Keeper's Reach

by Carla Neggers

She’d never get it out of him unless he wanted to tell her. If anything, the meeting had added to her misgivings instead of alleviating them.

  She felt Mike’s presence a split second before she looked up at him. “Tempted to go snowshoeing?” she asked.

  “Not right now. Colin’s on his way.”

  “Here? Great. Then we can have two FBI agents in the house.”

  “You can tell him about Oliver York.” Mike pointed to a side table. “Reed stocked a couple of good whiskeys.”

  “Your priest is a whiskey expert. Father Bracken. He’s Irish. He was at the gallery in London.” Naomi held up a hand. “Don’t go nuts. I didn’t talk to him. I’m sure it was him, though. I learned about him when I looked into Aoife O’Byrne. You know how it is. You pull on one string and a whole ball of knots starts to untangle.”

  “I don’t know how that is.”

  “It’s probably like following a moose trail in the wild.”

  Mike’s deep blue eyes settled on her. “Right. It’s like that.”

  “Sorry. I’m not demeaning your current life.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “All right. I didn’t intend to demean your current life.” She wasn’t that repentant. She eyed the bottles on the sidebar. “I don’t see any Bracken Distillers whiskeys.”

  Mike lifted a bottle of Redbreast 21. “Father Bracken would approve. Did you speak with anyone at the gallery?”

  “Just one of the workers. T.K.—Agent Kavanagh—followed me there. I saw him and left. He was on my nerves. He showed up at my hotel on Tuesday, probably because of Reed. I wasn’t expecting him. Reed made no secret that he wanted to recruit you. I did some digging and learned about Aoife O’Byrne and the Sharpes and all the rest.”

  “You weren’t checking on me for Reed?”

  She shook her head. “Kavanagh might have been. After I left the gallery, he followed me into St. James’s Park and chewed me out there. I was having a look at Oliver York’s apartment. T.K. thinks I’m playing with fire.”

  “He knows you well, then,” Mike said, sounding neutral—which she knew he wasn’t.

  Naomi rolled her eyes. “If I were as reckless as you guys think I am, I’d have been the one with the head injury and hypothermia in England instead of that Brit.” She nodded to the Redbreast. “It’s a good sign Reed wants you on his team badly enough to stock quality whiskey. I’d take that as an act of good faith, wouldn’t you?”

  “I take it as good whiskey.”

  “You’re in concrete-thinking mode. Got it. It’s too early for Redbreast, although I could make a case for it since I’m still somewhat on English time. A few sips of Irish whiskey, curl up by the fire for a nap. That could work.”

  “You could go snowshoeing with Reed.”

  “Oh, joy. Remember my issue with wool socks? As in I don’t have any.”

  “That’s just an excuse,” Mike said.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” But her attempt at humor failed, came across to her as defensive, even shrill. She needed to throttle back after the intense meeting. “Are you going to wait here for your brother?”

  “He’ll find me.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re experiencing the ‘private contractor’ effect. Not all contractors are perfect. Some have crossed lines that got a lot of attention. I’m careful, and I know guys like Reed do good work and serve a real need. He prevents bad things from happening if he can and deals with them if he can’t. Always better to prevent problems versus having to send in the cavalry.”

  Mike nodded. “Agreed,” he said, leaving it at that.

  Naomi felt blood rush to her face. He had been the cavalry for her. The rough man with the gun. “We’re not omnipotent or perfect,” she said quietly, suddenly wishing Mike had stayed out on the Bold Coast. “Are you tempted to join Cooper Global Security?”

  “I’m here to listen to what Reed has to say.”

  “He’s good or I wouldn’t have had him meet with my medical professionals.”

  “It’s not about that. What about you? Tempted?”

  “Me? I’m an independent consultant. Self-employed.”

  “Don’t you think he asked you here because he wants to hire you to work for him exclusively?”

  “He hasn’t said as much. If I went to work for him, then I’d have a boss. I’ve had bosses. I do better when I don’t. Clients are different. I work on their behalf but not for them.”

  “Mind of your own,” Mike said.

  Mind of your own was code for loose cannon. He would always believe she had acted precipitously in Afghanistan when he had rescued her. He knew as well as she did that precipitous and courageous sometimes went hand in hand, but he had his own way of looking at things.

  “I did what I had to do three years ago,” she said, trying not to sound defensive.

  “What you thought you had to do.”

  Nothing to be gained from going further. She picked up the Redbreast. “No peat, right?”

  “No peat.”

  She set the bottle back on the table. “I drink bourbon at home. Are you going to tell Colin—Agent Donovan—about my visit to the gallery and the injured guy at the York farm?”

  “You can tell him when he gets here.”

  She sank into her comfy chair. Soft cushions, a hot fire, the prospect of whiskey, the lingering fatigue of jet lag and the raw nerves of being around Mike Donovan when he was on a quiet, purposeful tear. Not a good combination.

  “I was wondering whether to dress for dinner,” she said. “Did you check out the dining room? Nice. I have this little knit dress I roll up for emergencies. Tights, boots, a scarf and earrings, and I’m good to go. What about you?”

  “No little dress I roll up.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “I’m not thinking about dinner.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Do you know all about us, Naomi?”

  “Not all. Some, though. It’s my job.”

  “I’ll ask you again. Reed hired you to look into me?”

  “No. I wouldn’t be surprised if he either hired or green-lighted Kavanagh to do a background check, though. By the way, Aoife O’Byrne was at the gallery. I didn’t speak with her, either. She’s a very attractive woman as well as exceptionally talented. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk to Father Bracken or Oliver York. I don’t think they saw her.”

  Mike leaned forward. “Stay out of my family’s business, Naomi. For your own sake.”

  He got up and left the room. When he was out of sight, Naomi said to hell with the early hour, splashed Redbreast 21 into a glass and took it to the French doors that opened onto the porch. The waves of undisturbed snow looked inviting. Probably not a good idea to go snowshoeing for the first time in her life after drinking whiskey. Jet lag or no jet lag. Mike Donovan or no Mike Donovan.

  Once she finished her whiskey and her heartbeat returned to normal, she would head up to her room, take a long, hot bath and wish she were somewhere else. Home in Nashville. Sewing with her mother. Still in London, working on security and crisis management for her medical professionals. When she first got into this business, she hadn’t believed anyone would want to hurt nonpolitical, volunteer medical professionals dedicated to helping people. Her naïveté hadn’t lasted long.

  It wasn’t until she had finished her splash of whiskey that she remembered she had worn a little knit dress in Washington on one of her days with Mike.

  Heat rushed to her face that had nothing to do with alcohol.

  She was remembering Mike removing the dress later that same evening...

  He couldn’t think she had brought it up as a reminder of that night, could he?

  She thought of his lingering gaze.

  Yeah, he could.

  She thought about the little knit dress she’d brought with her to Maine.

  It was a different one from three years ago.

  18

  Heron’s Cove, Maine
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  Friday, 1:30 p.m., EST

  Colin felt a certain uneasiness when he used Emma’s key to let himself into the empty, revamped main offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. He’d driven down to Heron’s Cove after striking out in Rock Point, but there was no package from Oliver York here, either. He went out to the back porch, where, five months ago, Emma had painted at an easel while he spied on her from his brother Andy’s boat, bobbing in the river below the house. He hadn’t thought he’d fall in love with her, but he’d been attracted to her—green-eyed, smart, thoughtful and not like any FBI agent he’d ever met. He’d thought she kept secrets. Was this missing package one of her secrets?

  He stood on the top steps. The river and the marina next door were quiet. They would bustle with boats of all kinds in the warm-weather months. Even now, there was more activity than there’d been at St. Patrick’s Church and the rectory when he’d stopped there. He’d had a quick look around. No package.

  He hadn’t expected Emma’s car at his house in Rock Point. He assumed one of the nuns had picked her up and taken her to the convent, but it struck him as odd for her not to drive herself. But what did he know about a convent retreat? Her convent retreat? He’d gone out of his way not to intrude. He hadn’t asked her for details, and she hadn’t offered any. He told himself he was giving her space, but the truth was, he hadn’t wanted to dig into details. He was fine with Emma’s past with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, but that didn’t mean he wanted to know everything about it. Let it stay on the surface. He didn’t need to dive deep into her life as Sister Brigid.

  He’d checked the house in case she’d come home from her retreat early, but she wasn’t there. The bed was still made up, the heat still turned down low.

  He looked down at the undisturbed snow in the Sharpe yard. He wanted to talk to Emma about the package Oliver York had sent her and their art thief’s latest antics, and about Finian Bracken’s visit to the Cotswolds. Was she enjoying her retreat? Was it pulling her back into her past—into whatever had driven her to think she should become a nun? Or was it finally freeing her of the hold it had on her? Because there was a hold, whether or not she wanted to acknowledge it or couldn’t quite define it.

  Damned if he could, either. He just knew she needed this time and wanted to stay out of her way.

  Nuns.

  He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t think about Emma as a nun. She was the woman he loved and would marry in a few short months. She wasn’t a nun now. That was what mattered, what he had to remember.

  Maybe the package from York hadn’t arrived yet. In Colin’s experience, the simplest explanation was often the correct explanation.

  He wished Emma would get in touch but recognized that it shouldn’t bug him that she hadn’t. He needed to put the damn package out of his mind and head to the Plum Tree and Mike and his friends, find out why Ted Kavanagh and Naomi MacBride were on York’s trail, and how they’d picked it up in the first place.

  The Sharpe porch had a roof but wasn’t fully enclosed, and he could feel the wind, icy and cold. He noticed a movement down by the hedges that separated the yard and a parking lot behind an inn next door to his left, close to the mouth of the river.

  He recognized Sister Cecilia, Emma’s friend. The young nun lifted the hem of her midcalf coat above her knees and stepped into the snow in the backyard. She waved to him. “Colin—I didn’t expect to see you. Oh, dear. I’ve snow in my shoes. Not much of a path, is there?”

  “Hold on. I’ll come to you.” He trotted down the porch steps and crossed the yard on a narrow footpath that had been hastily shoveled through the knee-deep snow. “Hello, Sister.”

  “It’s so nice to see you, Colin.” She shivered, her arms crossed on her chest against the cold. The wind tangled her hair. She wore only her wide headband, no hat. No gloves, either. “I wasn’t expecting to be outside this afternoon. Is Emma here with you? We must have our wires crossed. I thought we were going to meet at the studio in town for her painting lesson.”

  “Is that part of her retreat?”

  “Her retreat? Didn’t she...” Sister Cecilia hesitated, pulling her hands up inside her coat sleeves. “Emma canceled her retreat at the convent.”

  Colin went still. “When?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. She stopped at the shop here in town and told me she was canceling. Then she called Mother Superior and told her. I thought we were still meeting today for a painting lesson, but she didn’t show up. She’s working on a series of watercolors of Ocean Avenue. I thought maybe that’s where we were supposed to meet...” The young nun glanced behind her, toward the ocean, then turned back to Colin. “I walked a little ways up Ocean Avenue, but I didn’t see her. Then I came here.”

  “What time did she stop by to see you yesterday?”

  “Just after five o’clock. She wasn’t upset or anything. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised she decided to cancel her retreat at the convent, even at the last minute.”

  “Have you been in touch with her by email, text—”

  “I tried calling but it went straight to voice mail.” Sister Cecilia shivered again, her pale eyes on Colin. “You two... You haven’t been in touch with her?”

  “Not since yesterday morning.”

  “We would know if she’d been in an accident, wouldn’t we?”

  “I’m sure we would,” Colin said, trying to reassure her—and maybe himself, too.

  “It’s icy up on the water where she was painting. If she went up there and slipped and hit her head...” Sister Cecilia inhaled. “Someone would have seen her.”

  He touched Sister Cecilia’s upper arm. “Did you walk or drive from the studio?”

  “I walked. I got myself worked up and struck out on foot without thinking about the weather. I only came through the backyard here because I know Emma often paints on the porch. The marina is one of the waterfront scenes she wants to paint.”

  “Let’s go inside.” Colin struggled to keep the tension out of his voice, his own fears at bay. He needed Sister Cecilia as calm as possible so that she could remember details. “We’ll find Emma.”

  She nodded. “I know we will.”

  He appreciated her certainty. He let her go ahead of him onto the path across the yard. He had his cell phone out, hit Yank’s number. “Anything from Emma?” he asked when Yank picked up.

  “Isn’t she at the convent?”

  “No.”

  Yank inhaled. He would fill in the blanks. If Colin was calling, it meant Emma wasn’t answering her phone and he couldn’t find her. “I’ll check with the team,” Yank said, disconnecting. Details could come later.

  Wind gusted off the water, whipping hair into Sister Cecilia’s face as she mounted the porch steps. The back door was still unlocked. She glanced at Colin, and he nodded. She went inside, saying nothing, clearly worried. He called Kevin’s cell phone number. “Hey, Colin,” his youngest brother said, no hint of worry in his voice. “You in town?”

  “Heron’s Cove. Have you seen Emma?”

  “Before she headed to the convent? No. What—”

  “Mike, Andy, anyone else mention seeing her yesterday or today?”

  “No. What’s going on, Colin?”

  “I don’t know. She canceled the convent and missed a painting lesson with one of the sisters in Heron’s Cove. We can’t find her.”

  “You’re at the Sharpe offices?”

  “Yes. I have Sister Cecilia with me.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  Colin went into the freshly renovated Sharpe kitchen. Sister Cecilia touched his arm. “I’m okay, Colin. Please don’t worry about me. Do what you need to do. I’ll try to make sure I’ve remembered everything.”

  He thanked her and called his mother. “Hey, I just got into town.” He forced himself to keep any tension out of his voice. “You and Emma still on for your lunch tomorrow?”

  “As far as I know. She’s at the convent again tonight. I expect we’ll connect in the morning.
Are you going up to the Plum Tree to see about Mike and these friends? Colin, I’m afraid they want him to be one of their mercenaries. Your father cautioned me that most private contractors do good work. I don’t know.”

  “I’m on my way up there. I have a couple things I need to do first. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Colin—”

  He pretended not to hear her and disconnected.

  He stood in front of the sink and stared out the window, clutching his phone, trying not to get ahead of himself. Emma could have taken a cab to Portland for the day. Since everyone thought she was at the convent, she could be enjoying a digital holiday. Picking out wedding shoes.

  He needed facts.

  Kevin would have told him if the police had an unidentified injured female on their hands.

  Or a dead one.

  Sister Cecilia got two glasses down from a white-painted cupboard. Colin stepped aside, and she filled the glasses with water, setting them on the counter. She gave him a weak smile. “You don’t have to drink it.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  He wanted to ask her if Emma had mentioned the package, Oliver York, Reed Cooper, Ted Kavanagh, Naomi MacBride, Mike, the Plum Tree Inn—Aoife O’Byrne, Finian Bracken, London, the Cotswolds...

  Colin took a breath, stopping himself. He knew better than to let his mind ping here, there and everywhere. He didn’t have enough to get crazy yet, anyway. Emma’s car was in Rock Point, but the Plum Tree wasn’t far. For all he knew, she’d hooked up with Kavanagh and hitched a ride with him.

  Colin texted Mike. Have you heard from Emma?

  No. Isn’t she with the nuns?

  Canceled. He didn’t explain further. On my way soon.

  His fingers were cold, shaking. Not good. He drank some of the water Sister Cecilia had poured. She was outwardly calm, but she’d had a difficult recovery from her encounter with a killer in September. She had permanent scars from where she’d been cut, tortured.

  “I hope I’m not worrying you unnecessarily,” she said quietly.

  “Nothing would make me happier.”

  “I know what you mean. I hope you find Emma at a spa, getting her toes done.”