Spirit Lake

by Christine DeSmet

  “Deadline's end of this summer for using the grant. She has to raze the old mansion and plant a truckload of aspen saplings or return the money. If that happens, somebody else could step in and always buy the estate right out from under her. It's prime property for developing into lakeside condos."

  A deadline soon? Condos? No wonder she was rabid about his leaving. His presence and ties to the property threatened to spoil what was more dear to her than even him—a patch of barren land. Why she felt such a kinship to a few acres of dried weeds he'd probably never figure out but it intrigued him.

  “You mentioned she and Huber went head to head over the issue of refurbishing the mansion?"

  Gary's gaze dipped away. “It's my hunch, or at least my wife's, that their disagreement was her way of putting his marriage proposal off again in a polite way."

  “Marriage proposal? Again?” The pang of unexpected jealousy hit his gut.

  Gary shook his head. “Don't push the lady. She needs to hide out a bit in her woods. She's been through a lot and deserves her peace."

  “What happened?"

  Gary shrugged. “Lost her daddy and her fiancé Kipp O'Donnell a few years back on Christmas Eve day. Ice fishing. A soft spot under the snow gave way, they think."

  Cole's stomach knotted at the things he'd said about her father. “I'm sorry."

  But Gary smiled, incredulously enough, and waved him off. “Don't you worry about that woman. She picked herself up and has made quite a life for herself. Always got a cheery hello."

  “But she lives out there alone, with animals. I mean, she can't do that forever.” It sounded too damn lonely!

  Gary skewered him with a squinty eye. “Laurel's served on about every committee you can think of. She does school presentations whenever they want her. The kids thinks she's a second mom and she loves driving kids out to see a new eagle's nest. She gets kicks out of raggin’ at the governor to lower taxes on our rural property. She's got a whole town wrapped around her. And maybe that's all she needs from life."

  Soundly chastised, Cole nodded. “I've got a lot to learn about her.” He stared at the tools then. “I'm embarrassed. Can you deliver? Jim Swenson dropped me off. I don't have a vehicle and I don't know where Laurel is.” He couldn't rely on her offering a ride anyway. He'd hitch back if he had to.

  Gary reached under the counter and handed him a set of keys. “Here. Take my old truck out back."

  “Just like that? You don't even know me."

  “You work for Laurel. If she trusts ya, so do I. Keep it long as you like. Return it with a full gas tank when you're done workin’ for Laurel and we're square."

  “Thanks."

  He was heading out the door when he felt compelled to grin and add, “You have a nice place here. Cleanest windows I've ever seen."

  Gary nodded.

  Cole loaded the tools into the back of Gary's dented maroon pickup, then limped back down Main Street. He didn't see Laurel, but he knew where she might be—Hastings Bait Shop, two blocks away.

  Cole paused to scan the sidewalks. He wasn't only looking for Laurel, he reminded himself.

  He withdrew the photo from his pocket. The guy would be in his seventies, even eighties by now. Cole stared at the eyes, light gray in the black-and-white photo. They could be hazel, blue or gray in real life. Distinctive, they looked right through a person. Cole had to find the owner of those eyes and see why Mike thought the guy knew something about Rojas. Before Laurel got hurt.

  * * * *

  HALF THE TOWN seemed packed into the tiny bait shop. Cole recognized Madelyn Hastings, though she paid him no heed. Relief trickled through him. He found his gaze lingering on her. He knew why instantly. Years from now Laurel would grow to be as beautiful as this woman.

  Madelyn's smile spread wide and sweet, made more enticing even with the slight age wrinkles framing it. Her hair, once as flame red as her daughter's, was pinned up in a thick bunch of waves the color of a pleasing sunset. Cole shifted his weight. A sense of loss flowed through him. He would never see this stage of Laurel.

  At the other end of the counter, several men and women engaged in a spirited discussion about a fish being weighed on a scale. Cole recognized Buzz Vandermeer, the newspaper editor he'd met as Atlas—earlier in the day. He was a jovial retired teacher from Minneapolis with a buzz cut and a love of language. The hefty fish was about to receive glorious inches in Buzz's Dresden Chronicle before being wrapped in same for a freezer. Cole smiled at the Norman Rockwell scene.

  Then he glimpsed the scarlet hair. Laurel sat in the alcove at the place's only table, next to a coffee pot and a side door—an escape hatch. A dozen children surrounded her like a protective moat. Her radiance stilled Cole's heart, but her aura was more than physical. This was not the angry woman who railed at him. This woman's smile bespoke patience. She inspected a kitten, petted a frog and winked to make the cherubs giggle. Laurel held them spellbound.

  Guilt slammed into Cole. What about your son?

  He leaned against a display case to find his balance. In all his life he couldn't remember sharing something as silly as a pet frog with Tyler. He hadn't been there much, but with good reason, right? He raked his hair with a hand, trying to let the doubts go.

  Suddenly he lost interest in questioning Laurel about her past and why she'd lied to him. Prying seemed stupid to him now.

  He edged toward the door, but when she lifted a puppy to her cheek, Laurel's gaze captured Cole. A bolt of electricity changed the air between them, staying Cole in his tracks. Like the kiss by the bay, or the long ago day in the glen, they peered together across a chasm, inviting, trying to deny a hunger, trying to deny how intimately they knew each other.

  Then her gaze returned to the children and the moment passed.

  Her carriage grew erect, guarded. She handed the puppy back. An arctic blast blew through Cole. Then shooing the children on their way, she ducked toward the back of the shop.

  He followed, recklessness overpowering him.

  She stood over the minnow tanks, her back to him, hair cascading forever until it met the rounded shape of her bottom in her tight jeans. His body reacted before he could hold himself in check. The throbbing in his bad leg seemed to have moved up. He despised his lack of good sense and control because she expected that out of him.

  Wishing like hell he could touch her hair, he cleared his throat. “You're a regular mother bird these days."

  She whirled around, a haunted look blanching her face. “Whatever it is you want from me, I refuse to discuss it. You didn't have to hunt me down out there on the street for all the world to see. And to come into my father's shop—"

  She whirled back around to the tank with its gurgling water. His mouth went dry, but he sidled up next to her. He stared at the minnows darting about. With her face reflecting in the water, he found it difficult to focus on the fish and not her electric eyes.

  “Those kids reminded me of the time you showed me how you could feed chickadees from your hand. I was never as good as you around animals. Or children."

  She dipped a small net toward the tank bottom. “It's never too late."

  “I'm not sure my son would want me to teach him about chickadees."

  “How would you know?"

  Hot prickles stabbed his face. His whiskers itched. “I suppose I deserved that.” He watched her dip toward the tank bottom. “Treasure hunting?"

  She picked a penny out of her net and set the coin on the tank rim. “Kids love to make wishes. If we had a fountain in this town, my mother wouldn't have this trouble."

  “Fountains are for big cities and they get dirty anyway. You don't want one."

  “For once I agree with you. I'd rather work on keeping the lake clean for the kids here."

  He wanted to shout for joy at that. “You understand them so well. Ever think about having kids of your own?"

  Her hand slapping the water echoed throughout the bait shop. The icy tidal wave drenched Cole from head to foot
, especially the one stuck yet in his mouth.

  “Ever think you no longer have rights to ask me such personal questions?"

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  WITH HER HEARTBEAT erratic, and a slow-burn over Cole threatening her common sense, Laurel marched to David Huber's law office on the side street past the drugstore.

  Now he was making her angry as well. “What do you mean we can't get a restraining order to keep Cole Wescott away from me?"

  David thumped his pen on the file in front of him. “His merely finding you to ask a question doesn't qualify as stalking. Did he threaten you with a weapon?"

  She went to stare out the window overlooking the village's bustling lakefront pier and boardwalk. She thought about the jagged-edged knife still sitting on her counter.

  “No.” If anything, she'd threatened him. “But what about the letters Una mentioned? Those must be from him."

  “Did he say so?"

  She turned around. “I didn't ask and he didn't offer. But why should he if he's after the property? He wouldn't want me to try to stop him."

  “These anonymous letters might. They question whether the property was properly condemned. The author wants to know whether the township made enough attempts to find the owner. They want copies of tax liens, official ads run by any governmental entity looking for people owing taxes, the lady's will. This research could take weeks."

  “Weeks?” Panic burned through her. “I'll lose my grant for the wildlife refuge and for my rehabilitation work if I don't raze that place and get to planting the trees I promised the State. You know how hard it is to get donations. I was counting on that money and the job. Without it I'll have to stop taking in animals. My center is the only one in this part of the state. You can't let Cole do this."

  “Slow down. We don't know it's Cole.” He sighed and folded his hands over the file. “I have a few letters asking me to find anything I can on Flora Tilden and the mansion. That's it. Why don't you confront him?"

  “That sounds like a fight, not peace."

  “Have you ever really been at peace since he left?"

  With his pointed look cutting her off at the knees, she muttered, “You get to the heart of things quickly."

  “Isn't that what you want? Maybe that's all Cole is asking of you."

  Burning now from the memory of splashing Cole for “getting to the heart of things quickly,” she left David's office vowing to somehow get a look at those files. She wanted to fling the letters in Cole's face for putting her in a tailspin. And he'd only been back a day!

  * * * *

  TUESDAY MELTED into Friday and Cole remained at the mansion. Each day gave her hope that he'd find his buried treasure and leave, but he became part of the wildlife she watched through her scope at the picture window.

  Each day, he forced her to consider their past. The unfinished business called honesty. It gave her chills to think that total honesty about certain things she'd done in the past fifteen years might be the only way to get rid of Cole and move on with her own life. Their quick parting of ways was the only future possible for them both.

  Future? What they would always have would be more like an accommodation on the planet earth. Like two wolves from different packs, keeping themselves hundreds of miles apart with their secrets and distrust.

  At work in the animal shed, she fluffed an aged flannel shirt around two young bunnies snuggled in a wood nesting box. They'd arrived yesterday after a mischievous dog stumbled through their nest and his owners rescued the newborns. These babies were palm-size and nearly hairless. Smiling at them wiggling in their sleep, a sigh stole through her.

  For a moment, all troubles fled. Would she ever have children? She couldn't deny the soft desire that blossomed with Cole's question of her. She wanted the peace of their laughter, dearly. She wanted the completeness of adding that sound to her life.

  Moving on, she patted Rusty on the head, took note of Owlsy, now patched and quiet, the fawn with its splint and the chickens scratching around without a care in the world. She reminded herself of how contented she was here.

  But was it enough? Yes, she insisted. Contentment had always been enough, until Cole reminded her of all that it meant to be a woman. But she could control her wayward desires, couldn't she? The ragged edges of womanhood that slapped in the night like laundry forgotten on the line, begging for someone to come and rescue it?

  Drat him! But she would find someone again, someone suitable for marriage and children. Someone steady, someone she could always count on to bring in the laundry with her.

  Outside, to escape such barbarous thoughts, she took stock of the verdant, neat garden. Lush—because of her steady hand, because of its predictable, responsible rows.

  The breeze blew fresh and warm, gentling her even more. Humming, she stopped to weed the quack grass popping up around her tomato plants, then thinned the short radish row and noticed early spinach begging to be picked. The oniony, sweet smell from purple-topped chives lulled her into a broad smile while she fussed about the plants.

  Then she stopped. It was too quiet. Even for contentment.

  For almost three days, Cole had attacked the old mansion like a crazed woodpecker, his hammering and pounding relentless. Now, the silence slithered in around her, ominous. She sheltered her eyes with a hand against the brilliant sky and squinted across the bay.

  The old maroon pickup Gary'd loaned him still sat parked next to the verandah but the usual morning campfire was missing. Where was Cole?

  She hated her curiosity, her penchant for worrying and tending things. Especially living things, because they were dependent on her. That part of her was so much like Cole that long ago she'd recognized it as a weakness to be corrected.

  But when had she last heard the pounding? Maybe midnight. His ratta-tat-tat robbed her of sleep at least until then.

  Had Rojas spotted Cole in town?

  The breeze didn't feel warm anymore.

  Darn him for doing this to her again.

  She stalked into the cabin. She'd fix breakfast. Food cured a lot of ills for mere animals. Let it shake her blues. But the oatmeal tasted bitter despite the maple syrup she poured on. Shoving it aside, she took her coffee out to the front steps.

  She heard nothing.

  Had he really left? Had he given her three days of excitement and then vamoosed? She'd had so many pent-up questions to ask him yet about his life, his son, his brother. David's advice niggled at her. Had she been unfair? Unforgiving even?

  Cole had complimented her way with children. Didn't a good mother need to be forgiving of a lot? With all her heart, she wanted to experience the trouble of children.

  Until Cole's re-entry into her life, she hadn't realized how much on the surface that yearning was. At times, it burst like a river from out of an underground cave, crashing into the sun with its message. At times, it ushered forth as soft and joyous as a dandelion seed pod, its feathery wings set free to blow across a soul, to plant themselves in a heart in order to grow.

  When the sun began throwing afternoon shadows on the silence and there was still no sign of Cole, Laurel's defenses grew weak. She carefully packed an insulated luncheon box, looking twice at what she put in there and wondering whether he'd know the significance of the succor she brought. Then a tremor rolled through her. Would he even be alive to appreciate the surprise packed in this box? She grabbed her first-aid kit and a coil of rope and headed for her fishing boat.

  Outside, she felt as if someone were watching her, beckoning her with a powerful force that vibrated from the earth's fiery core. She peered up at the round window across the bay. Its bleakness mocked her. It seemed to know she couldn't resist giving into curiosity about Cole. Even if danger, or death, lay waiting.

  * * * *

  SHE CHECKED HIS tent first. Finding it empty, she hurried along the deer path, the weeds whipping against her bluejeans. She stepped onto the verandah, her hiking boots clomping on the floorboards.

&n
bsp; “Cole?” She rapped on the sliver-ridden carved door. “It's me, Laurel."

  After shoving the door open, and putting down the cooler and gear, she eased toward the hole she'd fallen through earlier in the week.

  “Cole?” He wasn't down in the basement.

  With ginger steps and ears attuned to cracking in the wood, she inched through the first-floor rooms. In the parlor off to the right, light streamed through a couple of windows now freed of their plywood. They flanked a dusty fireplace, spider webs spewing down from its mantle and fluttering in the quiet breeze like white sheers. She saw evidence of Cole. He'd chopped holes about the room and there were chunks of plaster piled in corners. The tracks in the dust seemed fresh. Her heartbeat quickened.

  “Cole?” she called again, but to no avail. She licked her lips against the cottony fear settling in her mouth.

  Searching the kitchen across the hall, she stepped over buckled linoleum. The pantry was empty and dark, as was the library with all its empty shelves, which was as bleak as the family sitting room.

  She stumbled out onto the screenless back porch, looked around the yard, then hurried inside and headed for the back stairway.

  Fear climbed with her. Her heartbeat tripled.

  On the second floor she inspected five bedrooms, their doors screeching on rusted hinges. She found nothing but dust, a few ugly knickknacks that seemed to hold up the walls and a four live brown bats huddled in a dark ceiling corner of one room.

  She then stepped into the master suite with its glassless window overlooking the lake. A shutter slapped haphazardly with the breeze. A rusted iron bed with springs sat off in a corner. An oak dresser with cracked porcelain knobs collected leaves and debris near the window. The dressertop was a carved masterpiece attesting to the teenage couples who'd snuck here for a tryst over the years. Laurel ran her hand over the rough notchings of names, holding her breath, thinking about the futures discussed here and oh, the families started, too. Why did she feel left behind by history? What an odd sensation. Lonely. Barren.

  She backed away, her nerves taut as fishing line battling a monster pike. If she and Cole had gone ahead with their marriage, would they have lived in this house? They could have carved their names here. And filled the empty shell with their children. That haunted her everytime she came in here.