Barefoot Dreams

by Roxanne St Claire

  Damn it, Rick. How could you be so naïve?

  For a moment, he just stared at the box, memories pouring over him like the rain on this tin trailer, flooding his senses. He’d held this case as a child, when his father first showed him the watch and promised if he went into the Navy, the watch would be handed down to him someday. He’d held the case when he sat with Granddad, after Dad had been shot down and Rick became next in line for the watch. He’d held the case when he left for BUD/S training, asking Granddad to keep the watch for him.

  Then Granddad died while Rick was in Somalia, and his shit-for-brains cousin Dan sold everything he could get his hands on. For the past six months, Rick had a friend up in Boston tracking this thing, and it finally showed up on eBay, shipped here.

  To William Josephs…or Billie Jo, the scam artist who had no last name, who had taken his watch and ran.

  Despite the roar of the wind and the smack of a good size branch against the mobile home, he stood there for a moment, frowning. What was wrong with this picture? She’d left on foot? The poor excuse for a truck was still parked in the back; he’d just seen it on his way in with the dog. So, unless someone came and picked her up, she was out there on her own.

  Looking for the dog? Hiding the watch? Running…from him? Hadn’t he proved he was legit?

  The shatter of glass and crunch of metal spurred him into action, the sound of a tree smashing that junky truck. Holding the box, he snagged the dog and took off. This place was about to get eaten by Hurricane Damien.

  He tossed the ball of fur onto his passenger seat before he climbed in to drive away. Just as he did, a powerful gust buffeted the car, so strong he swore the vehicle lifted up on two tires for a second, and so massive that the whole roof of the trailer ripped away and curled like the top of a sardine can.

  If she’d hidden the watch inside somewhere, then he’d never find it when this storm was over. If she’d run off with it…well, she might not make it until morning. At which point, he’d deal with the coroner or law enforcement.

  Billie Jo With No Last Name wasn’t his fucking problem.

  Nutcase barked.

  “Neither are you,” Rick muttered, turning the ignition on. “But you’re stuck with me now.”

  * * *

  Billie could barely drag her legs forward, her feet were so stuck in mud and her body was so soaked through to the bone. Still, she forced herself deeper into the mangroves and pepper trees that formed the forest of scrub.

  She thought about running to the beach, but, for one thing, she couldn’t fight the wind. For another, the beach would be too out in the open. The nearest house was way down on the bay, but that’s where Frank would look for her. She couldn’t bring that lady and her teenage daughter into this if they were still there, riding out the storm. Frank would kill them, too.

  A burst of body-flattening wind exploded through the scrub, ripping leaves and branches and throwing Billie backwards on her rear end. She cried out, but that just got her a mouthful of dirty, sandy water. She spit it out, peering into the blackness, laying on the bramble, not sure which death was scarier: the one inflicted by Frank or the one from Mother Nature.

  Either way, she wasn’t going to make it through the night.

  And what about Nutmeg? Another wave of misery, as strong as the wind, blew over her. Even if the Navy SEAL had rescued her, Frank would kill him and Nutmeg when they got back.

  Maybe not. Maybe he’d kill Frank.

  A flicker of hope sparked in her chest, enough to push her up, despite the impossible wind trying to grind her back down. A tree next to her cracked and sailed into the air, a whirlwind of leaves whipping wildly around her head. She sank again, using her arms to cover her face, rolling into a ball, sliding along the mud.

  She didn’t even react to the thump on her back, so many stones and branches had hit her.

  But she saw stars when a man’s hand snagged her wet hair and snapped her head backwards. And through the rain and swirling leaves, she saw the face of Frank Perlow.

  “You little bitch,” he spat at her. “You thought you could hide?”

  She jerked to the side, just wet enough to slip out of his hand, scrambling away. He caught up in two strides, the wind at his back, propelling him toward her.

  “Leave me alone!” she managed to scream.

  “I have been, Billie.”

  He was so close now she could smell him. Despite the musky scent of wet earth and salt water in the air, every breath full of the filthy, foul stench of a murderer. She managed a few more steps, just out of his reach.

  “I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity,” he said, his words caught in the wind. “Now I can kill you and this storm will wipe away every bit of evidence.”

  Of course. That’s what he was good at—killing without leaving a trace. Except that one time she had been the trace. She was the witness.

  He lunged toward her, a knife flashing wet from the rain. She rolled further away, branches slicing her face, making her cry out in pain.

  “This is gonna hurt more, Billie.” He brandished the knife, momentarily frozen by a gust of wind circling the other way. She used the delay to cling to a tree trunk to keep from blowing right into him and his knife.

  He smiled. “I’m going to slide this blade across your throat.”

  She tried to swallow, just imagining the horror and knowing he could and would make good on the threat.

  He leaped forward, grabbing her shoulder and tearing her from the tree, tossing her to the ground. In an instant, he was above her, his knee jammed into her chest.

  She fought wildly, turning so she could scream, kicking, pushing, opening her mouth to chomp on his wrist but getting nothing but a downpour that choked her.

  He was stronger and had the wind at his back now, leaning over her, lifting the knife, his steely gray eyes full of hate and the determination to silence the witness to his heinous crime.

  The next gust pushed him closer, her punches useless against his much more substantive size.

  “You’ll never tell anyone what you saw!” Once more, he lifted the knife, aimed directly at her throat. She twisted, moaned, and tried to jerk so he’d miss her. The knife came down and so did he, his weight landing hard on her while an echo of something sharp and loud and deafening rang in her ears.

  A gunshot? Had she just heard a—

  The pressure of his body suddenly disappeared as he was lifted by…the wind?

  No, by a hero who held Frank’s bloodied body in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  “Did he hurt you?” Rick dropped to his knees next to Billie, tossing Frank aside and reaching for her with hands so gentle and strong it was impossible to believe he’d fired the bullet that went into Frank’s head.

  Impossible, but…amazing.

  “No,” she managed to whisper, finally able to see him as he leaned over her protectively. “You killed him.”

  “I saved you. Big difference.”

  “You killed him,” she repeated, still unable to grasp the simple fact that was about to change her life back to normal.

  “If that’s a big problem for you—”

  She yanked his head closer, kissing him with all the fire and joy and relief and gratitude that rocked her with more force than the hurricane winds. And he kissed her back, opening his mouth, transferring the same tsunami of emotions, the same amount of need.

  “I’ve been hiding from him for months,” she whimpered into his kiss. “I saw him murder a man in cold blood and he wanted…he was going to kill me, too.”

  He eased her up, so close that she could see cuts on his face, evidence of what he’d just battled to save her. “I knew it,” he said softly.

  “You knew I was hiding from him?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t run with my watch.”

  She smiled. “It’s in my pocket. Where’s my dog?”

  “In my car.” He pulled her up. “C’mon.”

  She clung to him as they fough
t the wind so powerful it could uproot trees, bare branches, and, quite possibly, blow dead bodies out to sea.

  * * *

  Standing in the sunshine surrounded by the remnants of what was once her personal jail, Billie held Nutmeg to her chest and stroked the dog’s hair. The trailer was virtually gone, nothing but bits of metal, a refrigerator, and her upside down truck remaining.

  “We don’t have to hide anymore, Nutsie,” she whispered, tears of happiness burning her eyes. “We’re free. We can go back to Charleston, we can open a business, we can—”

  “Found it!” Rick burst out from behind a truck, his arm raised in victory, his handsome face flush with success. In his hand, the leather box that the watch had arrived in.

  “Awesome,” she called, letting squirmy little Nutmeg down to scamper over to him. Billie didn’t blame the dog. She wanted to get close to Rick, too.

  They’d spent the night safely in the school shelter, where they’d found a quiet corner in the boys’ locker room. There, two people who’d met under the most extraordinary circumstances finally had an ordinary conversation.

  Not that there was anything ordinary about Lieutenant Rick Stone.

  “This box is all I want from this place,” he said as he reached her. “How about you?”

  “There’s nothing here I want.” She glanced around at the rubble, but her gaze settled on him. “Except I kind of like the guy who saved me.”

  He grinned, reaching to tunnel his hand under her hair and guide her face up to him. “And I thought you were Annie Oakley trailer trash.”

  “I don’t even have blonde hair,” she said with a laugh.

  “Good. I like brunettes. And this is one crappy bleach job, by the way.”

  “I’ll have it grown out in six months.”

  He didn’t answer, his beautiful blue eyes searching her face, the way he had all night when they told each other their stories. When she’d told him of witnessing the murder, he’d held her in his arms and let her cry with relief now that it was over. And when he’d told her about the loss of his father in the first Gulf War and how it had wrecked the life of a seven year old hero worshiper, she’d held him, too.

  “Six months?” He pulled her closer, eliminating the space between her body and his. “I’ll be home in six months.”

  “I’ll be in Charleston, opening up a new antique shop.”

  “Can I visit?” he asked with a smile.

  “You better.”

  “Can I stay overnight?”

  It was her turn to smile. “If Nutmeg lets you.”

  He looked down at the dog. “Nutcase loves me.”

  And, in that single suspended moment of time, Billie had one simple thought: so could I. “Then you’ll be welcome in my home, in my shop, and in my…” Bed.

  “I’ll be there.” Rick grinned, a crazy thing of beauty that squeezed air out of Billie’s lungs and common sense out of her head.

  He lowered his head and kissed her gently, the first time they’d kissed since the furious exchange in the brush. This was softer, sweeter, full of promise and hope and warmth.

  They were still holding hands as he navigated his car over the rough roads and fallen trees of Barefoot Bay, heading back to the south end of the island. As they reached the most picturesque part of the inlet, he slowed the car so they could see through the bare trees to the beach.

  There, a woman and a lanky young girl slowly walked over rubble and debris of what had to have been one of the first houses built on the island. The girl looked to be sobbing, but the woman was talking animatedly, strawberry blonde hair blowing as she moved with purpose and something that looked…well, hopeful if not happy.

  Rick lowered the window to call out, “You need help, ma’am?”

  The woman lifted her hand and beamed a smile that seemed completely out of place. “We’re great. Never been better.”

  Rick threw a look at Billie. “Is that sarcasm or has she lost her marbles?”

  “I haven’t gotten to know her.” But she could, now. She no longer had to hide or avoid her neighbors. She was free. For the thousandth time in the last ten hours, she looked at Rick Stone with gratitude dampening her eyes.

  “Are you sure?” he called again. “Do you need a phone? Water?”

  “Honestly, we’re great.” She gave her daughter a squeeze. “Mother Nature is doling out second chances!”

  Billie laughed softly, absently stroking Nutmeg’s head where it rested on her lap. “You can say that again.”

  “Mother Nature is doling out second chances,” he repeated, turning to give Billie another kiss. “And I think we should take her up on it.”

  Nutmeg barked in complete agreement while they kissed like the lifelong lovers Billie had a feeling they were going to be.

  The End

  Roxanne St. Claire

  Published since 2003, Roxanne St. Claire is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than forty romance and suspense novels. She has written several popular series, including Barefoot Bay, the Guardian Angelinos, and the Bullet Catchers.

  In addition to being an eight-time nominee and one-time winner of the prestigious RITA™ Award for the best in romance writing, Roxanne’s novels have won the National Readers’ Choice Award for best romantic suspense three times, as well as the Maggie, the Daphne du Maurier Award, the HOLT Medallion, Booksellers Best, Book Buyers Best, the Award of Excellence, and many others.

  She lives in Florida with her husband, and still attempts to run the lives of her teenage daughter and 20-something son. She loves dogs, books, chocolate, and wine, but not always in that order.

  www.roxannestclaire.com

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