gentle pressure, he eased them back onto course.

  She was trapped, the tiller across her lap and Russell Morgan across the only way out from under.

  He didn’t lean toward her. Didn’t hear her heart crashing away but sending no blood at all to her brain. He merely held her gaze with those eyes.

  Once they were back on course, he released his hold on her and sat back.

  He stared over the side at the water for a long time before he spoke.

  “Do you want me to take you back to the dock?”

  She could see that the words cost him deeply. He didn’t turn to face her—which was good, because if he had, she’d have been lost. She was pretty lost anyway. His offer was perhaps the nicest compliment she’d ever had—it was also about the sexiest.

  Cassidy glanced back and was surprised at how far they’d come. Less than an hour from dock and Anacortes had disappeared behind them.

  She’d given little thought to what might happen aboard the boat with Russell and only a cat for a chaperone, beyond choosing to drive to Anacortes rather than sail. However, now that she was here, there was little question of what might well happen if she remained. Even if common sense said run, she couldn’t deny how it felt to be sitting so closely beside him.

  She managed to shake her head. He didn’t see, because he wasn’t looking.

  “Let’s…” her voice was barely a whisper. If they had been traveling by engine instead of wind, he wouldn’t have heard her.

  But he did and turned.

  His eyes weren’t begging…not quite.

  Unable to speak, she shook her head once more.

  They both smiled carefully.

  He turned back to watch the water.

  # # #

  “We’re nearly there.”

  Cassidy didn’t awake from her afternoon nap with a start as he’d expected. She woke slowly, like a cat stretching and considering her next action carefully. Perhaps a yawn, perhaps another stretch. She’d slept for several hours in the shade of the cockpit bench. He’d managed not to stare too much. Part of him was amazed that she felt safe enough to sleep in his presence. He’d take that as a plus.

  She wandered below and was a while coming back up.

  She’d changed into shorts and a halter top that nearly blew his blood pressure. Her light blouse was now open, worn more as a shawl against the sun than a cover. It revealed and hid her figure with every motion and breath of the wind. Her hair, let down from its tight bun, cascaded about her shoulders. Her face still had that sleepy look of freshly wakened and washed with cool water.

  “Christ! You are so far beyond Teri’s league.”

  The warm-and-washed look turned icy so fast it knocked the air out of his lungs.

  “You’re gorgeous!” She was.

  The chill frost was replaced by a charming blush.

  She was beyond that. Teri was shapely, Melanie was beautiful, but Cassidy Knowles, while not centerfold beautiful, was incredibly attractive. You couldn’t not look at her.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  He shook himself. “Sorry, I, that didn’t, but you’re…” He slapped a hand over his mouth.

  She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Her hair slid along either side of his face. He had a view right down her neck and into her halter top. But it was her smell that got him. Warmth, home, and the open ocean with no perfume, not even scented soap. There had never been any woman who smelled like that. Ever.

  Taking the seat opposite, she stretched her long legs across to his side. So close, he could reach out and stroke them if he dared. Cassidy had runner’s legs, every curve just perfect—unpainted toes. Now why did he find that sexy? He was being ridiculous.

  Look up, Russell. Look at the island. Check the chart. Reef along the east point. Shoals in close on the north. You’ll rip off your keel if you don’t pay more attention.

  He swung to the south, into deeper water. Slipping around the western point, they slid around into Active Cove. There were two state-run mooring buoys, both open, which was rare for a Friday in August. He did his best to concentrate only on swinging into the wind. He hooked the buoy on the first try and cleated it off, letting the sails back him away until they were at rest.

  He had the sails part way down before he noticed Cassidy was standing across the boom, looking lost.

  Without speaking, he showed her how to flake the sail into neat folds atop the boom. When it was lying neatly between the lazy jacks, he snapped the bungee cord in place. The jib was dropped and flaked in record time. Her hands were agile and strong once she knew what to do. They didn’t have to talk, it was so easy and so natural.

  Don’t go there, Russell. She’s just this incredibly desirable woman who has agreed to come out sailing with you. And only for the day at that.

  The sails were set and the boat was well-tied. They were standing on the foredeck, a space barely three by five feet between the cabin and the forehatch.

  For the life of him, he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. Should he reach for her or turn away before his pounding blood blew his brainpan into a puddle of mush?

  “I loved the roses.” Her voice was deep and throaty, hoarse on a lesser woman. Sexy as hell on Cassidy Knowles.

  She stepped into his arms and their lips met with an electric shock that nearly knocked his knees out from under him.

  They hadn’t even looked at the damn lighthouse yet.

  # # #

  “I, uh…”

  “Don’t!” Cassidy was glaring up at him, just a few inches shorter, just a breath away.

  “What?”

  “You were going to apologize.”

  He nodded.

  “Well, don’t.”

  “But…”

  She held up her hand to silence him, but he ignored her.

  “I promised safe passage. I promised that you’d be as safe as you want to be aboard my boat.” And now he’d gone and kissed her. Kissed her long and hard with a need that had surprised them both—well, it had shocked the hell out of him anyway. And it had been fantastic.

  “I said, ‘Safe’.”

  “You did.”

  She raised an eyebrow, a smile tickled the corner of her mouth. That soft, strong mouth. He wanted to kiss her again and feel how it changed as that smile took shape.

  “And?”

  “I took advantage.” Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Angelo would smack him but good.

  “Russell?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t you think I’m old enough to know my own mind?”

  “You’re old enough to—”

  “Careful there, big boy.”

  He bit his tongue and looked away from that maddening smile. The lighthouse was perched a few hundred yards away, on the northernmost San Juan Island. Next stop was Canada. They were out at the limits.

  “Old enough to…make me completely insane.”

  “Nice save.”

  “Weak, but best I’ve got on a moment’s notice. Did you really like the roses?”

  “It’ll do. And I loved the flowers. How did you know where to send them? And two weeks of poetry and stories and sea chanties. Gads!” She rested her hand on her heart. Somehow he had touched her, rather than scaring her off. Duh, she was here, wasn’t she?

  He needed to get some distance or he wouldn’t be able to control himself. He let her go and moved to the dinghy and began
to untie it from the deck cleats.

  “I googled you and your class popped up. I called the dean to find out when your last class was.”

  “You called the dean?” Cassidy undid the other ends of the lines. She started to untie the rope on the bow of the dinghy until he stopped her.

  “We’ll need that. Couldn’t reach him, so I talked to some chef, Clara somebody.” Together they lifted the little boat over the lifelines and dropped it bottom down into the water. He should have cleaned it. There were a thousand paint splotches. Globs of epoxy that probably wouldn’t let go without taking some of the boat with them.

  “You talked to Master Chef Clara Nichols? I barely got to talk to her.”

  “Nice lady. She helped me find a good florist, too. They want to talk to you about a Christmas class down at the California center as well.”

  She stood with her fists on her hips. Her eyes snapped with a fire that came out of nowhere—goddamn he loved when she did that. Cassidy Knowles was feisty and strongheaded, which suited him right down to his toes. He was torn between throwing her overboard or dragging her down to his bunk below. To buy himself a moment of equilibrium, he pulled the oars out of their cradle and tossed them down into the dinghy instead.

  Then he turned to face her and matched her stance, fists on hips.

  Finally she blew at her bangs.

  He blew at his even though he didn’t have any.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “Either climb into my bed or my boat.”

  She didn’t laugh in his face, she didn’t get angry and slap him either. Both were good signs.

  Instead, that smile opened up its thousand-watt brilliance on him and he had to restrain himself to not lean across and taste it.

  “There’s no bed here,” she made a show of looking up and down the rocky beach. “I’ll take the boat.”

  They both knew there was one down below, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he nodded and untied the painter, using it to lead the dinghy back toward the break in the lifelines.

  “Yes, I’ll take the boat,” her voice behind him little louder than the lapping of the water on the hull. “For now.”