She'd have to make choices soon if he didn't leave. To tell him things. To keep her own sense of honor intact.
She rushed now.
Crossing the small bridge over the creek that fed the bay, she thought she heard a groan. She stopped, glancing into the shadows. Nighthawks screeched. The breeze moaned through the pines, bringing the perfume of the trees and wood violets in bloom.
She headed up the pine-flanked path that led to the cliff. Then as usual, about halfway up the steady climb she chose the fork that allowed her to traverse the ridge for several yards before dipping down the other side.
Laurel paused at the curious snap of a twig, but pushed on. The graveyard was in sight now, its moonlit gravestones throwing long, inky shadows behind them. She drew in a shaky breath. Flashes of Cole flitted through her. Him laying with her in the attic, holding her as if they'd never left their meadow. His heat taking the chill off the fifteen years they'd been apart.
She could not afford to love him again. And yet, to make love in their meadow again ... no woman could forget that. Laurel wanted it again. Even if she couldn't trust him....
She couldn't deny the yearning. They had been in love then. Happy. So damn happy. So innocent to the danger of it.
* * * *
COLE'S LEG WAS killing him. Twice he almost stumbled over tree roots trying to keep Laurel in sight. Both times she paused, forcing him to duck into the underbrush. The pressure on his leg bandages tortured him. Then there was the matter of those two raccoons following him. What were they up to? Watching out for Laurel? He almost believed it.
It was that ethereal quality that kept him from abandoning his spying on her. Laurel strode through the night as if it beckoned her. She owned the night.
The brush was so thick he had a hard time keeping his bearings, but she knew every step to take to avoid a bulbuous root, a branch and bramble. Or did the plants bow to her, whisking out of her way on their own accord out of respect? They seemed to.
When he finally positioned himself behind a tree where he could pull a branch far enough down for a clear look, his breath caught.
The church! What was she doing here? He hadn't realized he'd walked this far. This was their little church. His heartbeat thundered in his chest. His palms turned clammy.
She approached the place, her long hair swaying back and forth across her back. Cole squinted. The glow from her lantern illuminated the rungs of a wrought iron fence. The graveyard. Of course. Her father must be buried here.
Just then, the raccoons decided to chitter about his feet.
“Who's there?” Laurel called.
He shrank against scratchy bark and his heart raced. Certainly she could hear its tom-tom beat.
Then she chided, “Roxy, Roger, what're you doing over here? Long way from your usual digs."
Roxy and Roger? He let out his pent-up breath and grinned. With the raccoons’ noises providing him cover, he edged around the tree enough to watch Laurel.
She pushed open the creaky iron gate, then picked up the lantern and basket, walking past several rows of headstones before stopping. She began unloading the basket. He thought he recognized the shapes of geraniums. While she set up to begin her planting, he used the opportunity to edge closer. A tall, woody lilac bush flanking the corner of the graveyard camouflaged him perfectly and gave him a close-up view.
Laurel was planting flowers in front of not one, but two headstones. The big monument had to belong to her father Gerald, but whose was the smaller one? Her fiancé? It had to be.
Then her softly-spoken words confirmed it for him. “Oh, darling,” she said, “you'll always have a place in my heart, no matter what."
A ball of ice slammed into Cole's stomach. Had Laurel made love to him because she was longing for Kipp? That didn't seem like Laurel. She told him she'd gotten on with her life. Or was she here because she felt guilty for making love to Cole? Cole couldn't stand the thought. The lovemaking was his fault, not hers. Guilt wasn't something Laurel bought into anyway. Cole bore the guilt in their relationship if anyone did.
He watched her plant the last flower, then linger, surveying, touching headstones. Her movements ebbed silently in the night, covered by the breeze now and then rattling the maple leaves overhead. When she packed up and left, closing the squeaking iron gate, Roxy and Roger scrambled after her.
At the fork in the path, Laurel chose the way to her cabin. Cole almost followed her, then thought better of it. He turned up the hill toward the cliff.
Standing on the rocky shelf hundreds of feet above the valley, the view overwhelmed him in the same ethereal manner it always did when he and Laurel met here. The rocky precipice jutted right into the stars. He stretched his arm out and tapped a shining speck with his fingertip. He imagined Laurel reaching out the same way, to the same star, until their fingertips touched. They had done that every time they came here. His breathing grew ragged.
Cole withdrew his hand quickly. Why should Laurel's feelings toward him matter anymore? Because he had loved her once. Because her living alone didn't seem right to him now.
Suddenly he couldn't bear the thought of leaving Dresden and Spirit Lake until he discovered the secrets of her heart—the shadow garden she tended. For that's what Laurel was doing, tending the shadows of her past as if they were living, breathing things. Planting flowers in a graveyard. Living in her father's cabin.
Guarding memories. Keeping people away. More specifically, keeping men away, including himself.
Why?
He turned and limped back down the path, feeling like the true Atlas. Weighed down.
Once upon a time he had loved her for the way she shared all of herself—body, mind, heart and soul. She no longer seemed to like to share. She preferred being alone. She admitted she worried all the time about others, animals certainly as part of her job.
None of it seemed right to him. There were puzzle pieces here, but they didn't quite fit together for him.
A part of him, deep down, inside a cave of dormant emotions, felt as if he were following a light now. Wanting desperately to make sure the light didn't disappear before he caught up to it.
And the light was life itself. Love. A part of him wanted to love Laurel. The whole, complete, sharing way.
If he were still that reckless.
* * * *
THE WEEKEND exhausted Laurel. She was glad. Otherwise she'd be tempted to fill the cooler and visit Cole. She felt sorry for him, to her chagrin. He hammered and pounded away relentlessy at the old mansion, looking for clues from Mike. In between, she spied him turning the sod over in several places. He worked like a madman with no letup. She knew he must be in pain, too.
While she tended her animals, feeding them a variety of sweet fruits, milk, grains, she couldn't help but wonder about Cole. He said he had no cash. Was he still eating dried food mixed with lake water? The vision of him devouring the fried egg sandwich stayed with her. Sometimes she imagined him sitting at her kitchen table, the two of them eating a meal together. Or having a cup of coffee together on the front stoop. Or a late-night bowl of ice cream in the living room by the fireplace. Still, she remained home alone, cleaning pens, feeding animals, bandaging wounds and doing paperwork.
Early Monday evening she spotted two boats motoring into the embankment at the Tilden place. She trotted inside and swung the scope on target. The sheriff? Now what?
John Petski climbed out of one boat and some high school kid she knew was doing community service as penance for breaking windows jumped from the other. What was John up to with Cole?
Then Cole waved to her.
She jerked back from the scope. Darn him. He'd just made her a joke in front of her friend and some kid. Whatever happened to her happy seclusion?
Laurel leaped into her minivan, sprayed gravel and headed for Dresden. She'd get him his answers about Flora from her mother as promised, then send him on his way.
* * * *
THE BAIT SHOP was crammed. She slither
ed around tourists’ elbows and gawdy T-shirts to the register where she helped bag for her mother.
“This fishing contest is making it nuts, dear,” Madelyn said. “And my cottages. I even had to rent the unfinished one, though I got some curtains up. The man insisted he needed a place to stay here."
“That's nice, mother. What've you heard about the sheriff's doings out at the Tilden estate? I saw him and the Bowman kid tying up with two boats."
Her mother skewered her with the eagle eye only a mother owns. “Gary says John found out Atlas knows about boat engines. Your hobo is earning a few bucks tuning up the sheriff's patrol fleet."
Cole and the sheriff? Why would Cole get buddy-buddy with the sheriff so willingly? Unless....
Her stomach churned. Unless they thought Rojas was coming here. Her imagination exploded. Cole was in danger. They all were. A shudder ripped its ice down her spine.
“What do you remember about Flora Tilden?"
“Flora?” Madelyn threw her a frown. She pulled boxes of hooks and purple rubber worms across the bar code reader, then handed them to Laurel for bagging. “Having second thoughts about burning down her old mansion?"
“Of course not. David mentioned something about trying to find her will. We need to make sure the deed to the land is free and clear before we can raze the place."
“That's odd, dear. A will would have been filed in Wisconsin probate court. David could find it in no time."
So why hadn't he? David knew something. What was in those files? “But what about a title to the land? Those are at the county courthouse."
“Not necessarily. If a piece of land's been in a family for years, especially before records were computerized, those documents could be buried in a vault."
A vault? Cole had asked about a vault. Had he been talking with David, too? She fumed.
“It seems I've been out of the loop.” She suspected on purpose. It would be just like Cole to hatch some adventuresome plan to catch this Rojas, and try and protect her by not telling her about it. Well, she'd show Cole. She could play detective, too.
Laurel flashed a weak smile. “Did Flora Tilden ever date anyone here?"
Madelyn snickered. “Rumor was, the woman was like a pot of honey. Always a swarm of men around her."
“Anyone in particular?"
“I don't know. Maybe. Rumor was she was married once, but she moved here soon after the War. Maybe she lost her sweetheart in it."
“But I heard she wore beautiful gowns here."
Madelyn handed her split-shot and bobbers to bag. “If she did, it was in her own parlor. She rarely showed her face in town. Most of us called it ‘uppity’ back then. Your father warned you about that family—"
“Don't, Mother. This is about the land, not me.” She winced at her white lie. “Where'd she live before here?"
“I assumed out East. At that time everyone came from the East to settle in Wisconsin."
Laurel lit up. Thinking about Mike's cryptic note, she said, “I bet she lived in Washington, D.C.” She hugged her mother quick and planted a kiss on her flushed cheek. “Thanks, Mom. You just gave me a tremendous idea."
* * *
Chapter 8
SHE RACED HOME, fired up her fishing boat and motored across the bay.
It was for naught. Cole wasn't there, and only one of the sheriff's boats remained tied at the hastily shored-up dock. If Cole were testing and tuning an engine, that meant he could be anywhere on Spirit Lake. Deflated, she motored back across the bay to tend to evening chores.
She worked late, up until ten p.m., the hour for the final feedings and final checks on the baby animals. About to gather up medicines and formula, she sighed at the phone interruption.
Cole's voice sent her heartbeat into a rollercoaster ride.
She squeaked, “You're where?” She could have sworn Cole said “jail."
“Jail."
“Dresden's?"
“Same old one. Same lousy cots, latrines and paint job. Your mother should do some curtains for this place."
“That isn't funny, Cole. What happened?” She thought of Rojas. Her fingers shook.
“Got in a fight."
Her breath caught in her throat. “With Rojas? Are you all right? Did he have a gun?"
Cole chuckled. “Slow down. It was some old drunk. He's snoring next to me now. I'll tell you about it when you get here."
“Get there? Me? What for?"
“To bail me out."
She felt like a marionette dancing on the end of Cole's strings. Anger welled inside her. “Put John on the line."
“Can't. The sheriff's pissed enough at me."
Her hand gripped the receiver. “So how much is your bail?"
Cole quoted a hefty four-figure sum. She almost fainted. “You realize at this hour I'll have to post a property bond. My cabin and animal shed and boat to spring your hide."
“And I appreciate it, Laurel Lee."
She slammed the phone in his ear. But she put on a sweatshirt over her flannel blouse, grabbed her keys and headed to town. It was time to take charge of this relationship with Cole. He was getting her in deeper and deeper. Sucking her down that drain with him.
* * * *
SHERIFF PETSKI hollered, “You can't go in there."
She charged right past him.
Cole sat on a cell cot reading Time magazine as if this were the most natural way to spend an evening. It made her furious. Another man snored under a blanket on the other cot in the cell. Cole looked up with an uneasy grin on his face.
“Please, don't even try to be ingratiating,” she spouted, but an unsettling urge to fling her arms around him unnerved her. He was all right, thank God.
“You came to bail me out. I knew you would. Thanks."
She took note of the grin frozen in place. A bit artificial. What was he up to now?
John met her at the cell bars.
Laurel hiked a purposeful brow at him. “You didn't advance a loan to your new boat mechanic? When were you two going to let me in on your big secret of working together?"
Cole stepped up and wrapped his fingers around the bars. “We could talk outside, but you haven't posted bail yet."
“Forget it until I know more about what you're up to. John, let me in."
John shook his head. “I can't let you in—"
“Why not? Are these dangerous criminals?"
The corners of Cole's mouth twitched, forcing her to control mounting confusion and indignation. “Don't be so smug. This story better be real good to get me here at this hour."
Backing away, Cole stuffed his hands in his pockets, though she thought she caught him trying to control a know-it-all smile. On her glare, Sheriff Petski relented and let her inside the cell, then left them alone. The outer door to the front office closed after him.
Crossing her arms, Laurel scrutinized Cole standing beside the cot only a few feet away. A low-watt overhead lamp in the hall cast meager light into the dark cell. He stared back, looking handsome, but forlorn, crooked in his stance to favor the bad leg. His hair hung dark and disheveled, a shadow of whiskers claiming his chin, a simple white T-shirt bucking its threads against the muscles of his broad chest.
Behind them, the man under the blanket snorted into a long snore.
“Lovely companion,” she spouted. “At least it's not your Mr. Marco Rojas."
“We wouldn't be talking if it were."
She shivered. “What happened?"
Easing onto the cot, Cole stretched out his bad leg. “I stopped for a burger at a tavern down by the public dock after running the boat down here for the sheriff. This guy was getting loud in the place and I asked him to shut up. He punched me. I asked him to stop and he punched me again. I finally took him by the scruff of the neck and sat him on a chair, which he then picked up and threw at me. Can you believe it?"
She refolded her arms and eyed him with suspicion. “Yes, I can. Trouble follows you. Can't you ever just get up and walk a
way from trouble?"
His gaze went soft. “I've tried that. I've heard it sticks in a person's mouth, like an aftertaste."
“Touché, but damn you. I was worried. I am worried. First I'm scared that you're getting killed over at the mansion, and in the next minute you infuriate me so much that I wish you were dead."
He came to her on a heavy sigh. She leaned the back of her head against the bars, his rough hands clasping her arms, rubbing them like tinder between them, the heat ebbing into her. Even through her sweatshirt and jacket she could feel his warmth. She needed the calming effect.
“I like that you worry about me,” Cole whispered, “but I worry about you getting so upset. I've always been truthful about having a job to do here, and it could get uglier."
“Like that goose egg at your hairline?” His mussed hair and a couple of scratches on his chin didn't help his appearance. Or her control. She yearned to cradle him, like some wild animal she could patch up and send on his way.
A smile erupted on his face. “I bet I look like something the sheriff usually drops off at your place."
Sighing at the way he could read her mind, she could only nod.
He gave her a slow grin. “Old Wiley's wicked for his size."
“Wiley Lundeen did this? That's the town drunk over there under that blanket?” Then a worry blanketed her. Leaning closer, she whispered, “His mouth can shoot off. I hope this doesn't make the papers. Your cover could be broken."
“With him?"
“Shh.” Inches from his face, her gaze took in the cuts and bruises. They tied her in knots. “You're not in much shape to ward off a seasoned hit man."
Leading her over to the corner away from Wiley, he fenced her in against the bars, whispering, “He's going to come eventually. So I have to begin planning for it. I don't have much of a choice. These leads Mike left me are going nowhere. If only we'd talked before...” His face took on the darker edge of hidden pain.
Despite her resolve to not get involved, her heart went out to him.
“I can help,” she whispered back, almost shaking from the turnabout from only days ago, but his pain spoke to her. “I saw Mother today and something she said gave me a hunch about Flora and this photo of Mike's."
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