“Yeah, there’s something to be said for that.” Adam found himself watching the cat with envy. Sometimes when Marcella Trowbridge, his physical therapist, whom he’d silently dubbed The Dominatrix, was pushing him to the limits of endurance, he wanted to ask her to stop and just massage his shoulder instead. Of course, Marcella wasn’t being paid to soothe him. Her job was to get him back to normal, or as close to normal as possible, in the shortest amount of time. And she did that by beating him up on a regular basis, until he wanted to beg for mercy. Each time their therapy session ended, he felt like a whipped dog. He was intelligent enough to know it was necessary, and that it was, indeed, getting the job done. Without the therapy, he’d never be allowed back to work. But he couldn’t help wishing for it to be over sooner rather than later.
To keep from thinking about what it would be like to be the one getting a back rub, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. The walls were hung with paintings of waterfowl. Some were sweet. Families of ducks or geese swimming in perfect formation, mother in front, young in the middle, the father taking up the rear, head lifted to guard against predators. Some were poignant, like the one of a pair of ducks anxiously guiding their lone baby into the water for a first swim.
He stepped closer, to keep his muddy boots on the small square of rug at the door. “Those are wonderful. Are you able to make a living with your art?”
Sidney nodded. “I consider myself lucky. Several galleries carry my work. And since my sister Courtney came back to Devil’s Cove and opened her shop, I haven’t been able to keep up with the demand.” She laughed. “My grandfather likes to say that Courtney could sell sand in the desert.”
“I know the kind. A real people person. But I’m betting she doesn’t have to twist any arms to sell this. You have an amazing talent.”
“Thank you.” She heard the wind pick up outside and glanced at the window where red-and-gold leaves tumbled in a wild dance. The air had grown considerably colder now that the sun had set. On impulse she said, “I’m thinking of making an omelette for dinner. Would you like to stay?”
He gave a quick shake of his head and drained his mug before setting it on the kitchen table. “Sorry. I’ve got to go. But you were right. The cider was great.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
That wasn’t all he liked. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he had just stumbled into some sort of enchanted cottage. And the red-haired woman with the soft green eyes was either a witch or a goddess.
He resolutely turned the knob and pulled open the door, absorbing a blast of chilly wind. “Good night.”
Sidney hurried across the room and stood in the doorway, the dog and cat at her feet. “Good night, Adam. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”
Not likely, he thought as he started toward the beacon of light in the distance. The last thing he needed was a female cluttering up his already messed-up life. Especially one that smelled of evergreen and had hair the color of autumn leaves, not to mention eyes all soft and deep and green. Eyes that a man could drown in.
He’d already made up his mind to carefully keep his distance from Sidney Brennan.
Chapter 2
Adam carefully looked around the grounds of the lighthouse for signs that anyone had been here while he’d been gone. Confident that nothing had been disturbed, he shoved open the door and set his camera on a nearby table. Since the explosion, and subsequent attempts on his life, extreme caution had become second nature to him.
Not that he’d ever been careless. His work had taken him to some of the most dangerous hot spots in the world. He’d covered wars, revolutions, uprisings and rebellions for WNN. Life in a war zone had taught him many things. Among them, to trust his instincts, to know not only where he was headed, but how to escape a trap. His associates used to boast that he had eyes in the back of his head. How ironic that it had been here at home, with his guard down, that he’d found himself in the greatest peril of his life.
He started toward the kitchen, thinking about the day he’d put in. He’d just spent hours on a trek through the woods, capturing the spirit northern Michigan in autumn. Though he’d seen deer before, it was different watching them in their natural habitat. They were careful animals, he’d noted. Heads lifted often to catch any strange scent. The buck standing guard while the herd feasted on the tender branches of low-hanging trees. Not so different from people, he realized. Always looking out for any danger that might threaten. By the time they’d finally caught his scent and melted into the forest, he’d used up an entire roll of film.
There had been humor in the forest, as well as beauty. A squirrel, busy storing acorns in the hollow of a giant oak, had been his first model. Then he’d come across a spider spinning a web, intricate as finest lace, damp with dew and glistening in the thin rays of sunlight that filtered through the branches of towering evergreens. Next he’d spotted a flock of geese honking as they flew overhead in perfect formation on the first leg of their southward journey. No sooner had they passed than he’d come upon two chipmunks that performed a comedy routine by leaping into a mound of red-and-gold leaves, then leaping out again with their precious store of nuts puffing out their tiny faces. They’d managed to entertain him for an hour or more.
Odd, he thought, how much vibrant life he’d discovered in these woods. He’d come here expecting to be bored. After a lifetime spent covering wars and terrorist uprisings, recording the range of human emotion from despair to euphoria, from depravity to heroism, he wouldn’t have believed he could be amused, entertained and thrilled, all in a matter of hours merely by tramping through a Michigan forest. What’s more, he was learning to look at life on a smaller scale rather than the large canvas he’d been using for most of his adult life. When he took the time to look, really look, he’d managed to find beauty, humor and even drama alive and well in the seclusion of the forest.
Idly rubbing his shoulder he heated up the last of the morning’s coffee. After two sips he nearly gagged before tossing the rest down the drain and turning away. He promised to treat himself to a fresh cup in town after another therapy session with The Dominatrix.
If he was making any improvement, he couldn’t see or feel it. The pain never left him, and the range of movement seemed unchanged since he’d first begun therapy. If it wasn’t for the fact that he needed this therapist’s signature, as well as his surgeon’s, on a set of discharge documents required by WNN, he would simply forego any future torture. Still, Marcella The Dominatrix insisted he was showing definite improvement. And this was, he knew, more than just a chance to heal. It had been singled out as the perfect refuge from an assassin bent on eliminating any witnesses to his crime. The authorities were convinced that no one could penetrate their secrecy and locate their witness in this wilderness.
Adam was hoping they were right. But he wasn’t about to let down his guard.
He walked outside, climbed into his Jeep and headed for town.
The afternoon was bathed in sunlight and warm enough to be sultry, but he wasn’t fooled. The nights had become increasingly cooler, with a hint of frost. And though the waters of Lake Michigan were placid enough today, he’d seen angry whitecaps whipping the waters into foam that sent a spray hundreds of feet into the air as the surge of water thrashed against the base of the lighthouse.
He followed the narrow trail that led to the highway, until he caught sight of a figure hauling a wagon and moving away from the water’s edge, trailed by a dog and cat. Just seeing Sidney had him frowning. He’d worked very hard these last couple of days to avoid going near the area where he’d first seen her sitting at her easel.
The authorities might believe he was safely hidden away here, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He had no right to involve an innocent bystander in the danger and chaos that had become his life.
At some other time, in some other place, it would have been an interesting challenge to get to know the sweet, pretty artist. As usual, the timing was all w
rong.
He could certainly keep his distance for six months. After all, he’d managed to keep any serious commitments at bay for years now while he pursued this career that was as demanding as any mistress.
Sidney glanced at the lighthouse towering above the line of trees, before reluctantly heading toward her cabin. She found herself wondering, as she had all week, about the man who was now living there.
His brief visit had been an unexpected treat. Though she enjoyed her solitude and never tired of her own company, there was no denying that she’d been curious about Adam Morgan ever since their meeting.
It had been too long since she’d allowed anyone other than family to invade her privacy. Adam’s brief presence hadn’t felt like an invasion. He’d been oddly distant, but also quiet and respectful of her work. Being an artist himself, he understood her need for solitude and seemed to share her work ethic. That appealed to her on so many levels. She missed having someone to talk to about her work. Not the technique, which she’d mastered at a very young age, but the passionate love of the work itself. There were times, when a painting was finished, that it felt like pure magic. As though someone else had taken over her body and mind and soul, and had created something out of nothing. She had never been able to explain the feeling of transforming a blank canvas into color and form and the living, breathing creatures looking out at her from her paintings.
With Adam, she hadn’t needed to explain. She’d sensed that he knew exactly what it was she did and how she did it. What’s more, he shared that artist’s eye for the interesting and intriguing.
She shoved a tangle of hair from her eyes and paused to study the day’s work. She’d captured a pair of old-squaws that had flown into the shallows several days ago. There was no telling how long they would stay before continuing their southward migration. Their color wasn’t spectacular. Both male and female were dull brown and white. But the male’s bill was tinged with bright orange, and his tail a long wisp that fluttered like a ship’s sail in the breeze. They’d been delightful subjects for her canvas.
When Picasso had decided to cool off in the shallows, the pair of ducks, angry at this intrusion, took refuge on shore, giving Sidney a chance to see their feathers at closer range. Working quickly she’d added depth and texture to the painting. By the time the dog had returned to lie at her feet, and the ducks were safely back in the water, she’d been lost in her work, and had remained so for hours.
Now it was time to head home. She’d promised her grandparents a visit, and she would use the visit to town to stock up on some supplies, as well. As she followed the familiar trail,struck by the beauty of the day. Sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, casting the ground in light and shadow. The air was so mild she’d been forced to remove her sweater and roll the sleeves of her shirt.
At the cabin she stowed her canvas and equipment, leaving the wagon just outside the door. Then she took the time to feed Picasso and Toulouse. That done, she tucked her shopping list in her backpack, tied the sleeves of her sweater around her waist and headed for the log building out back that served as both storage shed and garage. Because the day was so lovely, she decided to forego the Land Rover in favor of her bike.
As she climbed aboard and began peddling past the cabin, she found herself laughing at the forlorn sight of her dog and cat watching from the window.
“Sorry, babies. Maybe next time.”
The dog set up a loud yapping, while the cat turned his back on her, as though giving her the cold shoulder.
That only had her laughing harder. The poor little things had no idea why they were being excluded from this latest adventure. All they knew was that they were being left behind, and were doing their best to let her know how bitterly disappointed they were.
“I’ll see you Tuesday. One o’clock all right for you?” Marcella Trowbridge waited, pen poised over her appointment book, while Adam buttoned his shirt.
“That’s fine.”
“Good.” She filled in the time, added it to an appointment card and handed it to him before snapping the book shut.
He tucked his shirt into his jeans and studied the woman who, though no more than five-and-a-half feet tall, had hands strong enough to make him want to whimper in pain every time she touched him. “Seems like everyone in this clinic is a native of Devil’s Cove. Are you one of them?”
She shook her head, sending frizzy blond corkscrew curls dancing around a chubby face that was always wreathed in smiles. “I’ve only been here a couple of months.”
“What brought you here?” He probed his shoulder, feeling as if he’d just come through a war.
“Funny story. I had no idea of leaving the big city. But a friend of mine from University Hospital opened her new clinic and I drove up for the open house, without realizing that she had space to lease. I took one look at this quaint little place and decided I had to give small-town living a try. Within two months I’d given up my apartment in Lansing, found a place to live just a block away from here, overlooking the water and signed a lease on this suite.”
“Can you make a living here?”
She laughed. “I’ll say. Not only does my friend give me plenty of referrals, but my old friends at University Hospital keep sending me more than I can handle.” Marcella shook her head. “Strange how these things happen. I’m working more hours than ever, and yet I’m letting go of all the stress I once had working in a big city. I recently went through a painful divorce, vowed I’d never put myself through the marriage game again, and now I’m engaged to the pharmacist who works in suite Twelve-A. Go figure. And all because of my friendship with Dr. Emily Brennan-Cooper.”
Adam’s hand paused in the act of turning the door handle. “Brennan-Cooper? Does she have a sister named Sidney?”
“Yeah. The artist. You know her?”
“We met. She mentioned a sister who owned a gift shop. I didn’t realize there were more.”
“I can see that you’re not spending enough time in town. Everywhere you turn, you’ll find a Brennan. Let’s see.” She thought a minute. “Far as I know, she has a mother, three sisters, prominent grandparents. Her grandmother was a teacher here for thirty or forty years. Her grandfather is retired Judge Frank Brennan. Her father was the town doctor before he died, and now my pal Emily has stepped in and taken over his practice. Besides which, the pretty doc is married to Jason Cooper.”
“The bestselling author?”
“Yep.” Marcella’s smile grew. “Her mother owns her own real-estate firm and handles most of the mansions over on Historic Scenic Drive. Her sister Hannah owns Hannah’s Garden and Landscape, and her sister Courtney is the one who owns Treasures, a fancy gift shop in town.” She paused a beat, as though considering how to ask a delicate question, before deciding to simply plow ahead. “How did you happen to settle on Devil’s Cove?”
He merely shrugged. “One place is as good as another when it’s just a temporary port, Marcella. Thanks.” He winced as he touched his shoulder. “I think.”
She was staring after him with a puzzled grin as he pulled the door shut. He was certainly living up to his reputation as the town’s new mystery man. Though he’d managed to find out all about her within a minute or so, she knew no more about him now than when he’d arrived for his first session.
She gave a toss of her curls. “Sooner or later I’ll find out about you, Adam Morgan.”
She loved a good mystery.
Adam handed his prescription refill to the girl behind the counter. He was mulling over the shelves of pain relievers, wondering if he needed something for sleep, when he caught the sudden flash of red hair peddling past his line of vision.
Curious, he moved to the window of the drugstore and watched as Sidney propped her bicycle against the wall of the building across the street and walked inside.
He couldn’t help admiring the view of her backside in slim, snug denims before she disappeared through the doorway.
A short time later, n
oting which way Sidney was going, he tucked his prescription into his pocket and headed in the opposite direction, toward The Pier, which had come highly recommended.
If he felt a twinge of guilt at his deliberate attempt to ignore her, he pushed it aside. After all, it was for her own good.
“Sidney.” Her grandmother stood framed in the doorway as Sidney lowered the kickstand of her bike and raced up the front steps of the Willows.
“Hi, Bert.” Sidney gave her grandmother a warmug before stepping past her. “Mmm. Something smells wonderful.”
“Trudy is baking pies.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“No special reason. She just said she always feels like baking pies in the fall.”
“I’m sure Poppie will be happy to eat them.”
The older woman winced. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Which is why you’ll have to take a few home with you.”
“I’ll take one. That’s all the room I can manage with my bike’s basket.”
“If I had my way you’d take all of them.”
They walked arm in arm along the cool tiled hallway. When they stepped into the cozy, sun-drenched kitchen, Sidney was surprised to see her sisters Hannah and Emily at the table, enjoying slices of freshly baked pie and steaming cups of tea.
“I didn’t know you’d be here.” With a laugh Sidney danced across the floor to hug each of her sisters. “Where’s Courtney?”
“At her shop. She said she’d be by later to enjoy some of Trudy’s pie.”
The housekeeper looked up from the stove. Her white hair, damp from the heat of the oven, was curled like cotton balls around a face that crinkled into a smile at the sight of another of her girls. “Don’t you look fresh.” She gave Sidney an approving glance before accepting a kiss on the cheek. “Living out in the wilderness seems to agree with you.”
“It’s not exactly the wilderness, Trudy.” Sidney accepted a slice of pie on a crystal plate and settled herself at the table beside her grandmother. “I’ve got electricity, heat, light and even the Internet. What more could a girl ask?”
Retribution Page 3