by Irene Hannon
“Listen . . . if I upset you enough the other night to cause repercussions like that, I apologize again—and repairing your dock doesn’t come anywhere close to making amends.”
“No. That had nothing to do with you.” She exhaled and laced her fingers into a tight knot on the worn surface of the table. “I suffered a concussion three months ago that left me with some lingering issues—headaches, occasional dizziness, sensitivity to light, blurred vision. The fancy name is post-concussion syndrome. The worst side effect at this stage is that I can’t stare at a screen for extended periods and have to take lots of breaks from my work.”
Ah.
Now the large type on her monitor made sense.
“Was it an accident?”
Her throat worked. “No. I got hurt in . . . in a fall.”
She offered nothing more; no explanation about why she’d left her job . . . or retreated to the woods . . . or was plagued by scream-worthy nightmares.
“Are you all right here by yourself?”
“I thought I was . . . until someone barged into my room in the middle of the night.” The subtle quiver in her words undermined her wry attempt at humor.
“I can guarantee that will never happen again.” He flashed her a brief grin. Man, this woman needed to chill out. Waves of tension were rippling off her. “But I was talking more about day-to-day stuff. Is it safe for you to be alone while you’re dealing with those kinds of medical issues?”
“Safe is a relative term.”
What was that supposed to mean?
She continued without giving him a chance to ponder her comment. “I manage fine around here. My problems aren’t life-threatening, and other than a few bumps and bruises from running into furniture, I’m coping fine. The only thing I can’t do is drive. But this is all temporary. I’ve made a lot of progress, and my doctor tells me my physical complaints should go away within the next few weeks.”
What about the nightmares? Did she expect those to go away too?
A topic for another day, perhaps. He had a feeling she’d already shared more than she’d intended.
“I’m glad to hear that. You picked a nice spot to recuperate.”
“Yes.” Her lips softened. “I spent a month here every summer for many years with Mags—my grandmother—and Pops. It’s always been a haven for me.”
From what?
Another question she didn’t seem inclined to expound on.
She pushed the bag of cookies toward him. “Have a few more. My waistline will thank you.”
There wasn’t a thing wrong with her waistline as far as he could see, but he helped himself to three more. “These are a particular favorite of mine.”
“Mine too. So what brings you out here for a whole month?”
He shoved a cookie in his mouth, buying himself a few seconds to compose a response as he chewed, took a swig of tea—and tried not to grimace. Oh, for a cup of high-octane java!
“I needed a vacation . . . and I have some decisions to make. I was looking for a quiet place without a bunch of distractions. My brother Mac knows Mark, and he set this up for me.”
“Then we have something in common. I’m in decision-making mode too.”
She stopped. Waiting, by chance, to see if he’d offer her a few more details about his decision?
Not happening. If he talked about that, he’d also have to share background—and he wasn’t ready to do that with a woman he’d just met, no matter how captivating she was.
It seemed she wasn’t inclined to offer more, either. She stood again—this time more carefully—and picked up her mug. “I’m not certain the rain is going to let up for a while. You might have to defer work on the dock until tomorrow. And I have an aggressive deadline to meet on that book.” She waved a hand toward the computer monitor.
Nothing subtle about that send-off.
He polished off the last cookie, washed it down with a scant sip of tea, and rose too. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
“You can leave your tools on the porch, if you like, and go out the back. It’s closer to your car. Can I lend you an umbrella?”
“No, thanks. I’ll run for it.”
She led the way toward the rear door and flipped the lock. “Sorry Mother Nature didn’t cooperate.”
“The dock will keep until tomorrow.”
Easing past her, he caught a faint whiff of some fragrance that evoked fresh air and spring rain and quiet evenings near a lake, watching fireflies play hide-and-seek.
Finn rolled his eyes. If Mac or Lance ever knew he’d waxed poetic, they’d rib him for the rest of his life.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Ducking his head, he sprinted toward the SUV.
Once behind the wheel, he looked back at the cabin through the steady curtain of rain. Dana remained at the door, and he lifted his hand in farewell.
She didn’t respond.
But as he backed up and executed a quick turn toward the narrow rocky lane that would lead him back to the main road, she fluttered her fingers.
Ah.
The reason she hadn’t responded to his wave the other day or just now was different than he’d assumed. She hadn’t seen him wave, thanks to her compromised vision. It hadn’t been a snub.
His spirits took an uptick.
And as he drove between the overhanging trees, their new leaves glistening with moisture, he found himself wishing tomorrow would hurry up and get here.
Because Dana Lewis was a puzzle waiting to be solved—the exact kind of challenge a McGregor found hard to resist.
Especially when that challenge was drop-dead gorgeous.
4
Somewhere far away a phone was ringing.
Roger tried to pull himself back to consciousness. But after thrashing until the predawn hours, he’d fallen too deep into a dark well of slumber to surface quickly.
The phone rang again.
Answer it, Burnett. You’re a police chief—24/7 availability goes with the job.
Summoning up every ounce of his willpower, he rolled over and fumbled for his cell on the nightstand. Eyes still closed, he felt for the talk button.
“Burnett.”
“Chief Burnett, this is Meg at Woodside Gardens. I’m the night nurse this week. I wanted to let you know your wife had a little accident.”
The fog in his mind vaporized as he shot to a sitting position. “What kind of accident?” He peered at the digital alarm clock as he spoke. Seven-ten. If he threw on his clothes and skipped shaving, he could be in Potosi by—
“She got out of bed and walked as far as the lounge before we spotted her. When she saw us coming, she tried to run and slipped. The doctor’s already been in to examine her, and other than a bruised knee, she’s fine. We’ve given her a sedative, and she’s drifting back to sleep. We just wanted to alert you to what happened and assure you we’re keeping her under observation.”
“Should I come in?”
“There’s no need. I expect she’ll sleep for several hours. We like to inform families about any incidents ASAP, though.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“Call us if you have other questions—but there’s no need to worry. The situation is under control.”
Roger broke the connection, dropped back onto the pillow, and crumpled the sheet in his fists.
This was why he had to find a way for Leah to stay where she was. Alzheimer’s patients could be difficult to control. Accidents happened, even at the best places. But the staff at Woodside Gardens was responsive and diligent. If she was at a low-end facility, who knew how a scenario like this might escalate? What if she managed to get outside, God forbid? The rigorous security measures at Woodside were designed to prevent that, but a lot of places ran a much looser ship.
He reached up to massage his temple, where a headache was beginning to throb. No sense staying in bed. Two hours’ sleep wasn’t adequate to keep him at the top of his game, but it was all he was going to get this night.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed for work, a mug of fresh-brewed coffee in hand, he eyed the letter from Nebraska on the kitchen table. The solution it offered had become more and more tempting with every sleepless hour that crept by last night—and this morning’s call heightened its allure.
He crossed to the table where he and Leah and John had shared thousands of breakfasts. Sank into his usual chair and surveyed the empty seats.
A solitary breakfast table was a lonely place.
It had been hard enough to carry on after they lost John. There’d been no laughter at this table for many months.
Now, there would never be any again.
Quashing his self-pity, Roger pulled the handwritten pages from the envelope and flipped them open. Not much chance another reading would offer any new insights or direction, but what else did he have to do at this hour of the morning?
After a fortifying swig of coffee, he skimmed the sheets again.
Dear Chief Burnett:
My name is Len White—and by the time you receive this, I will be dead.
For the past forty-nine years, I have gone by the name of Joe Larson. I took a new identity when I was twenty-three, after an acquaintance, Deke Nichols, and I robbed a Brinks armored car in rural Missouri. The gold bars we stole have a current value of more than one million dollars.
After the robbery, Deke and I agreed to temporarily ditch the gold, split up, and stay under the radar until interest in the case waned. We purchased two ammo cans from an Army surplus store and put half of the ten-ounce bars in each. Deke grew up in your jurisdiction and knew about a lake on some wooded, unoccupied property. In those days it was owned by a man named Jacob Powers. We dropped the cans in the middle of the lake for later retrieval.
Within days, however, our plans fell apart. The authorities realized we’d had inside information and nailed Deke’s cousin, who worked for Brinks. He didn’t know my name, but the police tracked Deke down. He was killed in a shootout.
During the next few weeks, I secured a new identity and put as much distance between me and Missouri as I could.
One night, a kind priest here in Linden found me digging through a dumpster for food. He offered me a handyman job and a cot in the church basement. I didn’t tell him my story, but as I talked with him over the next few days, I began to realize how badly I’d messed up my life.
In the weeks that followed, guilt began to weigh heavy on my heart for the evil things I’d done . . . from minor truancy, vandalism, and petty theft as a teen up to the Brinks robbery—and possibly murder. One of the guards managed to pull a gun on us during the incident, and both of us shot at him. I have no idea whose gun delivered the fatal bullet.
After many talks with the priest who took me in and eventually got me a job at the corn processing plant, I vowed to spend the rest of my days living a modest, lawful, and charitable life.
I kept that vow, as Father Daniel Pruitt in Linden, who mailed this letter for me, will attest. He knew me for the last dozen years of my life, and his predecessors before that.
I’ve often come close to turning myself in, but in the end I couldn’t bear the thought of living behind bars—and as you know, there is no statute of limitations on murder. So I prepared this letter to be sent upon my death.
These events happened long ago, Chief Burnett. I doubt there is anyone left who will remember the players or the details. But the gold, which is in your jurisdiction, needs to be returned to its owner. I’ve read about you online, and as far as I can tell, you are an honorable public servant. I trust you will be able to locate the gold and see that justice is done at last.
Father Pruitt does not know the contents of this letter, but I did share my story with him shortly before I died. I encourage you to contact him if you have any questions about anything I have told you.
Thank you for your help in righting this wrong, and may God bless you.
Roger read the man’s shaky signature, refolded the letter, and weighed it in his hand.
More than one million dollars in gold sitting at the bottom of a lake.
Leo Lewis’s lake.
Everyone in town knew Leo had bought Jacob Powers’s three hundred acres more than thirty years ago.
Roger took a sip of his cooling coffee. How many hours had he spent on that lake with Leo, fishing pole in hand, never knowing the water held a much bigger treasure than the five-pound bass he’d once caught?
And even a small portion of that treasure would be sufficient to secure Leah’s care until the not-too-distant day God called her home. Plus, given the wealth in Leah’s background, he’d be able to sell a few bars with no questions asked. Everyone in town thought they were loaded.
But could he find the treasure—and do it without being detected?
The sweet trill of a cardinal sounded in the backyard, announcing a new day, and he rose to top off his coffee.
From what he’d gathered in talking to Leo, the original lake on the property had been quite small. He’d enlarged it several times during his first decade of ownership, creating a more meandering, natural shape.
Bottom line? There was no way to determine the original location of the middle.
In terms of detection—that was a definite risk, with Leo’s granddaughter in residence. He might not have seen her himself, but he’d heard plenty through the grapevine, especially from Sam at the general mercantile and Marv at the hardware store, where she’d opened accounts. Hazel at the café had mentioned her too. Although she was keeping a low profile, talk on the street was that Dana Lewis had left her job in New York and was planning an extended stay.
He shook his head and took a tentative sip of the steaming brew. Could her timing be any worse? The place had been unoccupied for what . . . two, three years now? Ever since Leo became too feeble to make the trip down from St. Louis. Why couldn’t it have stayed unoccupied a few more weeks? Early morning or twilight trips out there wouldn’t have attracted any attention. The lake was well hidden from the road.
But the cabin offered its occupant a view that encompassed most of the shoreline.
However . . . if he confined his search to the night hours while Leo’s heir was asleep, that should mitigate the risk. The lake wasn’t more than ten or fifteen feet deep, from what he could remember, and he and Leah had been proficient scuba divers in their day. The equipment was still in the basement. All he needed to do was refresh his memory about the sport and buy an underwater metal detector.
A ray of sun streaked in the window, illuminating the letter on the table—like a beacon pointing him toward the solution to his quandary.
Roger let out a slow breath as he regarded the handwritten envelope and faced the truth.
He wouldn’t be thinking about scuba equipment and metal detectors and optimal search windows if he hadn’t already made his decision.
His fingers warmed as they tightened on the ceramic mug, and he transferred it from one hand to the other. Getting burned wasn’t on his agenda for the day.
Yet as he finished his coffee and prepared to drive to his office, he had a sinking feeling that getting burned in a much more serious way was a distinct possibility in the days to come.
Someone was hammering.
Stretching, Dana reluctantly pulled herself out of a sound sleep. Squinted at the oversized LED display on her bedside clock. Froze.
Nine in the morning?!
It couldn’t be that late . . . could it?
Maybe.
For the first night in months, she’d had eight full hours of uninterrupted sleep. No nightmares. No tossing. No staring at the ceiling as the minutes ticked by in slow motion.
And the only change in her life during the past seventy-two hours was the appearance of the hammer-wielding man
outside.
Meaning that for whatever reason—and despite their less-than-auspicious meeting—knowing Finn McGregor was nearby gave her peace of mind.
Go figure.
Rather than try to decipher that puzzle, she swung her feet to the floor and stood, spirits rising. This would be a productive day. Her energy was rebounding, and her vision seemed a tiny bit clearer.
After tugging on jeans and Pops’s sweater, she detoured to the living room for a peek at the auburn-haired man on her dock. One quick glimpse, that’s all she’d allow herself.
But as she positioned herself in the shadows beside the window, her good intentions dissolved. She watched as he hoisted a plank, his legs encased in slim jeans, a sweatshirt stretched over his broad chest. Leaned sideways to keep him in sight once he edged out of range. Sighed.
All those years she’d spent in New York, editing more than her share of romantic novels, hoping to meet Mr. Right—yet she’d never found one single man in the big city who’d captured her attention as much as Finn McGregor had here, miles from so-called civilization.
Letting herself get carried away, however, was nuts. He wasn’t planning to stay around long enough for anything to develop . . . even if he was interested in her. And that was a big if. She might be able to discern his trim, muscular physique and pick up the color of his eyes, but the subtle nuances of expression and body language that provided cues about attraction were beyond her compromised vision—unless she got up close and personal for longer than the handoff of a mug or a slip of paper.
Not likely to happen.
Besides, at age thirty, she should be beyond romantic fantasies. Those happened in the pages of the books she edited, not in real life. It was wiser to leave the rose-colored glasses in the . . .
The sound of an approaching vehicle interrupted her musings, and she cocked her ear. Must be the delivery from the general mercantile.
As she started to turn toward the back of the house, a movement on the dock caught her eye.
Finn had dropped the plank he was holding and was jogging toward the porch. He must have heard the vehicle pulling in too.