by Irene Hannon
Apparently the blizzard warning issued this morning had been spot on. Missouri would have a white Christmas.
Nothing wrong with a Currier & Ives–style holiday—except the flakes were rapidly covering the trail of splotches on the three-day-old ice crystals from Tuesday’s sleet storm.
In minutes, they’d be impossible to track.
Continuing to scan his surroundings, he removed the compact Beretta from the concealed carry holster clipped to his belt. No reason to carry when the camp was full of kids and counselors, but wandering around unarmed in winter on 650 isolated, deserted acres?
Not happening.
He might never have needed a gun in the four years he’d called this rural Missouri acreage home, but it was better to risk overkill than being killed.
And while the camp had always been a peaceful refuge for him and the hundreds of kids who visited each season, his goosed adrenaline suggested that was about to change.
Pistol in hand, he followed the uneven trail of blood, only the muffled quack of a duck from the lake a hundred yards away breaking the stillness. No more than a few scarlet spots here and there dotted the frozen surface, but they were sufficient to keep him on course.
The trail ended at the canoe shed, which was closed up tight for the winter season.
Or it had been, before someone picked the padlock.
Shifting into military stealth mode, Rick edged next to the structure and put his ear to the door.
Silence.
Firming his grip on the Beretta, he yanked the wide door open and flattened his back against the wall, out of sight.
More silence.
If anyone was inside, they’d masked their surprise well.
Either that, or they weren’t able to respond.
After thirty soundless seconds ticked by, Rick risked a peek around the edge of the doorframe.
Nothing was amiss.
The racks of canoes looked the same as they had when he’d stacked them for the winter. The paddles were in their brackets, life vests stashed in their bins, fishing rods lined up against the wall like soldiers in formation.
And there was no blood inside, as far as he could tell after flipping on the light and making a quick circuit.
Nor was there anything to suggest someone had taken refuge in the structure.
A frigid gust of air swooped in through the open door, bringing with it an assault of snowflakes—but the Arctic weather alone wasn’t responsible for the shiver that snaked through him.
Where had the injured person gone?
Rick stepped outside again, ducked his head against the polar onslaught, and peered at the ground as he walked the area in a tight grid pattern.
There were no more red blots.
Even the original trail he’d followed had disappeared under a blanket of fresh powder.
Nothing remained to indicate anyone had ventured onto his property.
In fact, if he’d detoured to his computer after arriving home from town instead of indulging in a stroll to the dock while he finished his coffee, he would never have seen the blood. Nor would he have visited the canoe shed until he began prepping for the Saturday spring camps, a task that was weeks away.
Strange timing.
Providential, almost.
Yet what did it matter?
Whoever had broken into the outbuilding had done no harm or stolen anything. There was minimal blood, and the person had seemingly left of their own volition.
The incident might be a bit bizarre, but it wasn’t a life or death situation, like the ones he’d faced in the Middle East.
Tugging up the collar of his coat, Rick returned to the shed and flipped off the light. Lock repairs would have to wait until the storm subsided—but the delay posed little risk. There wasn’t much chance anyone would venture out in this weather to steal his lake equipment.
Best plan?
Go back inside and hunker down until the storm blew over. There was no reason to linger while the biting wind burrowed into every seam of his outerwear and the sky hurled icy BBs at his cheeks.
He turned away.
Took three steps.
Hesitated.
You’re missing something, Jordan.
Hard as he tried to muffle the tiny voice in his head, it refused to be silenced.
Especially since he couldn’t shake the feeling that his mysterious visitor had been more than a vagrant or a vandal who’d gotten cut on some barbed wire or tripped on a rock and ended up with a bloody nose.
Heaving a sigh, he pivoted, tramped back to the shed, and opened the door again. Unless he did another walk-through, his keep-at-it-until-you-solve-the-puzzle gene wasn’t going to shut up.
Back inside, he flicked the light switch and began a second loop, this one much slower.
Halfway through, he hit pay dirt.
The two small objects on the stern seat of one of the canoes, half tucked into the shadows, hadn’t been there when he’d closed up the place for the winter.
Palming the items, he angled his hand toward the light.
Sucked in a breath.
The identity of his visitor was no longer a mystery.
Boomer had been here.
But . . . why had he shown up, unannounced, after all these years?
What had caused the blood?
Why had the man left?
Where had he gone?
Was he coming back?
Only one person could supply those answers—and he’d vanished.
Another blast of bitter air pummeled him, and Rick slid the two items into the pocket of his coat. After wrestling the door back into place, he slogged toward the cabin, head bent against the wind.
Halfway back, as he slowed to scoop up the cup of java balanced on the frozen ground, a vulture circled overhead, riding the wind currents in search of death.
Bad omen—if you were the superstitious type.
He wasn’t.
Ignoring the macabre scavenger, he focused instead on the Christmas riddle that had arrived on his doorstep.
His visitor hadn’t been some random stranger but a person he’d once worked with every day.
A person who, under normal circumstances, would have contacted him to arrange a visit rather than show up out of the blue.
Meaning things were far from normal—and the man must need his help.
If I can ever do anything for you, all you have to do is pick up the phone or email me or knock on my door.
As the wind shrieked and ice pellets continued to sting his cheeks, the promise he’d made six years ago echoed through Rick’s mind.
He’d meant every word of it then.
He still did.
It was the least he could do for the fellow soldier who’d saved his life . . . and almost lost his own in the process.
But to help a man, you first had to find him.
And with night falling, a blizzard approaching, and Christmas Eve mere hours away, that might be as difficult as a snatch ’n grab mission in a Little Bird deep behind enemy lines.
Author’s Note
Thank you for visiting Hope Harbor—where hearts heal . . . and love blooms.
If this is the first time you’ve dropped in, I hope you enjoy your stay. If you’re returning, welcome home.
And Hope Harbor does feel like home, doesn’t it? It’s the kind of place where everyone can find hope and a new beginning. Where people are benevolent and willing to help their neighbors. Where love and healing are in the air.
I’m so grateful that readers have come to care for this charming Oregon seaside town as much as I have.
In practical terms, that means sales are good—and more books are coming! Hope Harbor will remain what Publishers Weekly has called “a place of emotional restoration” for the foreseeable future.
I’d like to offer my deepest thanks to all the people who have encouraged me in my writing journey, especially my husband, Tom; my parents, James and Dorothy Hannon (Mom would have loved this
story, and I know she’s cheering me on from heaven); and my publishing partners at Revell—Dwight Baker, Kristin Kornoelje, Jennifer Leep, Michele Misiak, Karen Steele, Cheryl Van Andel (this is the last cover of mine she worked on before retiring), and Gayle Raymer.
Please return with me to Hope Harbor in April 2020, when charter fisherman Steven Roark from Driftwood Bay and a local teacher find themselves on opposite sides of an issue that threatens to disrupt the placid existence of the seaside community.
In the meantime, if you like romantic suspense, Dark Ambitions—book 3 in my Code of Honor series—will be out in October 2019. You’ll find an excerpt at the end of Driftwood Bay. For those who’ve been reading my suspense novels for a while, we’ll be revisiting Phoenix, Inc.—the PI firm from my Private Justice series. That’s where Rick goes for help when a mystery drops into his lap—and the newest member of the staff . . . a female investigator . . . is assigned to his case. Sparks fly, in more ways than one—so be prepared for another thrilling adventure that will keep you up until the wee hours!
Irene Hannon is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than fifty contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. She is also a three-time winner of the RITA award—the “Oscar” of romance fiction—from Romance Writers of America and is a member of that organization’s elite Hall of Fame.
Her many other awards include National Readers’ Choice, Daphne du Maurier, Retailers’ Choice, Booksellers’ Best, Carol, and Reviewers’ Choice from RT Book Reviews magazine, which also honored her with a Career Achievement award for her entire body of work. In addition, she is a two-time Christy award finalist.
Millions of her books have been sold worldwide, and her novels have been translated into multiple languages.
Irene, who holds a BA in psychology and an MA in journalism, juggled two careers for many years until she gave up her executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company to write full-time. She is happy to say she has no regrets.
A trained vocalist, Irene has sung the leading role in numerous community musical theater productions and is also a soloist at her church. She and her husband enjoy traveling, long hikes, Saturday mornings at their favorite coffee shop, and spending time with family. They make their home in Missouri.
To learn more about Irene and her books, visit www.irenehannon.com. She enjoys interacting with readers on Facebook and is also active on Twitter and Instagram.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Books by Irene Hannon
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
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Epilogue
A Sneak Peek into Book 3
Author’s Note
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
List of Pages
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