by Terri Reed
Yes, Hunter was a special man. A year ago she would have been interested. Now she knew better. She’d been there and done that. And had the scars to prove it.
Hunter tilted his head toward the island. “Let’s get you to shore.”
She followed his gaze to where a small group had gathered. When the plane went down, she’d been alone. Now three boats dotted the shoreline. With her focus on the fire guys, and their motor left idling, she hadn’t even heard the others approach. At least none of them looked to be reporters.
Within moments, a low rumble filled the air and a helicopter approached to circle the island, Channel 20 News, WCJB-TV painted clearly on the side. Meagan flinched, the instinct to run and hide overpowering. Seahorse Key was covered in trees, but at low tide there would be any number of places for the aircraft to land.
She gave a couple sharp tugs on the pull rope, and her motor roared to life. As she raced toward the island, Hunter matched her speed. Ten or twelve sets of eyes watched them approach. One of the bystanders was Buddy, a local fisherman. The others she didn’t know. Probably tourists.
The moment she stepped ashore, she was inundated with questions. She held up a hand. “The pilot didn’t make it. The other guy’s unconscious. That’s all I know.”
The terse answer had the intended effect. The curious group fell back, and she hurried down the path leading to the lighthouse. Hunter followed. The chopper descended a short distance east of them and disappeared behind the trees. She corralled the urge to leave everything and run back to her boat, and instead willed herself to remain calm. But as she jammed the unfinished canvas into her portfolio case, anxiety chipped away at her composure and her hands shook.
Hunter lightly touched her forearm. “Are you all right?”
He had likely intended the gesture to be comforting. But she jumped as if she’d been burned. “I’m fine. I’m just ready to head home and get into some dry clothes.” She pushed her dripping bangs aside and forced a smile.
He didn’t return it. His mouth was set in a firm line. Of course he would see right through her excuses. He was a cop. And behind that handsome face was a discerning mind that wouldn’t give up its quest for the truth.
She snatched up the chair and began to fold it. Hunter picked up the cloth cover and held it open.
“Tell me what’s going on. What are you afraid of?”
Her heart began to pound, and moisture coated her palms. As she slid the chair into its case, she gave an uneasy laugh. “Spiders. Snakes. The usual things women are afraid of.” Drowning. Edmund.
More than anything, Edmund. Her dream come true. How quickly dreams could become nightmares.
She tucked her portfolio case under one arm and slipped the other through the camera bag strap. Leaving Hunter to follow with the chair, she started back up the path at a full jog.
His footsteps pounded behind her. “That’s not what I meant.”
No, that wasn’t what he meant. But it was the only answer she could give. Her life depended on keeping her identity secret.
From everyone. Even handsome, kindhearted cops.
Especially handsome, kindhearted cops.
When they reached the beach, three people had joined the others, two loaded down with camera equipment and a third holding a microphone.
One of the tourists pointed. “That’s her there.”
Before Meagan could react, all attention turned to her. A camera clicked, and a DVR began to record. She threw her hand up a half second too late.
No! They couldn’t put her picture on the news. The only reason she was alive was because the world believed Elaina Thomas was dead. Her hair was different, cut short and dyed dark. But her face was still the same.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Can you tell us what happened?”
With her head dipped, she placed her portfolio and camera bag into the boat, ignoring the reporter’s words. Hunter loaded the chair, and she continued her tasks—pushing the boat off the beach and into the water, moving her things to make way for her wet feet, and finally stepping into the boat.
Not getting anywhere with her, the reporter turned his attention to Hunter. “Someone said the lady pulled Senator Daniels from the plane. Can you verify that?”
Meagan gripped the pull rope and started the motor. As she began to back away, Hunter’s voice came to her over the rumble of the four-horse.
“She did. She’s a hero.” He glanced toward her, then continued. “But apparently she’s a modest hero and doesn’t want the recognition. I think we should respect that.”
“What’s her name?”
She shifted into forward, holding her breath. Hunter wouldn’t give her away, would he?
He gave a noncommittal shrug. “She’s not from around here.”
She turned the throttle and let her breath out in a rush. The reporter would assume she was a tourist and wouldn’t look any further. And since Buddy had returned to his fishing, no one on the beach knew her. At that moment, she could have kissed Hunter.
What he had said was true—she wasn’t from around there. She’d been in Cedar Key all of two months. Ever since her cross-country bus trip following her middle-of-the-night escape from her psycho ex-fiancé.
It wasn’t just the abuse. It was the threats to her family. And the fact that she had learned Edmund’s secret. And Edmund knew it. So she’d had no choice. Edmund would have never let her go.
Unless she was dead.
So she’d faked a fever with the help of a heating pad, gathered up minimal belongings and disappeared. Edmund’s rowboat would have been found the next day with her blood on the gunnel and her hair caught under one of the oar brackets, pulled out by the roots. There would have been only one conclusion: in her delirious state, she’d taken the boat out, hit her head, tumbled overboard and drowned. In spring-fed lakes, bodies could disappear indefinitely. Edmund knew her fear of water. And that she couldn’t swim.
He had underestimated her determination. And the effectiveness of YouTube videos.
A day and a half later, she’d shown up in Cedar Key with all the accoutrements of her new life—two changes of clothes, a few toiletries, a single loved photo, a bag of cash and new IDs. And an old book of poetry, cherished because it had belonged to the closest thing to a friend she’d had in over a year.
She cast a glance back at Seahorse Key. The reporters had turned their attention from Hunter and appeared to be speaking with the woman who had ratted her out. Tension spread through Meagan’s shoulders, and she shook it off. The woman didn’t know anything that could hurt her. Hunter did, but he had read her fear and, without knowing her past, had chosen to protect her.
She released a sigh and turned back around. The mouth of the channel was ahead, the route that would take her home.
Home. The word didn’t mean what it used to. But she had come to accept that. With no real connections to the community, home would never be any more than an address. And a temporary one at that.
The night she fled from California, she’d walked away from everything—her family, her possessions, a promising art career.
But she was alive. Her mother and sister were alive.
And that was all that mattered.
*
Clouds hung low in a steel-gray sky, and a rain-scented breeze swept down Second Street. Another August thundershower on its way. It was only five-thirty, but already the heaviness of impending dusk had settled over Cedar Key.
Hunter walked around the corner of Tony’s Seafood Restaurant. He was still in uniform and had just picked up dinner to go. Ahead of him, Meagan stepped from The Market, a plastic grocery bag hanging from each arm. Since the plane crash two weeks ago, he’d seen her a handful of times. But never alone. Maybe this was his opportunity to find out how she was doing.
She’d been in such a hurry to get off Seahorse Key. It hadn’t worked. The story was big news, with variations of it airing several times. And with each clip, at some point her picture was front and center.
One reporter had dubbed her “Angel in a Johnboat.” The senator had even expressed a desire to find her and thank her publicly.
The problem was, Meagan Berry didn’t want to be found.
Hunter passed the Tundra he’d left parked at the curb and continued down the sidewalk. But before he could reach her, a silver Intrepid pulled into the space in front of her. Anna Johnson climbed out and approached her.
“Someone came into Nature’s Landing looking for you this morning.”
Hunter slowed his pace, then stopped. He was close enough to hear the conversation, but Meagan hadn’t yet noticed him.
“Oh, yeah?” Her tone was nonchalant. Her posture was anything but. She stood in profile, back stiff, and her face had lost three shades of color.
“Yeah. Said he was a reporter. He had a picture of you printed from that news story they did on the senator.”
If Hunter wasn’t sure before, now he had no doubt. With Anna’s comment, the last of the blood drained from Meagan’s face. She dropped both bags into the basket on the front of her bike, swung her leg over the bar and sank onto the seat.
“What did you tell him?”
“Absolutely nothing.” Anna pushed her salt-and-pepper hair away from her face and continued. “I didn’t like the guy. Something about him put me off the minute he walked in the door. He seemed like a tough guy, used to pushing people around and getting his own way. He threw your picture down on the counter, demanding to know whether you had stayed in any of the vacation rentals we manage. I told him I couldn’t give him that information, that it was confidential.”
“Thank you.” Meagan’s tone was heavy with gratitude. “You probably gathered from the news coverage that I’m not too crazy about reporters.”
“I did. And I didn’t like this one. He said that since he was a member of the press, I had to give him the information. I guess he thought if he got a little threatening, I’d be intimidated enough to spill the beans.” She planted her hands on her hips and took a stubborn stance. “He underestimated this old Southerner. I don’t like bullies. You bully me, and I’ll just dig in my heels harder.”
Hunter smiled. He hadn’t seen this side of Anna before. Raised in Alabama, she was the epitome of the Southern belle. But she apparently had a stubborn streak.
She dropped her hands, then crossed her arms. “Just before he stormed out the door, I told him not to bother checking with any of the other establishments on the island, because they wouldn’t tell him anything, either.”
“Thank you.” The gratitude was still there. “Did he happen to say what news agency he was with, or did he have a press badge?”
Creases appeared between Anna’s eyebrows as she pondered the question. “No, I can’t say that he did, which is odd. You would think if he was trying to throw around his status as a reporter, he would have at least flashed a badge.”
“What did he look like? You know, so I can be sure to avoid him.”
“Maybe five-ten, muscular, dark hair really close cropped, like a buzz cut. And he had a faint scar. Right here.” She traced a short diagonal line across her cheek with one painted nail.
Meagan’s eyes widened only briefly before the facade of nonchalance fell back into place. But Hunter had seen what he needed to during that brief, unguarded moment—recognition. And dread.
She gave a jerky nod. “I’ll be on the lookout.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Anna headed into The Market. He resumed his walk down the sidewalk. Meagan wouldn’t be happy if she thought he’d been eavesdropping.
He called out a greeting. “How’s it going?”
Concern flashed across her features. Then she gave him a forced smile. She was probably wondering how much he had heard.
“It’s good. I just rode down for some milk and eggs. I didn’t have anything for breakfast tomorrow.”
He cast a glance upward. The sky was darker now, the rain closer. “I can put your bike in the back of the truck and drive you home.”
“Thanks, but I’m all right.” She eased her bicycle into the road. A sudden flash lit up the sky, followed by a much-too-close crash, and she ducked. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
Once seated in the truck, she folded her hands in her lap and sat straight and stiff, avoiding his gaze. He pulled away from the curb and headed down D Street. After turning onto Fifth, he glanced her way. She looked every bit as uncomfortable as she had when she climbed into the truck. Unfortunately, it was going to take a lot more than a four-block drive for her to let go of her uneasiness and relax with him.
As he turned into her driveway, his headlights swept across the front of the darkened house. A porch spanned its length, with a window on each side of the door, dressed with sheer curtains.
He tensed, all his senses on high alert. Did he just see movement inside?
Meagan reached for the door handle. “Thanks for—”
He held up a palm, eyes glued to the window. Beyond the curtains was a living room area. A wall at the back separated it from what was probably the kitchen. Had someone slipped behind that wall, startled by the truck’s headlights?
“What is it?” It was just three words, spoken in the softest whisper, but fear permeated each one.
Before he could answer, a crouched figure darted from behind the wall and disappeared out the back door. Judging from Meagan’s gasp, she saw it, too.
He turned off the engine, jumped out and pocketed the keys. “Stay here, and keep the truck locked.”
When he rounded the rear of the house, no one was there. He hesitated only a moment, eyes straining in the darkness. A fence bordered the back, the boundary of the yard behind Meagan’s. A hedge separated her property from the one next door. He charged off in that direction.
No one was in that yard, either. He sprinted along the hedge toward the street, then into a couple more yards. Finally, he admitted defeat and jogged back toward his truck. Another series of streaks lit up the sky, and thunder rumbled. But the storm seemed to be moving away. It might bypass them altogether.
As he approached his truck, apprehension shot through him. Meagan was gone. His gaze shot to the darkened house. If she had gone inside, she would have turned on the lights. Had the intruder circled around and forced her from the truck?
“Meagan?” No answer. He called her name again, louder and sharper.
Something moved in his peripheral vision, and he snapped his head around in time to see her rise inside the truck. He almost crumpled in relief. She had apparently been crouched on the floorboard, hiding.
He tapped on the window. She was in the seat now, eyes wide. Since she didn’t appear anywhere near ready to unlock the door, he used the key.
“I’m sorry. He got away.”
She nodded, but made no move to get out. Her green eyes were still wide, her face pasty in the shadows inside the truck. She looked so vulnerable, it kicked his protective instincts into overdrive.
“I’m going to call for help. Then we’ll go in together. Okay?”
She nodded again. She appeared stunned. Shell-shocked. She was hiding from someone. And terrified of being caught.
How long had it been? Just since coming to Cedar Key? Or had she lived other places, too, taking off whenever that someone got too close? Living like a nomad. Always looking over her shoulder. Never safe. Never at rest. He had to find a way to help her. But she would have to tell him what she was afraid of.
He made the call, then pocketed the phone. “The police are on the way. Let’s go inside. I’ll stay with you.” He would bring her bike in later.
He took her hand to help her from the truck. But even after she was on her feet, he didn’t release her. He led her toward the house, still keeping her hand in his. It just seemed the right thing to do.
When they had stepped onto the porch, she stopped and looked up at him. There was softness in her gaze, and it touched something deep inside him, something that had been dead for a long time.
He dropp
ed her hand and squashed whatever it was that had just passed between them.
Four years ago, his life had been perfect. He’d been living in Ocala, surrounded by family and friends and engaged to Denise, his childhood sweetheart. Three weeks before their wedding date, she’d been on her way to meet the wedding planner when a drunk driver had crossed the line. Her life was over in an instant.
That was when he’d packed up and made a fresh start on Cedar Key. Now, four years later, time had taken the edge off the pain. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was good. As long as he stayed busy.
Meagan attempted a shaky smile but didn’t quite succeed. “Thanks. I’m glad you were here.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” If she’d been alone, she likely would have walked in on the intruder.
After she unlocked the door, he followed her inside. She flipped a switch, and soft yellow light chased the shadows from the room. It was sparsely furnished. A wooden desk sat in one corner with a lamp on top. A couch occupied part of another wall, with a coffee table in front of it. Across the room was a small stand with an even smaller television perched on top.
Most striking, though, was the total lack of personal belongings. There were no pictures, no knickknacks, nothing to make the space distinctly hers. Like a motel room.
Or the residence of someone who needed to travel light.
When he stepped into the kitchen, it didn’t take long to figure out how the intruder had gained access. The French-style back door was open, the pane of glass next to the knob broken. A wrench lay on the stoop.
“Does that belong to you?” He angled his head that direction.
Her eyes widened. “No. Maybe he used it to break the window, then dropped it when he ran.”
The doorbell rang, and a second later the front door swung inward. Bobby, the officer on duty, stood there.
Hunter filled him in on everything that had happened. “We know how the intruder gained access, but we don’t know why.” He turned to Meagan. “Anything missing?”
She disappeared into her bedroom, then reappeared moments later. Apparently that room was as sparsely furnished as the living room. “Not that I can tell.”