The Heart of Falcon Ridge (The McLendon Family Saga, #1)
Page 26
Waving him off, he shook his head and headed toward the pole-barn styled cabin he’d built just outside the tree line. It was only one room, but it had four walls, a roof, and a covered porch. With an added outdoor shower he’d rigged to the back, which was fed fresh, cold water by an old artesian well, it was all he needed.
Ignoring Winston’s incessant protests, he leaned his pole against one of the front porch support beams and reached for his tackle box. He didn’t have time for monkey business if he was going to get his bait rigged and get his roof shored up before nightfall.
A fresh spool of fishing line in hand, he turned back toward his pole and caught a glimpse of Winston from the corner of his eye. Grant paused as he watched his reluctant pet, jumping up and down and slapping at the surf as it rolled gently onshore. Shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun, he squinted toward the far end of the beach to see what had captured Winston’s attention. His tackle forgotten, his feet moved with increasing speed as the object came into focus and took on an ominous form.
Grant’s pulse picked up as he sprinted closer. What the hell? A familiar, cold calm rushed over his skin as he pushed Winston back from the pale, limp body lying face down, still half in the water. A thick curtain of black hair covered the woman’s face, shielding all but a swatch of pale dead skin from his view.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a dead body. It surely wouldn’t be his last, but damn if he’d ever expected to see one here. Swiftly, Grant mentally inventoried his surroundings. He’d seen no boats milling around the island or the nearby cove lately. No one was on the island but he and Winston and a few stray vermin. Of that he was certain. Without his binoculars, he couldn’t see the other nearby scrub islands well enough to scout anything out. By the waterlogged skin, he judged the body must have washed up sometime overnight. Any threat would be long gone by now. If they had half a brain. Of course, there could have been some sort of boating accident.
Gently he gathered the long strands of ebony hair, revealing the feminine outline of the woman’s face. Preparing himself for the stench that usually came from rotting flesh, and the gore he might see from the meal the ocean’s parasites had probably made of her slender form, he gingerly rolled the woman over in the sand. Letting out a sigh when the body appeared to be intact, Grant took in a cautious breath. He was relieved again to only smell the earthy scents of sea water and sand. Knowing it was futile, he placed his finger over the vein in her neck. D.O.A. and definitely not a boating accident.
Crouched on one knee, Grant rested his forearm across his other knee as he ran through his options. He could dig a grave and call it a day. He studied the lifeless woman before him. Mid to late twenties. It was difficult to tell with the swollen skin around her injuries. Her tattered shirt did nothing to hide the one inch stab wound below her left breast, or the modeled black and blue skin across her firm torso. He also recognized the bloodstains on her cargo pants as they clung to her thighs like a second skin. Someone had done a real number on her.
She had strong bone lines and manicured nails at the tips of her long, slender fingers. He gently maneuvered her arms from her sides and inspected the thin, pale skin. No track marks. She wore no rings or other notable jewelry. He fingered the single shock of neon blue that ran through her otherwise jet black hair as he studied her complexion. Other than the bruising and the stab wounds, she seemed too well cared for to be a homeless junkie. Fuck!
He’d have to call it in. Surely someone was looking for her. He had a satellite phone, but he sure as hell didn’t want his tiny island crawling with local law enforcement idiots. He’d have to load her up in his boat and take her to the mainland. Tell them he fished her out of the water twenty miles or so east of his island. But not today. There was no time to secure his place and make the trip before the storms rolled in.
Resigned, Grant stood to his feet. Focused on his next task, he reached for the woman’s wrist, ready to haul her over his shoulder, when he found himself staring into the ice-blue eyes of a ghost.
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