Unlocking the silver vehicle, he slid inside and eased out of the parking stall.
16
Riley turned off the Jeep’s engine and slung her backpack over her shoulder. Any other day, she would’ve jumped into the utility-terrain vehicle that Britt kept parked in the wildlife center’s storage shed around back.
But she had no wish to have her ears assaulted by the roar of the UTV’s engine. Setting off down the gravel service drive, she bit into the pear she’d liberated from the fruit basket at her parents’ house. A stream of sweet liquid drenched her tongue and dribbled down her chin. She swiped it away with the back of her hand, savoring the contrast between the velvety smooth juice and the gritty coolness of the pulp.
Phoebe. Phoebe. Phoebe.
She paused to locate the plump, white belly of the eastern phoebe. She spotted the songbird on a bare branch overhanging the drive, her narrow tail wagging down and up, as if to say good morning.
Did Coen stop to enjoy a beautiful butterfly or interesting beetle or flowering plant? Or did he stomp through nature like so many others?
What was he doing now? Washing his clothes in the stream? Still brooding about her plunge into the pit?
After he’d helped her save the kit, he’d lectured her about how long it had taken her to secure the animal. He seemed unable—or unwilling—to understand the complexity of grabbing a frightened, trapped animal in a manner that ensured she would emerge with all her digits and flesh.
Despite his bluster, she’d thanked him and asked if he knew the way back to his camp. He’d given her a disgusted look and stormed off. In the right direction. She’d considered trailing after him for her peace of mind but forced herself to stay, to look away, to pray for his safe return.
He was a big boy. Had likely traversed far worse than the mountains of North Carolina without her assistance.
Ahead, sunlight glinted through the trees like hundreds of sparklers peeking between the leaves. The sight never failed to bring a smile to her face and a giddyup to her step.
As if on cue, she increased her pace until she stood on the small concrete stepping-stone leading into the most amazing greenhouse in Haywood County.
Twenty feet wide and forty feet long, the building’s massive interior was split down the center by a wide aisle. On each side, eight rows of rectangular, multishelved metal tables held native plants in various stages of propagation.
At the end of the aisle, a small section had been carved out for an office, housing a metal desk and chair, a two-drawer filing cabinet, and her mama’s old patterned couch.
Several workbenches lined the exterior walls, each complete with all the implements needed for potting and repotting. Above the tables, giant ferns overflowed their hanging baskets, swaying in a gentle breeze produced by a trio of large fans marching down the spine of the ceiling.
The mid-July air was heavy with moisture. But it couldn’t out-humidity the interior of a glass structure full of plants. Well, it could, but not today. She stripped off her long-sleeved shirt, revealing a pale yellow short-sleeved top.
Long ago, she’d learned about layers. Layers of clothing couldn’t save a person from every misery awaiting them in nature, but they certainly evened out the odds.
From her backpack purse, she withdrew her laptop and stack of mail and set them on the desk. While she waited for the computer to grind to life, she dug into a side pocket of her pack for the Cutie she’d stashed there earlier.
In between peeling back strips of orange rind, she began the arduous process of sorting through her inbox, a task she hated more than liver and onions.
“Damn solicitations.”
Delete. Delete. Delete…
She continued obliterating the little buggers until she got down to a handful of legitimate messages. Britt asking for her monthly report, her mom gushing about her current culinary disaster, er, masterpiece, and… She swallowed hard, fighting against the sudden cramping in her throat.
Her professor-mentor, Dr. Genosee, asking about the progress of her dissertation.
Three-quarters finished.
She sat back, staring at the screen with burning eyes, the sweet fruit in her mouth turning to dust on her tongue. How could she finish it? Hathaway aborted her research project.
Rubbing her chest, she stretched forward until her index finger hovered over the keyboard. She let it fall.
Delete.
Sick of her computer, she pushed it away and reached for her phone and found three text messages. One from her college roommate wanting to get together for drinks, another from her former assistant asking her to call ASAP, and the other from her mom, reminding her about their upcoming family dinner.
She tossed her phone onto the table. Not feeling sociable all day, she’d come to the greenhouse to get away from people, both in person and electronically. She just didn’t want to be what others wanted her to be today. Today she would be Riley in all her non-glory.
Why she’d even opened her email or text messages, she didn’t know. Habit probably. A long time ago, she’d learned she had to get rid of the admin stuff first before she could concentrate on the technical, scientific side of her job.
The stack of snail mail she’d picked up from her parents’ house stared at her. And stared.
At the bottom of the stack, a large manila envelope looked as though it had traveled every back alley and dusty country road, bumping and falling its way from one post office to the next. Dirt and ink smudges decorated the surface, and a triangular gouge obliterated part of her zip code. Underneath, someone from the postal service had filled in the mystery numbers.
Uneven rows of foreign stamps marched along the upper right-hand corner, and a familiar, shaky hand had scrawled out her address. Her heart squeezed tight as a wave of longing washed over her. The handwriting, the stamps—the package could’ve come from only one place.
“Costa Rica.”
Camilla. It had to be.
The young woman’s penmanship hadn’t improved since Riley had left that beautiful country. She shook her head. Had Camilla stopped practicing? During the time Riley had worked with her, she’d been so eager, so earnest, so determined.
Her fingers slid over the address again as if she could divine the scribe’s secrets over the tight, bold slant of the letters. No, it hadn’t been lack of practice that made Camilla’s words difficult to read. At least not entirely.
She’d been in a hurry. But why?
A paralyzing sense of joy and dread consumed her. She’d spent three years of her life in that beautiful, environmentally diverse country. Two years learning the people’s use of their local plants and one year convincing the people and government to allow her to do a deeper study on a few particular plants and to get funding for the project.
Because she didn’t have a PhD, every step of the way was a struggle except for the funding. The Hathaway Foundation had heard about her discovery through her professor-mentor, Dr. Genosee, and had committed to funding the rest of the study without a single meeting with her.
In some ways, she’d never been happier than she was in Costa Rica. A starry-eyed, save-the-world scientist plopped down in a country the size of a shoebox but with the biodiversity of a thousand countries.
However, the beauty and freedom and excitement had been overshadowed by failure and humiliation and despair.
She set the package aside, unable to face a reminder of the place she’d burned so many brain cells to forget.
Grabbing a nearby garden hose, she turned on the water and made a systematic circuit around the greenhouse.
The northern border of the Steele Conservation Area, rich with plant diversity, used to be owned by Randi Shepherd’s family. The Shepherds never farmed or timbered the land, leaving it pristine and unchanged for decades.
But the rest of the plant communities in the conservation area—at least the half she’d surveyed—could benefit from a helping hand. When Jonah overheard her and Britt discussing their pla
ns to contract with a local grower, her billionaire cousin had presented her with a set of plans for a greenhouse.
She’d squealed—actually squealed—before launching herself into his arms.
Had Jonah understood what a private greenhouse would mean to a botanist? Or had he thought only of making his family—even extended family—happy?
Knowing Jonah, she suspected he’d considered both, but the latter had held more weight with the kindhearted billionaire of the Steele clan.
The manila envelope drew her attention. It was so thick. Too large for a catch-up note or status report. Not that Camilla had any reason to send either of those to her anymore. When Riley had left Costa Rica, she’d severed all ties with Endurance, including the people.
However, before she left Costa Rica, she’d extracted a promise from Dr. Young, the lead scientist for the lab, to keep Camilla on payroll until they finished tearing down their makeshift lab. She’d hoped the two- to three-week extension had bought Camilla enough time to find another job.
A flare of guilt burned her chest. Caught up in her own emotional turmoil, she hadn’t checked in with Camilla since arriving home. What a horrible way to treat someone who’d been such an invaluable member of her team. She’d taught Riley the local language and customs and helped her win over the trust of the village elders and healer. What would have taken most ethnobotanists five years to accomplish, Riley had done it in two.
She forced her attention back to her watering duties.
For someone so young, Camilla’d had an uncanny ability to anticipate Riley’s needs—well before Riley knew she needed anything. When she had left Central America, she’d had no inkling of where the rocky road ahead of her would lead.
Then Britt had swooped in and offered her a much-needed job, and now she had this glorious greenhouse to manage. A task too big for one person to juggle.
Would Camilla come here to work, to live? The girl had confessed to having no family and few friends. Would she travel to a strange, foreign land to toil in a stuffy glass building?
What would it take to bring a Costa Rican worker to North Carolina?
Next time she saw her sister Maggie, she’d broach the question. Maggie knew everything, and if she didn’t, she’d know whom to ask.
Riley found herself standing before the envelope, the hose forgotten at her feet.
She tested the weight of the envelope in her hand. Heavy.
Unable to deny herself any longer, she hooked a thumb beneath the envelope’s flap and ripped it open. A musty scent whooshed out, forcing her to rear back.
She pushed the sides together to create a large enough opening to peer inside. A crease formed between her brows.
Reaching in, she removed the item that had traveled over five thousand miles and placed it on the worktable.
“Why did you send me a book, Camilla?”
A protective covering that reminded her of the recycled elephant dung paper she’d seen in bookstores and other specialty shops was wrapped around the tome. Without putting her nose to the speckled paper, she knew where the musty scent had originated.
With careful fingers, she flipped it open and read, “That Sam-I-am!” She stared down at the familiar illustrations of one of the most popular children’s books of all time. A book she’d gifted to Camilla a while ago to help her with her English.
Hurt lanced through her chest.
Why would Camilla return a gift?
17
Dusk settled over the mountain like a cooling blanket. A bird chirped in the distance, its mellow, constant rhythm a sign of the end of a busy and productive day.
But Coen’s day was anything but productive. After his run-in with Riley and the foxes, he’d been unable to sit still. He’d roamed the boundaries of the Steele property for hours, only to wind up back at the pit.
Or what used to be the pit. Riley had filled the hole with leaves and rocks and other debris.
Some people around here would’ve snapped the kit’s neck, taken its pelt, and monitored the hole for its next victim.
But not Riley Kingston. She’d gone headfirst into the damn thing. He still couldn’t decide if she was the bravest person he knew or the most foolish. Possibly a bit of both.
He shifted his weight and leaned more fully against the tree that hid him from view. Shadows shrouded the area, blinking out the final breaths of daylight.
The massive glass building before him glowed with life. Plants of various shapes, sizes, and colors marched up and down the length of the interior and hung like green waterfalls from metal rafters.
In the midst of it all stood Riley. She chewed on her bottom lip while reading a book, a deep furrow etched in her brow.
He traced the outline of her profile, slipping over the smooth plane of her cheek to the too-long-to-be-perfect nose to the plump fullness of her abused lower lip.
What was he doing here? If he was going to emerge from his self-imposed exile for someone, there were a thousand other, less frustrating women in Steele Ridge.
She stood among her beloved plants at a time when all others flocked to be at home with their loved ones. What drove her to this place, night after night, day after day?
Her hand rose to cover the bottom half of her face. It was the kind of movement a person did while their brain was absorbing a new reality. A reality of good fortune or of unbearable realization.
When she dropped the book and jerked away, he stepped out of the shadows and strode forward several feet before checking himself. What kind of comfort could he offer?
A stranger.
A man who’d sworn off contact with others.
A man who’d chased her away at every opportunity.
A damaged soldier who didn’t trust his own mind any longer.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the shift of shadow against shadow. He focused on the area, but staring inside the brightly lit greenhouse had blown his night vision.
Peeling away from his surveillance of the botanist, he went on a hunt.
18
Confusion roiled in Riley’s stomach.
Why had Camilla returned her gift? Why hadn’t she included a note of explanation?
Something was out of whack. First she steals Dr. Young’s journal and now this?
No matter how she tackled the mystery, she couldn’t come up with a logical reason for Camilla’s behavior. She wasn’t scatterbrained or unstable or prone to dramatics. She was a caring, incredibly smart, and intuitive person.
After her mother had died, she’d left her small village and moved to a larger town to find employment. She’d done every menial task thrown her way, even pickpocketed to fill the gaps.
When Riley had given her an opportunity to return to her village, Camilla had cried tears of gratitude.
Why would she have stolen the doctor’s research journal? Riley loved the young woman, but Camilla wasn’t a scientist. Even if she had managed to decipher his writing, she wouldn’t have known what to do with the data.
She rubbed her temples. Worry gnawed there. She was missing something.
Something vital.
The sensation of fingernails scraping up her spine had her lifting her head and glancing around. Leaves shifted in the light breeze created by the ventilation system, and hard-bodied June bugs threw themselves against the overhead lights.
Her gaze drifted to her right, toward the forest beyond the greenhouse. But night had fallen, and the only thing she could see was her own reflection looking back.
Even while she stared at her mirror image, the feeling of being watched didn’t abate. It intensified.
Her attention shifted from the window to the book to the window again. A cloud of isolation pressed upon her chest. For the second time in a week, she wondered… Who would hear her scream? How long would it take for someone to find her broken body? Besides Britt, few ever bothered to venture this far from the center. And if her cousin didn’t have something to pester her about, he stayed away.
She reached down to tighten the nozzle before turning off the water. By the time she rolled up the hose and returned to her desk, her spine no longer felt as though a thousand spiders skittered over the ridges.
But the desire for isolation had vanished, so she closed her laptop and stowed it in her backpack. She grabbed the book, intending to do the same, when a slip of paper broke free of the pages.
Frowning, she bent to retrieve it, wondering how she hadn’t seen it before now. She turned it over.
EP not ded. Keep fort safe.
Ded? Fort?
“Camilla,” she whispered, “what the hell are you trying to tell me?”
She read the note several times, each pass getting her no closer to the meaning behind the message. She blew out a breath before jamming the note and book into her pack.
Flicking off the lights, she locked the door behind her, then paused on the threshold.
Full-on dark had arrived, and she was a quarter mile from her vehicle. The situation had never bothered her before.
But she’d never had the sensation of being watched before. All in her mind? Or the result of a mysterious package?
Voting for the latter, she set off toward the center. She barely made it ten feet before a figure split from the shadows.
19
Riley’s heartbeat skidded to a stop at the sight of Coen stepping into the moonlight. The swift realization that her sixth sense had been correct didn’t make her feel any better.
Because when it came right down to it, she knew next to nothing about this man, this soldier, who preferred the company of bears and birds over humans. If not for the Steele boys’ endorsements and his reading preferences, she would’ve marked him as a total creeper. With enormous biceps.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a calm yet authoritative voice.
Searing Need Page 7