by Lisa Jackson
Except that she was an emotional wreck. Crystal’s story about Hunt, coupled with Dan’s warning, chipped away at her trust, her faith in love. “Don’t,” she told herself. She needed to talk to Hunt, to sort the truth from the lies. So she had to find him. That was all. How hard could it be?
Taking Crystal’s suggestion to heart, she stopped at a phone booth, flipped through the tattered Yellow Pages, and stopped at the page where private investigators were listed. Running her finger down the column, she found the name of a man in Manzanita and reached into her purse for her coins.
She’d find Hunter, one way or the other, and then she’d face the truth—however grim it might be. She owed it to her baby.
The ceiling fans were keeping time to Madonna while silverware rattled on the business side of the counter, where the cash register rang up the latest order of burgers and fries.
Paige licked the last bit of whipped cream from her sundae and swung her legs from the booth at the local Dairy Freeze. She’d seen Miranda Holland and Crystal Songbird sitting in a booth near the corner, and she’d hidden behind a fake wood trellis that partitioned one section of the Dairy Freeze from the other. The older girls were in some kind of grim conversation, and Paige would have given two months’ allowance to find out what they were talking about, but she’d slunk down in her booth until they’d left and wondered if Weston was any part of the conversation. Probably. Crystal was such a pathetic creature.
But Paige didn’t want to think about Crystal or Weston or anyone but herself right now. Her charm bracelet hung from her wrist and she liked the way it jangled when she moved. It reminded her that Kendall still liked her, and that gave her a sense of peace, as did the gun in her purse. She swallowed a smile. Wouldn’t everyone in the place flip if they knew she was carrying the pistol?
Ever since Kendall had hinted that she wished Claire would drop dead, Paige had considered it her personal mission to find a way to eliminate her. But she couldn’t be stupid, like shooting one of Dutch Holland’s daughters; no, the police would figure it out, and she wasn’t really sure that she could shoot anyone anyway. There was a big step between killing someone and thinking about it, and the truth of the matter was, Paige was a little on the squeamish side. No, just because she had the gun didn’t mean she could actually pull the trigger, but maybe she could scare Claire a little, make her back off. Or, better yet, maybe she could scare Harley. That shouldn’t be too hard.
She left some change on the table and sauntered out of the cool interior to the street, where sunlight glinted off the sidewalk and the brisk scents of salt and seaweed covered up exhaust fumes from the highway running through town. She didn’t know what had possessed her to carry the gun today, but she didn’t want to take a chance on leaving it at home, where it might be found. Any day now she was sure her mother would miss it, and then Paige would have to lie, or own up to having taken it. She winced inside at the thought of explaining why she’d borrowed the thing in the first place. Mikki Taggert had strict rules about her things. Once she’d caught Paige playing dress-up in her old slip and high heels, and Mikki hadn’t missed a beat. She’d slapped her daughter across the face, told Paige never to touch her things again, then stripped her of the clothes and shoes and left her naked in the attic. She’d had to find an old sheet that smelled musty to wrap around her as she’d run, crying, to her room. The incident was never mentioned again, but Paige had felt the welt on her cheek for hours.
So, she’d have to make up a story about the gun or replace it. She walked past a bookshop, an antiques dealer, and an artist’s gallery before seeing Claire standing on the promenade that flanked the beach. The prom was a wide cement walkway with an intricate, but short, stone wall separating the beach from the town. Every three blocks there was a gap in the wall which allowed pedestrians access to trails leading over short grassy dunes to the sea, and there, at one of the openings, was Claire Holland, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, looking nervous and trying not to appear interested in the scruffy-looking boy straddling a huge black-and-chrome motorcycle. She couldn’t think of his name, but Paige had seen him before. He was a troublemaker, she thought, a kid whose dad had some kind of problem, and he was staring at Claire as if she were the only girl in the universe.
Paige smothered a pang of jealousy and swallowed hard. She slipped over the wall, ducked through the dunes, and edged closer, hoping to hear some of their conversation. Oh, what she would do if only some boy, any boy, looked at her the way this guy was staring at Claire.
The wind kicked sand into her eyes and mouth. She spit and wiped her tongue with her sleeve as tears took care of the particles behind her eyelids. She was close enough that she heard their voices, but the words were muffled by the roar of the wind and surf. Unless they came closer, walked down the path near the dune behind which she was hiding, she’d probably never hear what they were talking about.
Blinking, Paige glanced down at her bracelet. What did it matter what Claire said to the guy? The fact that she was talking to him might be ammunition enough for Kendall. Now, if she could just remember his name . . .
Claire clutched her keys until the metal cut into her palm. Of all the luck! She’d hoped to run into Harley, and she’d ended up seeing Kane. As she’d come out of the sporting goods shop, he’d spied her and turned a quick U-turn in the middle of the street to brazenly drive his bike onto the promenade, in front of God and everyone, disregarding the signs announcing that there were no motorized vehicles allowed on the wide pedestrian walkway.
Her heart was thumping a quick double time, as she hadn’t seen him since Jack Songbird’s funeral, hadn’t spoken to him since the night when he’d bared his soul. She’d dreamt about him, always in sexual, wanton ways that caused her, upon awaking, to find it hard to catch her breath, and continuously made her feel ashamed, as if she were somehow cheating on Harley.
And here he was again, seated on his bike, reflective sunglasses shading his eyes, black leather covering his body.
“So, Princess,” he drawled in that suggestive and irritating way of his. “How’s the world treating you?”
“Just fine.” It was a lie. Why did she feel she always had to sidestep the truth around him?
“Is it?” A wayward eyebrow arched over one of his shaded lenses. “No complaints?”
“None,” she lied easily again, and wondered if he had the ability to read her mind.
“Lucky you.” His voice mocked her, silently accused her of a thousand untruths.
“That’s right.”
“Good. Then I can leave with a clean conscience.”
“Leave?” Oh, no!
“Day after tomorrow.”
“For the army.” She felt a sinking, lost feeling tunnel through her body, a sensation that something vital and strong was about to become missing from her life.
“Basic training in Fort Lewis.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t the end of the world. Fort Lewis was in Washington, 150 miles away. “And then?”
“And then the world.” His smile was tight, and his fingers, curled around the handlebars, moved restlessly.
A gust of wind blew a clump of hair over Claire’s eyes, and she tossed her head in order to see him more clearly. “So this is good-bye?” An ache deep in her soul began to throb.
“Yep.”
Forcing a smile she didn’t feel, she said, “Good luck.”
“I don’t depend on luck.”
Her heart kicked, and though she knew she was making a stupid mistake that she’d regret later, she crossed the short distance separating them, leaned over, and brushed her lips across his cheek. “Take a little with you anyway.”
She straightened and he swallowed hard. Behind the reflective lenses of his sunglasses, his eyes bored into hers. The world, for one short second, seemed to stop, and the sounds of the ocean pounding the shore, car engines thrumming, seagulls screaming, and the wind rushing, muted for the span of one life-altering heartbeat. She tried to smile, fai
led, and felt a tear slide from the corner of her eye.
“I’ll miss you,” he said, and for a second she was certain he’d wrap his long fingers around her nape and draw her head down to his so that his lips would melt against hers.
“I—I’ll miss you, too.”
A muscle worked overtime in the corner of his jaw as he stared at her. “Take care of yourself, and if Taggert ever so much as lifts one finger . . . oh, hell.” He twisted his wrist, the bike revved, and he popped the clutch, roaring down the promenade before jumping the curb and spinning around a corner.
“Oh, God,” she whispered and sank onto the rock wall. What was she doing? Did she really love Harley Taggert? Then why, oh, why, did her pulse leap every time she heard Kane Moran’s name? Why did he, dressed in black leather and riding a huge motorcycle, invade her dreams and touch her as intimately as any lover? Why, when she’d professed to love Harley with all her heart and soul until her dying day, did a pain rip through her at the thought that she’d never see Kane again.
Pounding her fist against her thigh, she saw the diamond on her ring finger, a diamond that was supposed to mean forever, and she felt sick inside. The horrible truth of the matter was that she couldn’t marry Harley, not when she was so confused, not when she had any doubts. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood and slowly, knowing she was about to make the single most important decision of her life, she removed her engagement ring. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a movement near the dunes, the flutter of stringy brown hair, but when she looked the image had disappeared, and she decided her mind was playing tricks on her, that she’d seen a sandpiper, or seagull, nothing more.
Fighting tears, and silently cursing herself for her wayward thoughts, she tucked the ring into the pocket of her jeans and told herself that she would meet Harley to break the engagement.
Though she hated the thought of facing him, she had no choice. Tonight, she thought, as storm clouds gathered over the Pacific. She’d tell him tonight.
Twenty
The letter was waiting for her when Miranda walked into the house. In the stack of junk mail, magazines, and bills strewn on the table in the foyer, there was a plain white envelope, the address typed as if on an old standard typewriter, the postmark Vancouver, British Columbia. “Hunter,” she said softly, feeling a mix of fear and elation as she tore open the envelope and extracted the single white page. It, too, had been typed with only Hunter’s signature at the bottom to indicate that it was personal.
With trembling fingers and a thumping heart she leaned against the wall for support. He was in British Columbia working for Taggert Logging. Weston had given him a job out of the country when things got a little tense. He felt like a heel for walking out on her and the baby, but honestly believed she would be better off with someone who was from her station in life, someone who could give her and her child everything they wanted; everything they deserved. He loved her and she would always hold a special place in his heart, but he couldn’t face the responsibilities of being a husband and father.
She crumpled the note in her hands and clenched her lips together so that she wouldn’t cry out loud. How could this have happened? Didn’t he love her? He’d said they’d get married, that they would work things out.
You know that I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you . . . I’d always hoped that there was a chance for us . . . Miranda Holland, will you be my wife?”
He’d wanted to marry her, hadn’t he? Or had he felt cornered—trapped? He’d never said he loved her and had only proposed when she’d told him about her pregnancy.
This—the baby—wasn’t part of my plan.
She squeezed her eyes shut but still the tears drizzled down her face. Was it possible that she’d been so blind, so caught up in her own dreams that she’d ignored his? She swiped at her face, sniffling loudly and thinking of the rumors racing through town like a wildfire, that he’d gotten some girl—some fourteen-year-old girl pregnant. Could that have been true as well? Wrapping her arms around her belly, she rocked, as if to comfort her unborn child as well as herself. “It’ll be all right,” she said, not believing a word of the lie. Even Hunter’s own stepfather didn’t trust him, not really . . . but, oh, how she loved him, and this painful ache in her heart felt as if it would tear her apart.
Stretched across her bed, Paige touched the charred scrap of paper with gentle fingers. As near as she could tell the legal document was the remains of a birth certificate, but the curled, blackened edges made it hard to piece together. Weston, in a fit of fury, had tried to burn it, as if it were threatening or vile. But why? Who were the people listed and what did they have to do with her older brother?
A boy had been born in August twenty years earlier to Margaret Potter. Who was she? Everything else, other than the name of the hospital where the birth took place, had burned away.
Paige had spent hours trying to puzzle it out, but couldn’t figure why Weston cared. It had to be important, so Paige tucked the little scrap of paper back where it belonged in the slit of her panda bear, near her other prized and secret possessions.
The phone rang and Paige picked up just as someone else in the house took the call. She listened to find out who it was and she heard Weston’s curt, “Hello.”
“Hi.” A woman’s voice—soft, as if she’d been crying. For a second Paige thought it might be Kendall, but that was crazy. Why would Kendall be calling Weston?
“What do you want?”
“To see you.”
A pause.
“Why?”
“Because we have unfinished business.”
“Oh, Christ, I don’t think . . . Sure, what the hell? I’ll meet you tonight. At the boat. Around midnight.”
Click.
The line went dead and Paige just stared at the receiver. Was the woman Kendall, or someone else. But who? Crystal? Or someone else he’d been seeing—Paige had seen him in town with Tessa Holland . . . or was it someone she didn’t know about.
What, she wondered, was Weston up to?
As Tessa stripped off her cover-up and tossed the terry cloth onto a lounge chair, she wished to God she could scream or hit or do some kind of damage. To someone. Anyone. No, that wasn’t quite right. She only wanted to hurt Weston and Miranda because she knew, could sense instinctively, that they were attracted to each other. Now that Hunter was out of the picture, Weston would make his move, and Miranda, despite her protests to the contrary, would fall for him. Everyone did. Damn but it was hot and sticky. Not a breath of air. A few sinister-looking clouds hovered on the horizon, as if waiting for a Pacific squall to blow them inland.
She held her hair off the back of her neck and snapped a rubber band around the clump. She had to do something to shake this feeling that she wanted to climb out of her skin.
She stepped onto the diving board and slowly counted, trying to calm herself by concentrating on nothing but swimming, as if she were in competition. With lithe footsteps she ran the length of the board, sprang into the air, and knifed into the cool water. Surfacing, she started swimming laps, one at a time over and over, trying not to feel dirty and used, attempting to ignore the need for revenge that burned through her blood and crept into her dreams.
Stroke. One. Two. Breathe.
Who did Weston think she was to treat her like a common whore? Ever since that last night, when he’d threatened to cut her if she didn’t do what he wanted, she’d been seething and scared to death.
Stroke. One. Two. One. No! Breathe. Stroke. One. Two. Breathe. That’s it.
Never before had she thought anyone would hurt her.
Never before had she been unable to sleep even with the door to her bedroom locked and her windows closed tight.
Never before had she looked over her shoulder at every turn and jumped at shadows. Even now, when she remembered the blade of his knife pressed cold and deadly against her skin and the look in his eyes, as if he’d love to slit her throat, she w
anted to propel herself from the pool and scream bloody murder.
Or get even. What was the old saying? Don’t get mad, get even. How could she ever possibly even the score? Weston had taken away her pride, her self-worth, her joy in being a woman.
Bastard. Shitty cock-sucking bastard!
Stroke. One. Two. Turn at the end of the pool and stroke again. Over and over. Beat this need to slice out Weston’s faithless heart. Three. Four.
Oh, God, he had no right, no damned right to make her feel this way. No one did.
Don’t get mad. Get even.
Tonight.
Stroke. One. Two.
“All I want to know is if you hired Hunter Riley.” Miranda’s voice was firm as she sat in the single chair in Weston’s office. The windows were closed, and the temperature was hovering near ninety despite the irregular hum of what she assumed was an overloaded and dysfunctional air-conditioning unit.
Most of the office staff had already gone home for the evening, but through the window she saw the yard of the sawmill. The lights were coming up and beneath their eerie glow, timber was still being stripped of bark, loaded into sheds, and sliced into lumber. Stiff as a board, she held her purse in clammy fingers and wished she was anywhere else on earth. But she had to uncover the truth about Hunter no matter what.
Weston leaned back in his desk chair, his hands tented in front of him, his eyes a hot, appraising blue, the scratches on his cheek nearly healed but still visible—a reminder of his affair with Tessa. “And I thought you came to see me.”
“Guess again.”
Screwing up one side of his face, he yanked on his tie, loosening the once-crisp knot, then reached for a tumbler of liquor that was sweating on a corner of his otherwise tidy desk. “Hunter was in a jam. Needed to get out of town. Out of the country and fast. Our operation in B.C. needs people, so I talked to Dad and we relocated him.” He reached for his drink and took a long swallow.
