The Second Time

by Janet Dailey

  JANET DAILEY CAPTURES THE

  HEART OF AMERICA!

  LOOK FOR:

  The Four Volume Calder Saga:

  This Calder Range

  Stands a Calder Man

  This Calder Sky

  Calder Born, Calder Bred

  The Best Way to Lose

  For the Love of God

  Foxfire Light

  The Glory Game

  The Great Alone

  The Hostage Bride

  The Lancaster Men

  Leftover Love

  Mistletoe and Holly

  Night Way

  The Pride of Hannah Wade Ride the Thunder

  The Rogue

  The Second Time

  Separate Cabins

  Silver Wings, Santiago Blue

  Terms of Surrender

  Touch the Wind

  Western Man

  PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS

  Slowly Dawn Raised Her Lashes To Look at Him.

  Mixed in with the bitter pain, she could see the want that was darkening Slater’s gray eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. “I was such a fool, Slater.”

  Eleven years of hunger were unleashed when his mouth moved onto her lips. Her fingers curled into the virile thickness of his hair. His hands were caressing, roaming at will over her back and shoulders and stirring up passions that had lain dormant for so long.

  Abruptly, almost violently, Slater was pulling her arms from around his neck and pushing her from him. There was a rigid movement of his head, a negative shake that was heavy with disdain.

  “You destroyed any future for us eleven years ago,” he stated flatly, and started for the door…

  Books by Janet Daily

  Calder Born, Calder Bred

  Stands a Calder Man

  This Calder Range

  This Calder Sky

  The Best Way to Lose

  Touch The Wind

  The Glory Game

  The Pride of Hannah Wade

  Silver Wings, Santiago Blue

  For the Love of God

  Foxfire Light

  The Hostage Bride

  The Lancaster Men

  Leftover Love

  Mistletoe & Holly

  The Second Time

  Separate Cabins

  Terms of Surrender

  Western Man

  Nightway

  Ride the Thunder

  The Rogue

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1982 by Janet Dailey

  Cover art copyright © 1986 Bob Maguire

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Simon & Schuster Inc.,

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Originally published by Silhouette Books.

  ISBN: 0-671-87513-2

  ISBN-13: 978-0-6718-7513-8

  First Pocket Books printing February 1986

  10 9 8 7

  Map by Tony Ferrara

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  THE

  SECOND

  TIME

  Chapter One

  In the yellowing light of a May morning, it was already hot and the temperature would climb toward the hundred mark in the Florida Keys before the day was over, led by the rising sun. The quiet was broken by the droning whine of a boat’s engine as it skimmed over the calm waters. The noise disturbed a pelican from its roost in the mangroves. Its lumbering bulk took wing as the skiff and its two occupants came into view.

  There wasn’t any breeze, but the speeding craft whipped up a wind that tore the smoke from the cigarette protectively cupped in Slater Mac-Bride’s hand almost before he could taste it. Dark sunglasses were curved to his face to reduce the long glare of the angling sunlight reflecting off the water. They concealed his gray eyes, the dark color of gun metal that sometimes silvered with humor, and sometimes smoked with anger. Now they were sweeping the narrow, ever-shifting channels of the Keys’ back country with calm but lively interest.

  Facing into the wind, his profile was delineated by bold, sure strokes from the slant of his forehead to the straight bridge of his nose and the slight jut of his chin. A lifetime spent under a subtropical sun had tanned his skin the shade of polished teakwood and etched creases at the corners of his eyes. In contrast, the sun had lightened his brown hair, streaking its darkness with paler strands, and giving it the light and dark, woodgrained look. The wind’s tearing fingers had raked the hair away from his forehead and aggravated the small cowlick in the front that always gave an unruly touch to the shaggy thickness of his hair, yet not unattractively so.

  The skiff sped past another island, one of the maze of coral and oolite formed islands that comprised the Florida Keys. Its shoreline was a tangle of mangrove roots, as if the trees themselves were stretching on tiptoes to avoid the sea water. At this speed, there was only a glimpse of the island and it was gone.

  Ahead, Slater MacBride saw a trio of stately white herons wading along a shallow flat. Natives of these waters knew that where there were herons, it was too shallow for a boat. The weathered and decaying hull of a fishing boat that had run aground on the flat protruded from the water, telling a sad tale of someone who hadn’t heeded the warning of the herons’ presence.

  Slater was aware of the meaning of the birds, but he didn’t point them out to the man at the controls of the skiff. Jeeter Jones was an experienced guide, and an old family friend. He had made his living for nearly thirty years taking people sportfishing in these waters. Besides, any conversation was nearly impossible with the loud whine of the engine roaring in their ears.

  Seconds later, the skiff veered slightly to the right and was aimed toward some unseen channel Jeeter Jones knew was there. The water was crystal clear, the ocean bottom plainly visible a few feet below and the depth lessening. The skiff’s engine was pushed to full throttle, planing the boat to skim over the surface. Slater sat back enjoying the fast ride and the tangy sea spray on his face.

  For over a hundred years, there had been a MacBride living in the Keys and working in various reputable and disreputable occupations. There had been salvage captains, not above encouraging a wreck or two, fishermen, and rum-runners, and even a relative in the cigar-making industry when it was a flourishing concern in the islands. Adaptability was almost an inbred trait. Locals said a MacBride could turn his hand and make a living at whatever enterprise was the most prosperous at the time—pity, he couldn’t save any of it.

  Once it had been said about Slater MacBride, too. But ten years ago, all that had changed. Now he was something of a local tycoon, owning prime business property in Key West, a couple of tourist resorts, and a small fleet of shrimp boats. A few of them knew about the girl he’d loved and lost when she chose a wealthy Texas millionaire over him. The scars and bitterness were on the inside; the hurt had gone too deep to ever be truly erased.

  As the skiff neared the basin, the engine was throttled back to almost idling speed. The air stopped its rush and became still, like the flat, slick surface of the water glistening in the sun
and blending into the blue sky.

  “This here’s the place.” Jeeter Jones cut the engine and picked up the fiberglass push pole to quietly enter the basin. Late May was the season when the tarpon were abundant and moving. It was the lure of this game fish that had drawn Slater away from his varied business interests, a rare break for him nowadays. “Think you still know how to catch one?” Tufts of graying hair poked out from beneath his sun-and-sea-softened captain’s hat. Its texture was wiry as if permanently stiffened by years of salty air.

  “You find me one and put me in casting distance, and we’ll find out,” Slater replied dryly to the challenge to his infrequently used skill.

  “Old Pop Canady was down at the marina yesterday afternoon. Did I tell you?” Jeeter expertly poled the skiff into the basin, barely making any noise at all.

  “No.” Slater no longer stiffened at the mention of the name Canady, but there was an inner resistance, a tightening of nerves.

  The guide sent a brief, skimming look at the thirty-five-year-old man he’d known since boyhood, so he was more aware than most of the startling contrast from the devil-may-care young man to the successful entrepreneur sitting in his boat. Most people thought Slater had gotten over what had happened eleven years ago, but Jeeter wasn’t so sure. He’d played poker with the man too many times to believe his hard, smooth features weren’t hiding something.

  If he was right, then Slater deserved to be told the news so he could be prepared for it. And if he was wrong, it would be like water rolling off a duck’s back. It wouldn’t matter.

  “Yeah, Pop was all puffed up and bragging. It seems Dawn is coming home, so he’ll be bringing his grandson around to show him to all his friends.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jeeter caught the sharp glance Slater threw him, although nothing flickered on his deadpan expression.

  “I imagine Pop would be happy about that.” Slater managed a noncommittal response and contained any reaction to the disruptive announcement.

  Inwardly he was damning the cruelty of his mind that wouldn’t let him bury the past. If he closed his eyes, he knew he’d recall the sweet scent of gardenias, waxen white against flaming copper hair. Bitterness choked his throat. Dawn had loved him, but she had married money. At the time he’d had no future, and no prospect of any, and she had wanted more than love. He didn’t blame her as much as he used to, but that didn’t ease the bitterness her decision had created.

  “You knew her husband died a month ago, didn’t you?” Jeeter inquired in a casual voice.

  “I heard.” His gaze remained on the water as if waiting for the first glimpse of a tarpon’s wide oily back rolling out of the water, but he was seeing nothing. “She’s coming back a very wealthy widow. Will she be arriving by yacht or a private jet?” A bitter sarcasm was threaded through his taut voice despite his attempt to keep it in check.

  “Pop never said,” Jeeter admitted, referring to Dawn’s father. “I always got the feeling her husband didn’t want her having anything to do with her parents, like they wasn’t good enough for the likes of him, even if he did marry their daughter. He never did bring her back to visit after they got married.”

  For his sake, Slater had been glad Dawn had left and not come back. There was a time when he had been driven wild by jealousy at the thought of her lying in Simpson Lord’s arms after she’d been in his. It still pained him to remember that last night together when they had made love till morning. He had been so certain that she couldn’t love him and leave him after that.

  Yet she had dressed and calmly slipped that huge diamond sparkler on her ring finger, reaffirming her intention to marry the wealthy Texan, even though she didn’t love him. Until that moment, he had been prepared to believe that her young, eighteen-year-old head had been briefly turned by the gifts and attention Simpson Lord had lavished upon her. He had been angry and incredulous when he realized she intended to go through with the farcical marriage.

  Her brash statement that morning continued to haunt him. “I made up my mind a long time ago that I was going to marry a rich man,” Dawn had said. “The second time, I’ll marry for love.”

  No matter how many times he told himself after that, that he was well rid of her, it never stopped him from loving her and wanting her. Dawn—with the red-gold blaze of the sun in her hair and the turquoise blue of the sea in her eyes. She was the sun and the sea to him—the heights and the depths.

  Now she was coming back—a rich widow. He clamped his jaws together, wondering if she was coming back to claim the love she had discarded. At that moment, he hated her viciously. Did she think he’d still want her after all this time? Did she think she could stir up old fires and make them flame hot again? A rage seethed through him.

  “How long is she staying?” Slater put his terse question to the aging guide.

  “Pop never indicated that, but I got the impression he didn’t expect her to come for very long—a few days maybe,” he said with a vague shrug. “Course, with her money, I expect there’s more exciting places to go than Key West in the summer.”

  “Yeah,” Slater muttered a disgruntled agreement and wondered why he didn’t feel more relieved.

  “Look!” The urgent command from Jeeter was accompanied by a pointing finger, indicating a ten o’clock angle from the bow. “See him?”

  Slater had been looking, but not seeing. “No.” Then straight ahead, his eye caught the swirl of water as the wide back of a tarpon broke the surface and rolled out of sight. “There’s another.”

  “Looks like a whole school.” Jeeter leaned on the push pole to ease the skiff toward the large rolling fish. “I told you this was the place.”

  “You did.”

  With his quarry in sight, Slater made another check of his equipment to make certain the leader was knotted tightly and the line was coiled neatly where it wouldn’t tangle with his feet. He waited while Jeeter poled closer, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. The fly rod was in his hand, but the excitement of pitting his skill against such a large fish with such light equipment was gone. His pleasure in the morning had faded when the conversation had turned to Dawn.

  When the skiff was near enough to make a cast, Slater went through all the right motions. The colored streamer settled onto the calm surface a few inches in front of the tarpon. When the big fish struck, Slater responded automatically, pulling back three quick times to set the hook.

  There was a whine of line spinning out of the reel as the tarpon took off. Leaping and twisting out of the water, it shimmered silver against the blue sky. The huge fish was easily trophy size, but there was no sense of elation in Slater. Suddenly, the line went slack, the hook thrown.

  “Lost him,” Jeeter announced flatly.

  “It’s always the big ones that get away,” Slater murmured with a degree of bitter irony in his voice.

  He was unwillingly made aware of the comparison between the lost tarpon and Dawn. In both instances, they had appeared to be well and truly caught only to spit out the hook before he could reel them in. And he was the one left with a bad taste in his mouth.

  Her designer blue jeans rode easily on her hips, the denim material softened and faded from many wearings. The hint of looseness about their fit suggested a weight loss that her already slim figure didn’t need. Her tan boots were custom-made from hand tooled leather and the topaz blouse she wore was made from imported silk.

  Devoid of any jewelry, Dawn Lord nee Canady stood at the back screen door and stared through the wire mesh at her father so earnestly engaged in a conversation with her son—his grandson—on the rear stoop. He was trying so hard to make up for lost time—for the years when Randy had been growing up without the benefit of a grandfather’s company. She felt a twinge of pain—for the guilt that wouldn’t let her return to the Keys, and for the pride that had kept her parents from accepting money from her to pay their way to Texas.

  As her gaze lingered on Randy, there was a troubled light in the deep blue of her eyes. At ten years
old, Randy was tall for his age—tall with unruly dark hair that never would behave, and gray-blue eyes that were more often confused and uncertain than happy. At the moment, they were sparkling with eagerness as Randy finally prodded her father into action.

  “Mom!” He glanced toward the screen door and saw her silhouette darkening the mesh. “Gramps and I are going for a walk.”

  “Okay.” She acknowledged the information while her thumbs remained hooked in the belt loops of her jeans, not bothering to wave a farewell as grandfather and grandson wandered out of her view.

  “Gramps.” Her mother’s voice came from behind her, repeating the term as if the sound of it gave her pleasure. “Your father will be busting his buttons if Randy calls him that in front of his friends. He’s been showing them pictures of that boy since the day Randy was born. Now, he’s finally got the real thing.”

  “Yes,” Dawn murmured, swiveling slightly to glance at her mother when she came to the screen door to stand next to her.

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know which of them was more anxious to go for that walk,” her mother declared with a silent laugh.

  “I know what you mean.” Dawn turned away from the door, but she thought she knew who would have won that contest, because she knew why Randy was so eager to explore the town. It worried her.

  “There’s one slice of Key lime pie left. Are you sure you don’t want it?” Her mother offered for the second time. “Your father and Randy will just fight over it when they come back.”

  “No, honestly I don’t have room for another thing,” she insisted, pressing a hand against a stomach that was already filled with her mother’s home-cooking. “Besides, it’s fattening.”

  Reeta Canady skimmed her with an assessing look. “It seems to me you could stand to gain some weight.”

  Dawn didn’t respond to that. “I’ll have a cup of coffee though, if there’s any left,” she said instead.

  “You sit at the table and I’ll bring it.”

  A protest formed, but Dawn sensed her mother welcomed an excuse to wait on her, wanting to spoil her as she always had. Dawn didn’t want to take that little pleasure from her mother. She had gone to so much trouble to fix a special lunch to welcome her home, but she still felt Dawn was accustomed to better. Better by whose standards?