by J. S. Marlo
Squinting his eyes, Avery searched the darkness for the lone figure he thought he’d glimpsed. Another white flash lit the night sky, briefly revealing a hunched individual walking across the lawn. Out of habit, he stored the description in his mind. Dark pants. Dark, long-sleeved sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over the person’s head—
“Come on.” He willed the thunderstorm to produce another electrical discharge so he could resume his observations.
The next lightning bolt showed the same individual bent in front of the gazebo.
“O’Reilly?” Only a fool would venture under a gazebo in the dark, and under those gorgeous red curls, she hadn’t struck him as being brainless.
The heavy rain they’d received in the last three days had prevented O’Reilly from crawling back under the gazebo, and he’d overheard the Ruperts complaining about the lack of effort to retrieve the stupid ring. If they’d bullied her into stepping outside tonight, he would have an unofficial chat of the unpleasant kind with them.
In the meantime, someone needed to instill some sense into O’Reilly’s head. Forsaking his cane, he hobbled down the stairs. The front door creaked. A wind gust chilled the staircase that Avery descended, and the vestibule lit up. From the last step, he peeked around the corner wall.
The intruder dropped the hood of his rain jacket and raked his fingers through his short blond hair.
“Winston?”
Hands in his pockets, Winston flinched. “Who’s there?”
Avery cleared the staircase and made his presence known. “Easy, son.” With droplets of water dripping from his brows, Winston looked like a guilty teenager caught stealing money from his mother’s purse. “What were you doing out in weather like this?”
“Mr. Stone?” Rocking back and forth on his heels, the young fellow unzipped his wet jacket. “I went for a smoke.”
In his career, Avery had interrogated juvenile delinquents who’d proved to be better liars. “In the rain? Near the gazebo?”
Winston’s wandering gaze settled on him. “What gazebo?”
Not interested in playing mind games in the wee hours of the morning, Avery crossed his arms over his bare chest and glared. “Listen, Wins—”
“Gentlemen?” Clad in yellow smiley face boxers and tank top, O’Reilly advanced toward them. “In case you’ve forgotten, children are asleep upstairs.” She coupled the harsh reminder with a stern expression.
“I’m sorry, Miss O’Reilly. Good night.” As Winston walked away, keys jiggled from the pocket of his charcoal gray jacket.
“I don’t trust him,” Avery murmured.
Shaking her head, she approached and looked him in the eyes. “Why? And what are you doing up?”
Unsettled by her close proximity, he distanced himself. “Midnight snack.”
To his annoyance, she tailed him into the kitchen and turned the light on. “What’s wrong with Winston going out? I don’t enforce a curfew.”
Nothing wrong, except for the fact the man had lied. “He stood in the rain.”
Luminous green eyes stared mischievously at him. “And?”
“There’s a storm raging outside.” Thunder struck nearby, shaking the house. “The guy had no business snooping around the gazebo.”
“Maybe he likes rain.” The smiley face on her tank top waltzed under her silent laughter.
“That’s not funny, O’Reilly.” No woman had the right to look so bloody sexy while defending a liar in the middle of the night. “Go back to bed.”
“I’m hungry.” An innocent smile played on her face. “What’s on the midnight menu?”
She reached for the refrigerator door at the same time he gripped the handle, inadvertently trapping her hand against the cold metal. Small tremors traveled up her arm, and at the feel of them, his breath caught in his throat. She tilted her head, and silky red tendrils brushed his chest, setting his nerves on fire. At any moment, he expected her to pull away. When she didn’t, he sought her gaze. The tip of her tongue sensuously moistened her parted lips. Against his better judgment, he twined his fingers with hers.
“Rowan.” Her name rolled on his tongue. Soft and inviting. “In the woods—”
A dark cloud shrouded the gleam in her eyes. “No need to explain. I understand.”
Perplexed, he cupped her chin with his free hand. “You do?”
“Yes.” A tinge of red flushed her cheeks, and heat seeped into his palm. “I read about you…about the shooting.”
The admission lifted an invisible weight from his shoulder. His past had caught up with him, and it hadn’t chased her off. “Then you know I’m in rehabilitation.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
With his thumb, he caressed her chin. Something had prompted her to dismiss their previous encounter, and he suspected her relationship with the annoying doctor to be the culprit. “I enjoyed our walk.”
Her eyes crinkled, and her mouth stretched into a dazzling smile. “Me too.”
Mesmerized, he slowly dipped his head. She’d cast a secret spell on him, and in her presence, he lost his ability to think clearly.
“Avery…” His name spoken softly died on her lips. Timidly, she responded to the gentle pressure of his mouth against hers.
Thunder struck, and an electric current charged the air. Tiny shocks coursed along his body as music filled the room. Christmas music.
Rowan recoiled from his touch. “What’s that noise?”
“Don’t you recognize ‘Jingle Bells?’” he teased, familiar with the melody, but baffled by its source.
An adorable pout turned her swollen lips upward. Above her head, on the refrigerator door, a red light blinked on a Christmas magnet in place of Rudolph’s nose. Having found the rowdy offender, he yanked the singing ornament from the door. “How do I turn it off?”
Brows raised, she stared at Santa’s favorite reindeer. “Beats me. I was certain the battery was dead.”
“Really?” Fascinated, he flipped the loud gadget between his fingers. “It’s possible the thunder bolt recharged the battery.”
“I don’t care.” She reached out for the magnet. “Just shoot it before my guests wake up and demand a refund.”
In the hallway, heavy steps announced someone’s arrival.
“Miss Rowan? Mr. S.?” Panting, the heavy woman held a hand to her chest. “What’s that racket?”
The lively Christmas tune ended when Rowan snapped one of Rudolph’s antlers.
“Holy peace,” Gail praised. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” Rowan retreated behind an inscrutable expression. “Good night, Mr. Stone.”
Her hasty disappearance left him to wonder if he’d dreamed the entire encounter.
Chapter Fifteen
Twice Avery had kissed her. Twice someone had interrupted. And the second time around, Mother Nature had deemed it necessary to highlight her lapse in judgment with bolts and thunder.
By morning, the loud and clear warning that she shouldn’t get involved with a man who’d just lost the woman he loved, a man who reminded her of Bjorn, sank in.
While rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Rowan listened for sounds. Rain thumped against the window glass. A dark cloud invaded her soul at the realization there wouldn’t be any planned or impromptu walk along the cliff or the stream in this weather. She’d lost Bjorn and now Avery.
“Spike up, girl, and stop dreaming.” It wasn’t like Avery had ever belonged to her. A short, romantic interlude didn’t count for anything. Besides, after her disastrous first date with Chris, Avery had cautioned her. Out of her league, he’d said in the kitchen. He might as well have added out of reach.
The phone rang. She pushed the sheet aside and grabbed the receiver sitting on the night table by her bed. Not in a mood to talk to anyone, she forced some cheerfulness into her voice. “Buccaneer’s Bed-and-Breakfast.”
“Hello, Rowan.”
“Chris?” The doctor didn’t knock her socks off, but if
she tried harder to like him, maybe she’d discover something endearing about him, and he could become the remedy to her heartache. “You’re early.”
“I’m on my way to the hospital. Did I wake you?”
“No.” She swung her legs off the bed and sat at the edge of the mattress. “Are we still on for tonight?”
“There’s been some scheduling changes, and I’m afraid my night off has been cancelled.”
“Oh…” It saddened her to realize the news didn’t chagrin her.
“I’m sorry too, but by the end of—” Somewhere in the background at the other end of the line, tires squealed, a car honked, and someone cursed.
The unsavory adjectives burned her ears. “Chris? Is that you?”
“An idiot missed the stop sign and cut me off. Anyway, I’ll know by the end of the day how my next few nights pan out. I’ll call you to reschedule.”
“Sure.” It wasn’t like her social calendar, or Buccaneer for that matter, sported the NO VACANCY sign. Except for Stone, she faced empty rooms all week.
Someone knocked on her bedroom door. “Miss Rowan?”
“I have to go, Chris. Talk to you later.” Not caring much if he called back or not, she hung up as Gail knocked a second time. “Come in.”
“Miss Rowan?” Gail’s head peeked inside the room. “A RCMP officer is here. He wants to talk to you.”
“Me?” But she hadn’t broken any rules, unless he was here to arrest her for financial incompetence. “I’ll be right there.”
After quickly donning a pair of shorts and a shirt, she rushed to the vestibule occupied by the officer in uniform.
A cap tucked underneath his left arm, he took a step forward. “Miss Rowan O’Reilly?”
The badge he presented combined with the solemn expression on his face didn’t bode well, and she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Is there a problem?”
“Do you own a red Honda hatchback, Alberta license plate ICE 9090?”
“Yes.” The car had been a gift from her pa when she returned from Iceland, and she needed to switch to a PEI license plate. Her gaze travelled to the side window by the door. “It’s in front of—” A gasp of surprise escaped her lips. The police cruiser was parked where her hatchback usually spent the night. “It’s gone. My new car is gone.”
With his right hand, the officer smoothed the edge of his cap. “Would you know a Mr. Winston Bowman?”
“He’s a guest.” After being up in the middle of the night, Winston was probably still sleeping. “Why? What does it have to do with my car?”
“I take it you didn’t lend your vehicle to Mr. Bowman?”
“Of course not.” Bemused, she stared at him for answers, real answers, not more questions. “What’s going on?”
The officer straightened his already rigid stance. “Early this morning, Mr. Bowman was found at the wheel of your car after it collided with a telephone post.”
“He stole my new car and wrapped it around a post? Do you have him in custody? I want to see him.” What she’d tell him she didn’t know, but it wouldn’t be pretty.
“I’m afraid he died at the scene.”
“He—oh…” At a loss for words, she closed her mouth. Winston had deserved to be punished but not to die.
Piercing hazel-brown eyes scrutinized her. “Miss O’Reilly, what can you tell me about Mr. Bowman?”
“He arrived on Tuesday. Didn’t have any reservations. He was planning on leaving today or tomorrow.” He left today all right. “He listed a post office box in Toronto as his address. Paid cash every day.” That should have raised a red flag. “Brand-new bills.”
“Do you still have the money?”
“Yes. It’s—” A brick sank to the bottom of her stomach. “You’re not going to tell me it’s counterfeit, are you?”
“I’m not making any claim, Miss O’Reilly.” His reluctance to answer spoke volumes. “I’d like to see the money and Mr. Bowman’s registration form if he filled one out.”
She sighed. “Sure.” This Saturday was getting worse by the minute, and she hadn’t even had breakfast yet.
***
When Bjorn entered the cottage, his grandmother was seated at the kitchen table in her flannel nightie, sipping a cup of tea. She greeted him with a smile, and he responded with a kiss on her cheek.
“You look great, Amma.” The doctor had released her on Thursday, and Bjorn was heartened by the tremendous progress she’d made in the last two days.
“I feel much better.” She looked like her old self again. “And I’d appreciate if you tell Agnetha she can go home. I want my house back.”
A chuckle he couldn’t resist enlivened the kitchen. After he’d brought her home, Bjorn had convinced Agnetha, Fridrika’s grandmother, to come and stay with his grandmother until she recovered. It appeared Agnetha had overextended her welcome.
“I’m leaving later this morning, Amma, and I’d feel much better if Agnetha stayed here a few more days.”
A deep frown creased her face, and for a moment he feared she might have another attack. “Where are you going?”
“New tourists. It was a last-minute booking.” The white lie served to shield, not to deceive his grandmother from his true booking, which he’d secured an hour ago. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. Few days. Maybe a week.”
The worries ebbed from her face, and she seemed to relax in her chair. “I suppose I can tolerate her until your return. Would you stay for breakfast? Agnetha is in the shower, but she should be out shortly.”
“Thanks, but I need to run.” After one last hug, he headed for the airport.
***
Talking on the phone with a stuffy insurance agent wasn’t how Rowan had envisioned spending Saturday morning. The police report wouldn’t be available until Monday or Tuesday, but at least a claim file had been opened, and she’d received permission to rent a car. Later on, she would call her pa and ask for his advice and help since the car was still registered in Alberta. In the meantime, she needed some fresh air.
The rain had stopped, and the sun peeked between the clouds, slowly drying the grass. Rowan circled the house. No trace of Bill or his truck. As she strolled among the garden, she caught sight of Avery, flashlight in hand, crouched beside the gazebo.
Curious to know what he found so interesting, she approached him. “The Ruperts are leaving this afternoon. You’re not looking for Molly’s ring, are you?” If Mrs. Rupert had enlisted his help, she would publicly scold the presumptuous woman.
“No.” His jaw hardened as he slowly pulled himself up. “I heard about Winston.”
Bad news travels fast. “Let me guess. Gail?”
“Very good.” Leaning on his cane, he openly studied her. “I made a few phone calls. He has a record, and he was on probation for counterfeit and car theft. If it makes you feel any better, you were not his first victim.”
“Can’t say it does.” And being his last victim wasn’t a consolation either. “Why the sudden interest in the gazebo?”
“From my window, I saw Winston snooping around here last night. He entered the house as I came down.”
That explained the nightly confrontation in the vestibule between the two men. “But the driveway is on the opposite side of the house. If he intended to steal my car, why did he hang around the gazebo in the rain?”
“To leave you a souvenir.” Avery pointed at the opening between the lattices with the flashlight. “Have a look, but don’t kneel down.”
Adopting the same position he’d sported, she flashed the light under the gazebo and gasped in horror.
Pieces of broken glass littered the ground.
***
As Bjorn came within view of Ro’s family ranch, a two-story log cabin with a forest-green aluminum roof built in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, the speech he’d rehearsed for the last hour flew out the open window of his rental car, replaced by the short letter he knew by heart.
His grandmother had begged him no
t to make a fool of himself by pursuing Rowan halfway across the world, but he didn’t care about his pride. Ro owed him the truth. They’d spent too many nights together for her to simply vanish from his future.
He parked near the garage, gathered his courage, and exited the car. The door of the stable opened and a tall figure emerged. The man Bjorn dreaded the most on this side of the ocean headed toward him.
“I thought I’d heard a vehicle.” Blythe Huxley, Ro’s second stepfather, removed his work gloves, tucked them into the loop of his leather belt, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Too bad I wasn’t wrong. What do you want?”
The cold reception didn’t bode well, though he should have anticipated that Ro’s stepfather would be at the ranch on a Saturday afternoon. “Good afternoon, Mr. Huxley. I’m here to see Rowan.”
“Why?”
Bjorn held the older man’s steely gaze, but Ro’s stepfather didn’t flinch. “I love her, and I want to know why she left me.”
“Two months later?” A brow arched over Huxley’s icy blue eye as he put one cowboy boot on the front bumper of the rental car. “You took your sweet time.”
Valid point and not in my favor. “I wanted to come earlier, but tourists were trapped, and a volcanic eruption closed the airport, then my grandmother got sick, and—” Frustrated by the amount of time that had elapsed, Bjorn slapped his hands down his sides.
“Don’t you have phones in Iceland?”
Too many times, he’d dialed her number at the ranch only to hang up before punching the last digit. “I couldn’t discuss the letter over the phone. I needed to see her in person.”
“What letter?”
Bjorn couldn’t decide whether Ro’s stepfather was feigning ignorance in order to hear his version, or if she’d omitted to mention the letter to her parents. The older man was a talented actor, and trying to read his mind was like searching for a shadow in the darkness of a cave.