Destiny Bay

by Sarah Abbot

  A strangled-sounding cry tore from her throat. She dropped the flowers as if they were aflame, staring at them in disbelief.

  “Rosemary for remembrance,” she whispered, “forget-me-nots. Honeysuckle—just like in the portrait.” And the red hair was a direct allusion to her mother.

  Was Bartholomew Briggs responsible for this sick joke? Well, if he thought that a pitiful tangle of plants would bother her, he could think again!

  Abby looked up, felt a shiver over her flesh, a call of warning from her heart.

  Again, an ominous chill crept its way over her prickling flesh, as if someone were watching her. Abby scanned the trees, the stones, but saw no one. The feeling persisted.

  This time, there was no doubt in her mind.

  Abby knew she was being watched.

  She tried to put her emotions into perspective as she stared into the green darkness of the woods.

  Nothing stirred; nothing interrupted the tranquility of the forest. She felt the bouquet wilt in her grasp, felt its green, living liquid seep from its leaves and mingle with the sweat on her palm. With calmness she was determined to possess, she walked at an unhurried pace into the kitchen.

  The feel of the dead bolt in her hand was as soothing as a lullaby, and she clicked it soundly.

  Her calm evaporated as she lurched into action, double-checking all the locks and windows. She raced into the kitchen, twisted the broom head from its pole and broke the stick cleanly over her knee. The resultant halves found new homes wedged against sliding windows, and—she was gratified to learn—prevented the opening of them quite effectively. As long as no one decided to smash the glass.

  She made another judgment call while she was at it. As long as someone was lurking around her home, she would not be trudging to the outhouse.

  Abby gathered her purse and raked her fingers through her hair.

  A visit to Cora Brannigan was in order, as was a trip to the Home Sweet Home boutique. Curtains were a definite priority, as was a bathroom.

  She punched Cora’s number into her cell phone and sighed with relief when she answered. “Cora, hi. Abby Lancaster here. I know it’s a bit late, but I was wondering if I could stop by for a quick visit. I have something I need to discuss with you about the cottage.”

  “Oh, Abby dear, I’m on my way out the door. Mary Hopkins’s grandbaby has finally decided to be born—ten days late, mind—and I’m on my way down to the hospital with a gift. Can it wait?”

  Could it wait? A voice in her heart told her it couldn’t. “It really is important, I’m afraid. Perhaps I could stop by when you get home from the hospital?”

  Cora paused almost painfully, or did Abby imagine that? “If it’s that important, I suppose you could stop by Rum Runner’s. My son Ryan is the owner, and he’s generally quite accommodating to my tenants.” Her voice seemed to quaver at the suggestion, and Abby had the distinct impression that Cora hoped she wouldn’t take her up on that offer.

  Abby smiled. Why not kill two birds with one stone? “Thank you, Cora. I think I will stop by Rum Runner’s. Have a nice visit at the hospital.”

  She hung up the phone with a satisfied smile. She could discuss her idea of a bathroom addition with Ryan, and at the same time gauge his attitude toward her. If it still seemed unreasonably hostile, she would confront him. There was nothing she liked better than getting to the bottom of things.

  But first, it appeared another call to Destiny Bay’s finest was in order.

  Chapter Ten

  Ryan Brannigan swiped a cloth over the surface of the bar. It soothed him to be back at Rum Runner’s. Spending a little time behind the bar always gave him the lift he needed. Though Brannigan Fisheries was infinitely more lucrative than Rum Runner’s, it was here that he felt most at home, surrounded by solid wood and familiar faces.

  He had always enjoyed Ronnie’s Chef’s Table, and it irked him that Abrielle Lancaster had been there last night. Just his luck. That woman seemed to turn up everywhere!

  “Johnny,” he said, scowling at the head on the ale he poured, “you were due behind the bar fifteen minutes ago. Watch the breaks, eh?”

  “Sorry, man.” Johnny tied an apron around his middle and nodded at Sheriff Flynn, who sat in his usual spot at the bar.

  Flynn belched into his fist and leaned his elbow on the bar. “Now, Johnny, you’re a fine judge of women. Tell me what you think of this Abrielle Lancaster.”

  Johnny’s grin bordered on leering. “I’d tell you what I think, Sheriff, but it’s kind of hard to do, what with the blood rushing away from my brain every time I lay eyes on her.”

  Both men chuckled.

  Ryan slammed the glass he had poured on the bar. “You mind checking the pressure on the tanks, Johnny?”

  His head bartender looked at him oddly. The tanks didn’t need checking and both men knew it, but the last thing Ryan wanted to hear was more talk about Abrielle Lancaster.

  “Sure, boss.” Johnny turned and sauntered into the back room, tossing a cloth over his shoulder as he went.

  “Can I get you something else, Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Flynn hitched his foot on the brass rail that ran the lower length of the bar, then leaned in a bit closer. “Another beer will do, Ryan. So, what do you think about all this fuss? I’ll tell you what I think—I got my eye on this Abrielle Lancaster, that’s what. She’d best not be thinking she’s gonna waltz in here and stir up the same pile of trouble her mother did. According to Connor, she’s already been trying to spook out old Bart.”

  “Trouble is what her kind does best, Sheriff.” Ryan slid the drink across the bar, eyeing the paunchy man with interest, wondering if he’d found an unlikely ally in the sheriff…and wondering how Abrielle Lancaster could possibly “spook out” grizzled old Bart. In his experience, it was generally Bart who did the spooking.

  “You met her yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’m thinking it’s inevitable. This is a small town.”

  Sheriff Flynn nodded, squinting as he swallowed the last of his beer. “If I were you, I’d keep clear of that one, Ryan. Her kind of history doesn’t bear repeating.” He shoved a bill across the bar and knocked the wood twice— loudly, arrogantly. “You take care now.”

  Ryan nodded at Flynn, watched the door close behind him. In his opinion, Flynn had no more business being sheriff than Bartholomew Briggs. He had the job because his father had been mayor for years, as had his grandfather. Flynn had appointed his younger brother Connor as deputy, and every other relative sat on the town council. The Flynns had run this town for too long, and Ryan would dearly love to see the end of that particular dynasty.

  Ryan gritted his teeth. That wasn’t the only thing he’d like to see the end of. Ever since that blue-blooded society princess had set foot on his island, it seemed he couldn’t go anywhere without hearing people talk about her…not even his own bar!

  There were Abby sightings, Abby encounters, and Abby speculations, and fate seemed determined to make certain Ryan heard each and every one of them.

  “Ohhh no, you don’t,” he said under his breath, watching through narrowed eyes as the one and only Abrielle Lancaster came striding down the road toward his bar, grasped the door handle and…

  Abby was still shaken by the flowers that had been left for her, and when she’d spoken with Officer Flynn, who had given her his direct line, he’d assured her that she was right to be concerned. Even Bartholomew didn’t tend to get this overt with his crush of the moment. Flynn had suggested that she bring the flowers by the station the following day. Meanwhile, she wasn’t about to twiddle her thumbs. She still had the issue of Ryan Brannigan to deal with.

  She strode into the semidarkness of the pub. A hazy swirl of smoke meandered around the blades of ceiling fans along with the gravelly voice of Joe Cocker.

  Ryan is here. Impossibly, unimaginably she felt him—felt his every nuance of movement as though the sticky air were water, and the current he stirred washed over her again and aga
in.

  How is that possible? she wondered, her mouth dry.

  At her sides, her hands began to tremble. She felt like Daniel stepping into the lion’s den—though sadly bereft of angels. Who would stop the devouring jaws that waited only feet away?

  Just walk over there and introduce yourself, she thought, forcing away her unease, doing her level best to convince herself that all this foolishness with Ryan Brannigan had been in her imagination; that the visceral reaction she had experienced when she first encountered him was due more to jet lag than to any sort of groundless animosity on his part.

  That sort of hatred—the kind capable of reaching from someone’s psyche and rattling someone else’s—took history, and she and Ryan shared none.

  There, she said silently. I’m just being silly. Now, if only she could believe it.

  Abby forced one foot in front of the other and at last seated herself on a bar stool. First, she would take Cora’s suggestion and speak with him about the bathroom. If he acted horribly, she would confront him about his behavior. If not, well, she was content to believe it had all been her imagination.

  But before any of that could take place, he’d have to turn around. Abby waited. And waited.

  Ryan stood at the other end of the bar, idly wiping the rim of a glass with a white cloth. He had seen her. There was no doubt about that. There was also no doubt that he was outright ignoring her.

  Two more customers arrived and were served.

  “Excuse me,” Abby called, leaning forward just for good measure.

  Another man slipped behind the bar. He was older than Ryan, with jet-black curls, an angular, weathered face, and deep-set, chocolatey eyes. The lids were lowered almost sleepily as he approached her. A lewd smile teased the corners of his mouth. A cloth was tossed carelessly over his shoulder. The man wore a name tag that read JOHNNY MAC.

  “Well, if you ain’t the spittin’ image of your beautiful mama,” he said softly, eyes raking over her. “You know, she and I used to be friends.”

  Abby felt instantly chilled. No way was this man a friend of her mother’s. She didn’t like him, and it went deeper than his suggestive smirk. There was something cold and calculating within him, and it seemed to ooze out like tentacles toward her. She shuddered involuntarily.

  “What can I get for you, darlin’?”

  A can of mace. Great big Doberman on the side. “I’m here to speak to Ryan,” she said, loudly enough for the man in question to hear. “I’d appreciate it if you could let him know.”

  “You sure you wouldn’t rather deal with me, miss?” He leaned across the bar suggestively, enveloping Abby in the musky scent of his cologne. “Bet you’d find me friendlier.”

  Yeah, I’ll bet. “No, thank you. I’ll wait.”

  Johnny lifted his brows and exhaled long and slow. “Hey, Ryan,” he called, only taking his eyes from Abby’s face long enough to let his gaze trace the shape of her breasts. “There’s a lady here who’s requiring your services.” He turned away with a wink, dragging a damp cloth over the bar as he left. “You just call if you need me, miss.”

  Ryan paused a moment too long before turning to face her. Tigerlike eyes stared into the very heart of her, pinning her to the seat. “Yes?”

  “I’ll have a glass of…” She stopped short, the request for wine frozen on her tongue. Her mouth felt cottony— too dry to speak. “What-whatever you have on tap.”

  His pace was measured, almost belligerent. Ryan Brannigan poured her a drink, never for an instant taking his icy stare from her face.

  Abby squirmed in her seat. Nope, she hadn’t imagined his anger. It was there in all its hostile glory. “Thank you. Ryan, right?” Like she didn’t know. “I’m Abby. I saw you at Ronnie’s.” Her extended hand was ignored. She withdrew the offer, practically wilting in the acidity of his gaze. “I was hoping to speak to you about the cottage.”

  He leaned forward on the bar, arms braced on either side of him. “If the cottage was any of my concern, you can bet it would be empty as we speak.” He turned his back, picked up pen and paper, and began recording the inventory of bottles stacked in neat rows behind him.

  Abby gulped—a little too loudly—and couldn’t help wondering exactly when her esophagus had gotten so small. “I realize that Cora owns the cottage, but she said that I could speak to you…” Her voice trailed away into a sheepish silence.

  Ryan turned around, arms folded over his chest, as if challenging her to speak. “And what could you possibly have to speak to me about, Miss Lancaster?”

  “I, uh, the—” She cleared her throat self-consciously. “I’d like to discuss an addition to the cottage. A bathroom specifically. It’s unreasonable to ask tenants to use an outhouse in this day and age, and—” Her words poured out like the waters of a dam, unleashed. Abby drew a long, dramatic breath into her aching lungs. “What I mean to say is that I need a bathroom, and I’d like to have one added as soon as possible.”

  “No.” He turned abruptly and began to serve another customer.

  Abby recoiled as if slapped.

  She slid down another seat. Surely he wouldn’t be so rude with another patron nearby? “Mr. Brannigan, if you could just hear me out—a new addition would only add to the property value, and—”

  She jumped at the crack of glass against the polished bar as another drink was served.

  “I said, no.”

  Abby felt her jaw drop. This was Cora Brannigan’s son? She’d be quicker to believe the man had been raised by baboons. She glanced toward the other customers at the bar. Several had simply averted their gazes. One, in particular, shrugged, offering her a sympathetic smile.

  “Well, perhaps I’ll wait and speak to Cora about this matter, after all. Something tells me she’ll feel different.”

  Ryan braced his hands on either side of the bar, jaw working as he gritted his teeth. “There will be no addition of any kind to the cottage, Miss Lancaster.”

  Abby stared at the man. Regardless of what she had said to every other person she’d met, she would let this man call her Miss. “With all due respect, Mr. Brannigan—”

  “I don’t want your respect, we don’t need an addition, and the property value is none of your business.” He strode away, leaving her gaping in his wake.

  Abby gathered her wits and purse, scurried down the length of the bar, and dug in her heels. “Mr. Brannigan,” she said through her teeth, “I must inform you that at no time during my initial discussion with Cora was I informed of the state of plumbing at the cottage. Such a glaring deficiency is at least worth mentioning, don’t you agree?”

  “Cora Brannigan didn’t get to be the businesswoman she is today by forgetting to mention—what was it? Glaring deficiencies?”

  “Are you suggesting that I simply forgot the fact that there’s no plumbing?”

  “You’re the one who rented a cottage with no plumbing. Who’s to say what goes through your head?”

  “Wanna guess what’s going through my head right now?”

  The muscles in his jaw worked beneath the bristly skin. “No addition.”

  “Oh, I’ll have that addition if I have to pay for it myself !” she said, a crimson stain burning her face. Fury blossomed in her belly. Her pulse chanted with it. A million curses on the man! “You just watch and see, Ryan Brannigan. I’ll have that bathroom and I’ll take you on a guided bloody tour of it if I have to drag you by the ear!”

  “We’ll see about that!” Ryan thundered, storming through a doorway behind the bar.

  “Don’t you walk away, you, you…” She couldn’t think of anything rotten enough to call him. How dare he try to humiliate her in front of the patrons of his horrid little bar. She glared around at the gawking faces, daring anyone to meet her gaze. The few who did appeared torn between shock and downright amusement. Well, if it was a show they wanted, she’d be more than happy to oblige them.

  “Get him back here!” she said to the older barman, motioning at the door thr
ough which Ryan had disappeared.

  Johnny Mac’s smile melted. “Uh, that might not be such a good idea.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving until I speak with him, so you might as well pour me another drink,” she said, throwing back her shoulders and lifting her chin.

  As if summoned by her voice, Ryan Brannigan reappeared in the doorway behind the bar. Instantly, his expression hardened. “Ready to take me on your bathroom tour already?”

  A few nervous chuckles sounded around the bar. “Fasten your seat belt,” came the muttered suggestion from a ruddy-faced fellow two seats down.

  If she’d had a seat belt, she would have fastened it. “No,” she said, feigning a brightness she didn’t feel, “but it’ll be worth the wait. I have my eye on a faucet that’s to die for.” She seated herself on a bar stool, squelching the instinct to run, ignoring the gaping jaws and riveted attention of every other patron in the bar. “You’ve been a jerk since the first time you laid eyes on me, and I want to know why.”

  A disbelieving silence reached out, clutching the room in a merciless grip.

  Please, somebody drop a pin. Anything to shatter the airless quality that lay heavily upon the bar.

  Ryan stared at her with warlike intensity. “It isn’t wise to wake the ghosts of the past, Miss Lancaster. Especially those that have taken so long to rest, as it is.”

  Abby heard the note of warning in his voice. An infinitesimal recoiling of courage stopped her for a moment. She steeled herself, refusing to let him intimidate her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Are you familiar with the phrase, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’?”

  “Yes.”

  He eyed her steadily. “Then I suggest you heed it.”

  “You won’t be offended if I ignore your advice, I hope?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Just as long as you’re not offended by what you learn as a result of your nosiness.”

  “I’d hardly call exploring my mother’s past ‘nosy,’ thank you very much.”

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “Leave. Go home. This isn’t the place for you, just like it wasn’t the place for your mother before you. No one wants you here. And if you’re not careful, you’ll wind up getting exactly what you wish for.”