Spirit Lake

by Christine DeSmet

  “Yes,” she said, her body growing lighter, some of the burden of the past evaporating, “I can smile. For all the good times."

  She secretly thanked Cole for allowing her this affirmation.

  A new waitress appeared then, with the same revealing costume as the first and with an even bigger valley dipping toward Cole in a way that made his eyebrows arch and Laurel smirk to see his discomfort.

  With pen twitching, the waitress winked at Cole. “Name's Jenny, Jen. That's a northern pike over in that fish tank. You guess the weight by Friday night and you get him filleted by Big Al plus a gallon of Al's special German potato salad. I deliver it to your house."

  Discombobulated by the presentation, Laurel and Cole wrenched their heads away from Jenny and in the direction of her pointed pen. A built-in fish tank created part of the wall separating the pine-paneled dining room from the waitress station and restrooms.

  Cole said, “Mister Pike looks comfy in there. We'll pass and order something else."

  Laurel stifled a guffaw. “The special'll be fine for me."

  “Me, too,” Cole said.

  The waitress scribbled. “Out of home fries. Mashed okay?"

  “Hold the gravy,” Laurel said.

  “Pour it on for me,” Cole told Jen, winking.

  Laurel rolled her eyes at him.

  The waitress cooed, “Excellent choice. Anything to drink, sir?"

  He was staring at her cleavage, and said, “Whatever's on tap."

  “I could be later,” Jen quipped, sashaying off.

  Cole gawked after her. “Do you think she's serious?"

  “During the fall hunting season, maybe. I'd forgotten how awful this place is."

  “I've got an idea. When she comes with the food, let's have her box it up and we'll go on a picnic."

  Her nerves rode a roller-coaster down her spine. “I haven't been on a picnic since—"

  It was more than the sudden cock of his head that stopped her. His grin grew lopsided, flinching at one corner. Then his dark eyes grew beyond mellow and sexy. They became knowing.

  Cole picked up her hands, sending panic sizzling up her arms. “We haven't been on a picnic since the one in the meadow as teenagers. Let's go. Just for fun. We both need it. One night, let's be kids again, Laurel Lee."

  The eager grin on his face weakened her will. What harm could come from it? One night, he'd said. He always lived his life that way. The focus on one day, one night at a time. Nothing more. She must keep reminding herself of that. And oh, she needed him. His steely arms around her, his confident mouth pressing hers, his bronze skin scorching her paler limbs. Had the quick attic tryst ever been real, or was it only a recurring dream teasing her, leading her on down a path. Like Gretel, going too deeply into the woods for her own good.

  “A picnic it is.” The explosive yearning overruled her common sense.

  They soon climbed into the battered maroon pickup borrowed from Gary. Laurel held the dinner boxes on her lap.

  When Cole winced, failing to start the truck, she asked, “Your leg? Want me to drive?"

  “Nah. It comes and goes."

  “It should be healing by now."

  “It's fine."

  “I didn't take that bullet out under the best of conditions. I could—"

  He braced one arm atop the steering wheel, plunking the other along the vinyl seatback behind her. His dark eyes mellowed. “You take good care of me, Laurel Lee, but you've got to stop worrying about me. About any of this. I don't want to remember you with that frown after I leave."

  “After you leave."

  The air stilled. His beautiful dark eyes took on ragged edges.

  Cold perspiration sheathed her. She clutched the boxes. “It will be lonely without you.” There, she'd said it.

  Could he possibly feel anything for her beyond the refuge she offered for him?

  “And I'll miss you,” he said, his eyes steady.

  Her heart lurched. Screwing up her courage, refusing to allow the evening to disintegrate, she declared, “We'll go to the old mansion and eat there. I'll help you look for clues again. There has to be something we missed. Mike left the crayon box there, not somewhere else for you to find it. A new pair of eyes, a new angle in different light, and we might see the clue and you'll have what you need to put your Mr. Rojas away forever."

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “You're one hell of a woman, Laurel Lee. You're sure?"

  “You hungry?” she asked, groping for courage to mask her reservations.

  “Starving.” His eyes told her he wasn't talking about food.

  He started the truck, then pulled out of the parking lot and onto Hwy. N.

  Laurel rode in silence, listening to him chatter about the scenery and the clear sky, glorying in his companionship in the truck cab's cocoon.

  This is only one night, she reminded herself. What harm could come of being with him?

  * * * *

  THE MAN FROM the corner table emerged from Al's in time to see the maroon pickup heading south, back toward Dresden.

  Grinning, he got in his rental car, and was soon driving south, thinking how he needed to trade in this four-door for a van, something enclosed and private, big enough for the giant minnow cage he'd bought. Laurel Hastings would be cramped traveling and sleeping in it, but it would only be temporary, until they left all this far behind. He'd keep her like a pet, for her own safety.

  Driving along, catching sight of the pickup every so often, he cracked a self-satisfied smile, even looked at it in the mirror. He'd covered his backside by calling his boss in Miami as he was supposed to. Now, he'd steal this woman right out from under all their noses. Hadn't he already done that with the Texas chick? Of course, she'd died enroute. But it wasn't his fault. Putting her in the coffin had been clever. He was sure she'd have enough oxygen in that big thing for the trip north with him. But he wouldn't make that mistake again. That's why an airy minnow cage would be just right for Laurel Hastings.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  LOOKING FOR HIS scissors, Buzz Vandermeer shuffled through the stacks of press releases, hand-written recipes from the locals, computer disks and other such items that eventually he'd have to get into the new newspaper layout software he was trying to learn. He was still trying to live down Una's grocery ad that was supposed to come out “Mr. Lucky Chicken Fryers, $1.98 a Pound.” The “F” in Fryers got switched with the “L” in Lucky. For a retired English teacher, the episode gave him the hives every time he thought about it. Now he double-checked everything on the screen, spending longer hours at that and less on keeping a clean office. He finally found the scissors.

  The Minneapolis Tribune, which got tossed at his office door in a plastic sleeve every morning, had run an intriguing photo on an inside page. There was a couple in it, a shapely blonde he didn't recognize, and a man who looked vaguely familiar.

  The story said the blonde came from a prominent Texan family. She hadn't been seen in days after being spotted at a Miami marina. Another woman, a Lisa Shaw who worked near the marina, was missing too. But the bare-chested man in the photo intrigued Buzz the most. He was Cole Wescott, champion hydroboat racer and treasure diver. He also hadn't been seen in days and the article insinuated he was about to be charged with kidnapping or murdering the two women. Wescott's boss, Marco Rojas, said he last saw his employee with the women.

  Buzz placed the photo in his scanner, then watched its pixels materialize on his computer screen. He stared for a long time at the eyes and the mouth. What was it about them?

  He began altering the photo. Lighten the eyes. No, that didn't do much. Bring the mouth out of its smile. Hmm. What about hair? The photo was obviously some advertising shot, with the hunk's hair clipped short and airbrushed. Put some hair on him....

  Buzz sat back. It was the hobo, Atlas, who had come to riffle through his morgue a few days back. And he lived with Laurel, the daughter of the sweetest woman this side of Spirit Lake.

&
nbsp; Her sweet smile stuck with him the whole time he printed the enhanced photo of Atlas and walked out the door and down the street with it. Madelyn's daughter was in danger. The photo shook between his quaking hands. If Dresden had a serial killer in its midst, Buzz Vandermeer was about to crack the biggest story of his career. He hoped the sheriff was in.

  * * * *

  HUNGRY, THEY had decided to eat on the verandah steps of the old mansion.

  Cole leaned forward now on the top step, arms slung casually over his bluejean-clad knees. He wore the same blue polo shirt she'd washed for him, and it made her think he should really stay in one place long enough to accumulate more shirts.

  Putting down his plate, he announced, “What if it's the meadow Mike wanted me to see? It's full of colors, like his crayons. Remember the flowers there?"

  A flush painted her body with raw heat. “Of course I remember."

  They'd first made love there. He had been consumed with the need. Heat niggled her core.

  “You go ahead,” she said, “I should get home."

  But he hauled her into his arms before she could protest, cradling her head against one shoulder with fingers splayed against the back of her head. His heaving chest pumped warmth into her. He was so alive. “I'll miss you."

  She gloried in his admission. “Rojas can't have you,” she whispered.

  “I won't let him win, Laurel Lee."

  A shiver undulated down her body. “You always have to win,” she said, lips barely able to form the words against his shirted shoulder. Winning and conquering were what he was about. It dawned on her now ... had he merely conquered her once upon a time? Having power over someone was not love, she reminded herself.

  “Please come to the meadow with me. Don't go home yet,” he pleaded.

  In the meadow they'd always felt free. It was a sanctuary. The best hiding place.

  “We'll find something there,” he said. “I can feel it."

  Her heart flip-flopped again, giving in. “I'll go.” If he was never coming back, she could go with him to their meadow. One last time.

  But oh the memories....

  They used to meet where the two paths forged into one, breathless, energy pulsating in their loins, fingers tugging impatiently at buttons and belt loops as they tumbled along.

  They started off toward the meadow, walking steadily through the overgrown path Cole must have taken when sneaking out under his Great-Aunt Flora's nose. Laurel would slip away from helping her father build the cabin.

  Starting from behind the mansion, Cole never hesitated, even with his limp. He moved by rote through tall grasses and around spiky sumac and scrub oak growth. He pushed hard, almost breaking into a run when brush gave way to stubbly grass for short stretches.

  Dread kicked up in her stomach. He needed to be in the meadow too desperately, she thought.

  He would hide behind the trees, chasing, hurrying her.

  They skirted the bay with its bullfrogs croaking.

  Cardinals darted through the leafy brush, their chipping call and loud whistles alerting woodland neighbors of the lovers’ approach. She remembered it well.

  Laurel felt herself swallowed up in the primal world. Yard by yard, it insulated them from the noises of reality, the voices trying to control what was in their hearts. Didn't people know how lonely they were when not together? How each felt like one shoe without its mate? That's how this secret garden had courted them then, too. It told them in every hush behind a leaf parted with tenderness, in every dewdrop poised on a fern frond, that being together was right.

  The wilderness was their playground. They were free to go wherever their hearts led.

  When the path joined up with the one she took to the cemetery, Laurel almost turned back. Her heart rolled in terror behind her breast. Would he question her again about the graves? Cole pushed himself faster, though limping. The pain must be excruciating. Had he read the gravestone's inscription?

  It was clear he wanted to make love. The light in his eyes would dance, and he would turn his face up to the sky like a wolf, calling her name until it filled the woodland. Laur-el Lee. Come to me.

  Before reaching the fork in the path that led to the gravestones and little church, Cole veered off, descending the hill. Air entered her lungs again, and her heart fluttered with less trepidation.

  Laurel hiked after him. Branches whipped at her face.

  “Cole? Cole, slow down."

  Cole, please hurry, or someone will see us. Innocence, transparent and flimsy as lace, was enough then. It tasted sweet.

  Twigs snapped, brush rustled. A hawk cried overhead. Laurel followed, fear driving her. She never wanted to lose Cole. To her, he was the only worthy opponent for the healthy barbs of the arguments her stubbornness brought. She wanted to draw him close.

  But he kept hurrying now, breaking from the brush and into the open. She panicked, her heartbeat swelling torturous thoughts in her head. His boss—that damn Rojas—could pluck Cole from her anytime, the madman's talons drawing blood, purging Cole's last breath, feeding on the flesh that she knew as strong, enticing, protective.

  “Cole!” She wanted to protect him!

  The hill fanned into a gentle slope. Cole broke into a run, swooping down the incline, ignoring her. Or was he leading her?

  Laurel ran. Blood throbbed at her temples.

  He stopped abruptly. She almost tumbled into him. Capturing her hand, he tugged her along beside him until they reached the break in the trees and brush.

  “Our meadow. Our meadow could be the place for everything to change,” he said, his voice so guttural it painted pictures in her mind of wild things, wanton acts.

  She lay trapped in the tall grass, and yet welcomed its shelter as he hovered over her. It was the first time for her. It was a matter of the hunted depending on the hunter to take his time.

  * * * *

  THE HAZE OF the summer's evening softened the sunlight to a golden glow across the waving grasses and wildflowers. Brown-eyed susans, pink clover and queen anne's lace bowed in the breeze. Laurel stood motionless, knowing she'd been wrong to allow Cole to bring her here.

  This was where she'd fallen in love with him. A girl born free taking up with a boy gone wild.

  His fingers squeezed hers, sending heat shimmering up her arm and into her heart. Staring out across the landscape, his dark eyes flickered with a primitive energy, slices of yellow light tinting them.

  Then a muscle twitched in his jaw. Furrowing his brow, his gaze scoped out the faraway treeline. He was hurting her hand.

  “What's wrong?” she whispered, her body tensing in unison with his.

  “I thought I saw someone."

  A tremble chilled her. “Who?"

  Rojas? The man in her shed? The man watching her in town, then running? Her mother's spy—the tourist in the restaurant?

  Clutching at his arm, she meant to reassure herself as much as him. “He wouldn't come here. He doesn't know about this. We're only guessing it's what Mike wanted us to do."

  “He followed us tonight."

  “Nobody followed us.” Don't do this to me, Cole!

  But her nerves empathized.

  The muscles steeled in his forearms, his hands bending into tight fists. The hawkish gaze, the yellow-tipped eyes, frightened her.

  He was gentle, devoted to her. The grass cushioned her back, cradled her wrists when he splayed her arms out in the sunshine to take her. His shadow rode over her. A whisper of muscle entered her, and she cried out.

  Across the meadow, against the opening in the trees that led to the pond and stream feeding Spirit Lake, a doe and her fawn emerged, twitching an ear at them. Laurel sensed Cole's sigh of relief with her own. Then, the doe and fawn flipped up their white flags for tails, on alert, and bounded into the thick cover of protective forest.

  Even before she could seek his protectiveness, Cole had grabbed her closest hand and rubbed it. “You're shaking."

  “Can't help it. This place
... hasn't changed at all since then."

  “You never come here on your walks?"

  The question pricked her heart. “I give it a glance on the way to the graveyard."

  A breeze parted the waist-high grass, and he stepped into it, as if eager to leave her, then stopped. His shoulders heaved up and down slowly under the blue shirt, changing the air in the meadow. “It's wrong the way I want you."

  There was no mistaking the yellow glint in his eyes, the narrowed gaze, the uneven heaving of his chest in its ragged attempt at control.

  The birds went silent, as if waiting for a decision that would change their world forever.

  Chaotic emotions darted around her heart, a fiery yearning swirling inside her, but a warning creeping in. Was she being foolish?

  “What are you trying to tell me?” she ventured, mouth dry, all senses on hold.

  “That there's something about this place,” he muttered, “no, about you in this place, that makes me want you so badly it hurts."

  Her breathing stopped again. “Are you ever afraid of an emotion that asks everything of a person?"

  “I'm only afraid for you.” He backed off from her. “But emotions? You're strong. Whatever life asks of you, I believe you're strong enough to find an answer for it."

  Her heart fluttered. “I might not be as strong as you think."

  “You're very strong these days. And you never used to question me. Now, you question me."

  The same breeze that fluttered his long hair cooled the perspiration on her forehead. She leaned on the breeze, flowing toward him. “That bothers you?"

  “No. Our differences can be very becoming on you.” After a flinch hit his jawline, he turned away, sucking in the fragrant evening air. “The quiet serenity, for example, becomes you. I don't belong here."

  “But I do? You make it sound like I'm in a rocking chair watching life go by."

  Coming back to her, he reached out and grazed her cheekbone with his knuckles, sending rivers of velvet heat pouring from his touch. “Oh, Laurel Lee. You used to look this flushed with life every day, falling for my stupid challenges and adventures. Don't you see, you're doing it again."