Stranger on the Shore

by Carol Duncan Perry

  Stranger on the Shore

  by

  Carol Duncan Perry

  STRANGER ON THE SHORE

  Awards & Accolades

  Romantic Times – 4 ½ stars!

  "Outstanding... intriguing storyline... top-notch characterization."

  ~Romantic Times

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-268-0

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 1989, 2012, 2013 by Carol S. Duncan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Originally published in January, 1989 by Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Cover by Katheryn Duncan

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  Chapter 1

  "Cissie, Cissie! You gotta come quick. A man's about to catch ol' Scarface."

  Sarah Wilson straightened from her position beneath the prickly blackberry bramble and cautiously waded through the shallows of Beaver Lake. Setting her berry bucket on the bank, she turned her attention to the boy. "What are you talking about Jimmy Joe? What man?"

  "A big man," he answered breathlessly. Beneath his shock of red hair, the boy's face showed the intense distress of an seven-year-old whose summertime world was about to crash. "Down by the deep hole. He's trying to catch Scarface. Please, Cissie, you gotta stop him."

  "Slow down a minute, Jimmy Joe. Fishermen have tried that hole before. No one's caught him yet." She tried to ignore the warning tingle in her stomach, keeping her voice calm and deliberate to reassure the boy.

  "But this one's different," the boy insisted. "He's wearin' those fancy rubber boots and fishing with a skinny little rod. He puts his plug right on the edge of the hole every time." The boy's words tumbled out almost on top of each other.

  Sarah repressed a smile. "Every time? Just how long were you watching him? I thought you were supposed to be helping me pick blackberries for Grandmother."

  "Ah, Gee, Cissie, I got a half a bucket already and I didn't spy on him so long. But he always hits the same spot," Jimmy Joe insisted. "Five or six times. I saw him. He didn't miss once. I tell you, he's different."

  Sarah tried to ignore another feeling of unease. "He's a fly fisherman," she told her young cousin, even as she fervently hoped fishing was his only reason for being here. This is home—my sanctuary. I'm supposed to be safe here.

  A glance at Jimmy Joe's face showed her he wasn't convinced. "Scarface is in no danger," she added. "That old bass is too canny to be tricked by a bit of fluff or feathers."

  Jimmy Joe's breathing slowed. "You're sure? You're honest-to-gosh sure?"

  "As sure as I can be." Sarah brushed back the bangs hanging damply across her forehead, ignoring the idea that her berry-stained hand would leave streaks of blue juice on her skin. Seeing the skepticism still on the boy's face, she reached out impulsively and tousled his hair.

  "Tell you what. I'll walk that way with you and check him out for myself. Only we have to be quiet." She inspected her threadbare jeans, rolled almost to the knee, and her stained sneakers, still muddy and wet from wading in the lake. "I don't want to be seen. As Grandmother would say, 'I ain't dressed to meet strangers.'"

  Ten minutes later, as they left the trail, she cautioned the boy not to speak. Voices, even whispers, carried easily along the lake. Quietly, she followed her young cousin into a sassafras thicket on the hillside overlooking the lake and leaned forward to catch her first glimpse of the stranger.

  The sight of the man confirmed her fears. Jimmy Joe was right. He was big. And different. Sarah drew a shaky breath, an unexpected warmth curling through her even as she fought the impulse to run.

  She was close enough to see the sun-bleached hair on his arms. And although she couldn't get an exact perspective on his height, she guessed he stood at about six feet. He was also both whipcord-lean and powerfully built.

  Mesmerized by his lazy strength and unconscious grace, she watched the muscles ripple smoothly down his arm as he made an almost imperceptible flick of his wrist. His cast placed the fly exactly on the far edge of the pool.

  Curiosity drew her forward until she felt the touch of Jimmy Joe's hand on her arm. She flushed and closed her eyes, willing a return to sanity.

  The boy's eyes met hers, an I-told-you-so look on his face. Sarah nodded her head to reassure him. She wasn't worried, at least, not about that fish. Nevertheless, an icy knot settled in her stomach.

  The stranger's wading boots were top-quality. His jaunty canvas fisherman's hat—the uniform of a fly-fishing aficionado—had bits of polar bear hair and pheasant feathers stuck into its band.

  Sarah squeezed her eyes shut again, but his image refused to disappear. His face, all chiseled lines and planes, just missed being drop-dead handsome. Instead of softening his strong chin, a finger-deep cleft added to the impression of sculptured hardness. Tall and tanned, he could have stepped from the pages of any slick outdoor sporting magazine.

  Instinctively, however, she knew fishing was not his reason for being here.

  She had no real evidence for her suspicion. Everything was exactly as it should be, from his fancy wicker creel to the delicately balanced split-bamboo rod he handled so deftly. Yet she knew. This was the stranger who'd been asking questions about her up and down the valley. He'd come to Northwest Arkansas, not to fish, but to find her.

  Signaling to Jimmy Joe to be careful, Sarah began moving slowly and cautiously back into the thicket. She'd seen enough. Scarface was in no danger. A non-edible fly would never fool that old bass. She was the one in danger of being caught.

  She'd almost made it to the flank of the hill when the sound of the man's voice drew her back.

  "If you want to watch me fish, sonny, you can see better if you come a little closer."

  His resonant voice was pitched at exactly the right decibel level to penetrate the thicket. Jimmy Joe's face blanched white, his freckles as stark as measles spots as he gave Sarah a frightened look.

  "Come on down, son. I know you're back. I'm not going to hurt you." The man didn't even turn to look at the thicket.

  Sarah's heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to stay calm. She put a finger to her lips, cautioning Jimmy Joe to say nothing about her presence, then gave him a slight nod to indicate it was all right to go.

  As Jimmy Joe crawled to the edge of the bluff and slid down the red clay slope on the seat of his pants, Sarah shifted her position to the front of the thicket, determined to keep a close eye on her young charge.

  * * *

  Jordan Matthias forced himself to appear unconcerned as he waited for the boy
to come out of his hiding place. Why was the kid watching him? He'd known he was under observation earlier in the day, had known, too, when his secret watcher left the thicket. When he found the child-size footprints in the soft dirt, he'd breathed a sigh of relief. A child was no threat. He didn't think his questions about Sarah Wilson had raised animosity in the community, but he couldn't be sure. It certainly hadn't produced results. He was no closer to finding his quarry than the day he'd arrived here two weeks ago.

  Now that the boy was back and Jordan's original question remained unanswered. Was he being watched because of his search for the elusive Sarah Wilson or because of a child's curiosity?

  Even under the circumstances, he'd enjoyed his two weeks in the area of Mountain Springs, Arkansas. This quiet Ozark backwater was raw and un-manicured, yet beautiful. Outcrops of red and yellow sandstone and gray granite embellished the green perfection of rolling pastures. The people of the area matched their land—rugged individuals, their soft-spoken courtesy masking a stoney reserve.

  Given the natives' natural reticence, he shouldn't be surprised that he'd been unable to unearth the slightest clue about Sarah Wilson. He'd traced her to this area, but then she'd simply disappeared.

  Jordan turned his attention to the boy now dusting the red clay dust from the back of his pants. He looked to be six or seven years old, his freckles and tousled red hair projecting the portrait of a Tom Sawyer in Technicolor.

  "How'd you know I was there?" the boy asked. "I know I was real quiet. Grandpa says I'm as quiet as a 'possum'."

  "You were very quiet," Jordan agreed. "In fact, the first time you were here I wasn't sure who was watching me. But after you left, I found your tracks."

  "So how'd you know I was back?"

  "My antenna picked you up."

  The boy's eyes widened. He walked cautiously around Jordan, examining him closely. "I don't see them."

  "See what?"

  "Your antenna."

  Jordan laughed softly. "I don't really have an antenna, son. I just meant that I can usually sense when someone is watching me."

  "Oh," Jimmy Joe answered, the confused look on his face now replaced by one of understanding. "You mean you've got the sight. Like Cissie."

  Jordan's pulse jumped at the boy's matter-of-fact statement. He deliberately schooled his expression to hide his excitement. Was it possible that after two weeks of frustrating failure he was going to accidently stumble across the trail of the missing Sarah Wilson?

  "I don't think so," he finally said. "Just who is Cissie and what exactly is the sight?"

  "Cissie's my cousin," the boy told him. "She knows things, too. Like the time Uncle Hiram's best coon dog got lost and she knew he'd got himself caught in a cave. Or when company's coming, only they ain't said so. Things like that. Grandpa says she's got the sight."

  "I see," Jordan said.

  "She nearly always knows when she's being watched, too. Like the time when we was picking berries and she knew a bear was coming. She made us get up a tree," the boy said, continuing his story. "We sat there for a long time. Then this old mama bear and her cub came out of the woods and waded right into the thicket where we'd been."

  "What happened next?" the man asked.

  "We waited until the bears finished eating all the berries they wanted and went away. Then we got down from the tree and went home. Grandpa says God made enough berries for us all, but sometimes you have to wait your turn."

  Jordan laughed appreciatively. "I've heard these hills are full of tale-spinners, but I didn't know they started training you so young," he said.

  "What do you mean, mister?"

  "Just that you tell a good story. What's your name, son?"

  "Jimmy Joe. James Joseph Lutteral. What's yours?"

  "I'm Jordan Matthias. I'm pleased to meet you, Jimmy Joe." He offered his hand. Jimmy Joe wiped his on the back of his grimy jeans before manfully extending his.

  From her hidden position in the thicket above the shoreline, Sarah held her breath, daring even a leaf to move. The stranger was directly facing the thicket, standing as he was, in front of Jimmy Joe. His eyes, surrounded by thick lashes, were dark and alert. Feeling as helpless as a moth pinned to a display board, she struggled to control a shiver of apprehension.

  Dear heaven, what was wrong with her? Hunk or not, this man was a stranger and, if her instincts were right, a threat. Yet all he had to do was look in her direction and her heart fluttered like a giddy teenager.

  She breathed a silent prayer of thanks when he turned toward the lake once again, and, with just the barest flick of his wrist, cast the almost invisible line across the water.

  "Do you like to fish?" she heard him ask.

  "Sometimes," Jimmy Joe answered nonchalantly.

  "Do any fly-fishing?"

  "Nah. Just worms. Grandpa says the fish around here like things natural."

  Jordan Matthias chuckled again. The pleasant musical sound drifted into Sarah's hiding place on the warm humid air.

  "Your grandfather may be right. I've tried every fly I have on the wily old bass hiding out in that hole. I don't think he's having any of it."

  Now Jimmy Joe's grin spread from ear to ear. "That's what Cissie says," he answered.

  "So, your cousin talks to fish, too. What else does she say?"

  "Just—just that ol' Scarface won't have nothin' to do with a bit of fluff or feather," Jimmy Joe stammered. "Scarface likes worms."

  "Well, I don't know about that, Jimmy Joe," the man answered. "That bass has been around awhile. He hasn't tangled with too many worms on too many hooks. Otherwise, he wouldn't be so big and sassy." The fisherman grinned again, as if he'd just had an amusing thought. "Or do you just catch him, feed him worms and then throw him back? Is that where he got his preference for worms?"

  Jimmy Joe shook his head solemnly. "Nah, we don't catch him." He dropped his eyes and dug the toe of one shoe into the soft ground.

  Sarah recognized the guarded look that flickered across the boy's face. Apparently Matthias did, too. A teasing grin tugged at the corners of the man's mouth.

  "So you don't catch him, huh? What does that mean? That you just feed him worms?"

  When Jimmy Joe gave a guilty start, Matthias seemed to hesitate, then laughed aloud. "You had me going there for a minute," he told Jimmy Joe. "Feed worms to a bass? That, young man, is quite a story."

  "I ain't telling you no story, mister."

  "That's what makes you so good. You just spun me a tall-tale about feeding worms to a lake bass, without saying it. You are something else, Jimmy Joe Lutteral."

  "But I didn't tell you I feed Scarface worms," the boy insisted.

  Even from her position in the thicket, Sarah could see the proud, stubborn look on Jimmy Joe's face.

  "If you don't feed him," the man asked, "then who am I supposed to believe does?"

  "Cissie."

  Jordan eyed the boy standing in front of him. If Jimmy Joe's expression was to be believed, the boy meant every word he'd said, as well as the ones he hadn't uttered. The boy shifted his weight again, but refused to lower his eyes.

  "Tell me, why do you call the bass Scarface?"

  "'Cause he's got a big scar across his snout."

  "You've actually seen him that close? Close enough to see a scar?"

  "Sure."

  Jordan studied the boy a minute longer, then threw back his head and laughed again, his teeth a flash of white in his sunburned face.

  "You still doubtin' my word, mister?" Jimmy Joe asked defiantly.

  Jordan saw the anger spark in his boy's eyes. "There's no need to get mad. I've admitted you tell one of the best yarns I've ever heard. It beats the usual one-that-got away tale all to heck."

  "I never said he got away."

  "That's an expression, Jimmy Joe. It's a classification for a tall tale—fisherman style."

  "But you ain't believing me."

  Jordan paused. He hadn't intended to challenge the boy. "Would it make you
happier if I said I believed your story?" he asked softly.

  "Not if you don't."

  "That's what I thought. So, what do we do now?"

  Jimmy Joe gave a quick sideways glance at the thicket before moving his eyes toward the deep pool. Then he looked uneasily into Jordan's face.

  The boy's obviously dismay disturbed Jordan. Damn it all. He hadn't meant to back the boy into a corner. Who would have thought the kid would defend a point of integrity so intensely? He watched as the youngster grappled with his dilemma and saw the boy's eyes clear as he came to a decision.

  Jimmy Joe turned toward the thicket. "Cissie," he bellowed, "Cissie, you gotta come out now?"

  "Why are you calling your cousin, Jimmy Joe?"

  "Cause Grandpa says that if a man doubts your word there's only two things you can do."

  "And what are they?"

  "You can either beat him till he cries uncle or you can prove yourself to his face."

  "So why are you calling Cissie?"

  "'Cause you're too big for me to whup."

  Jordan bit the inside of his cheek in his effort to keep from laughing in front of the boy and nodded his head in acknowledgement. He didn't dare betray his excitement. It wasn't likely that Jimmy Joe's cousin, the one with the sight, was the missing schoolteacher. But there was always that slim chance.

  Sarah had known she was going to have to go to Jimmy Joe's aid even before the boy's summons. Resigned, she waited for his call, wondering why, out of the hundred of locations dotting the Beaver Lakes shoreline, Jordan Matthias has chosen her doorstep as his fishing spot.

  Not until she was pushing her way through the thicket did inspiration strike. She looked down at her tattered, berry-stained shirt. Overly large, and long-sleeved for protection against the briars, it adequately disguised the curves of her slim figure. Her five-foot nothing height was often the cause of her being mistaken for someone much younger than twenty-seven. If she allowed herself to slip into the colloquial speech of the area, she might be able to pull it off.