Endless Night

by Maureen A. Miller

  Jake drew back before his will abandoned him.

  “He’s close, isn’t he?” she whispered.

  “Yes. I think he is.” He dusted her mouth with the pad of his thumb and watched her eyes grow dark. “I also think that he enjoys baiting you like this.”

  Megan snorted in disdain. “Oh, there’s no doubt about that.”

  He used the backs of his fingers to sweep silky strands of hair away from her cheek. “It’s not too late to get the police involved. That’s what I’d like to do, Meg. I want you to be safe.”

  On a hearty groan Megan flipped onto her back to lay by his side. Her fingers touched his. “That wouldn’t keep me safe. That would only postpone the inevitable.”

  She pulled the blanket up over both of them. “Gordon would wait. He’d know the police were here, and he would wait until they left. If I were to accuse him of stalking me, the claim would never stick. You know that, Jake,” she pleaded with conviction. “And when the police do finally leave, then he would come.”

  If only he could have faith that it would be different. The law-abiding citizen in him wanted to trust in the system. The pragmatist in him knew otherwise.

  “It’s almost dawn,” he remarked, although the windows had not yet warmed up to that revelation.

  “Quite a night.”

  Jake turned his head on the pillow to study her profile. Megan had one of those pert noses that lessened the severity of her somber expression.

  “Regrets, Meg?”

  The patter of rain had ceased, and in the pre-dawn hush he swore he could hear Megan’s heart beat.

  Her head turned toward his as she smiled sadly. “I have plenty of regrets.”

  From the depths of the blanket her hand rose to blend into his hair, as with feminine fascination she toyed with the wavy ends. “Being with you is not one of them.” Her voice was unnaturally husky. “I just regret how we met. I regret dragging you into this.” Her fingers spontaneously clenched. “I regret that we’re not done here.”

  “We will finish this,” he said, reading into her meaning. “And I’m not talking about just making love to you.” He took the hand on his face and pressed it against his cheek. “Meg, we’re not done here. By a long shot.”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt. God, I’m so scared for you.”

  “You put me up in this house.” He tried to inject some levity. “We’re in this together. So, I want to propose something.”

  Jake enjoyed the way Megan’s eyebrow cocked with curiosity and her eyes sharpened as if she were gauging the soundness of his mind.

  “And what is that, Mr. Grogan?” she whispered.

  “Let’s get out of here for a while. I think this house feeds on our apprehension. It nurtures it.”

  Looking up at the high ceiling just now visible from the light outside, Megan wrapped her arms about her. Jake followed her glance and took in the peeling blue paint, flakes large enough to fall to the ground and pass as potato chips. The gold crown molding also peeled, but it lent some opulence to the architecture. It wasn’t a bad place to hole up during a storm. It had its charm and could be restored to its original luster. No matter what the Atlantic threw at this place, Wakefield House would survive and hold on to its secrets with tenacity as strong as its grip on the cliff itself.

  But he wished that wasn’t the case. He wanted to know more of its secrets. What did Gabrielle think as she grew up in its darkened halls? Or were they once bright, flooded with sunlight, instead of the lockdown Megan had imposed on it.

  Megan’s eyes returned to his.

  “I made love to you in this house,” she said with a smile. “It’s not such a bad place to be.”

  In the rearview mirror, the subject of Megan’s parting words looked like a battered sentry, scarred by the enemies it encountered along the way. A roof bereft of many wooden shakes gave the appearance of hair loss, while atop the circular turret, a tarnished eagle weathervane dipped down, burdened by the wind and a rusty foundation.

  Still and all, Wakefield House dominated the cliffs with a regal spirit, touting its superior attitude as if it were still majestic, coated in glossy white paint and navy wooden shutters. She knew that if the drapes were open in all the windows, the sun coming off the Atlantic would pierce through the house as if nature had staged its own laser display.

  Megan took her eyes off the reflection and inched down in the passenger seat.

  “Oh, no you don’t.”

  The taunt nearly goaded a smile, but she kept her head low and pulled sunglasses up onto the bridge of her nose.

  “Old habits die hard,” she mumbled.

  Jake took his hand from the steering wheel, intending to touch her, but the Jeep bucked like an ambushed mustang and he had to rein it in.

  “Anyway.” She glanced at Jake’s profile.

  His dark hair was ruffled endearingly by determined cowlicks, and his face was shadowed by razor neglect below his cheekbone. Jake’s intensity made him more attractive, as if everything he had to offer in the world was exposed on his sleeve for all to see. He was all man.

  “Anyway,” she repeated after clearing her throat, “in the past year I can probably count on one hand how many times I’ve been out of that house. Now, just this week, I’ve been out twice. Don’t underestimate your effect on me.”

  When they reached the last stretch of frozen turf before the trail dipped down to the main road, he turned to look at her. In his eyes she could see reflected the golden hue of frozen grass and gray clouds.

  “Don’t underestimate yourself. We both know damn well if you didn’t want to leave, we wouldn’t be here.”

  That was true, but when the Jeep pulled onto Victory Cove’s main road, the impulse to scurry back up the hill was nearly debilitating. Jake saw it and reached for her hand to squeeze it.

  “So, where are we going anyway?” Megan watched them pull up to the intersection that would ultimately lead to O’Flanagan’s, but Jake kept going straight into town.

  “I want to pay someone a visit—” he tipped his wrist to look at his watch, “—and I have to call my sister from someplace where I can get a signal.”

  “You’re going to see Estelle?”

  There was a slight flinch in Jake’s shoulder. “No, but I will soon.”

  “Then who? Harriet? Cooper?”

  Jake slowed the Jeep down as they passed through the heart of Victory Cove. Under the overcast sky, the horseshoe inlet was blanketed with fog, and out beyond the stone jetty, the Atlantic faded into obscurity behind black storm clouds. Piles of lobster creels were stacked at the end of the stone wall and a splash of color came from the multicolored lobster buoys dangling from that manmade pod tower. The faded strip of shops awaited the magic of photosynthesis to come alive again, but a puff of smoke spiraled above the diner, a gasp of warmth in a wintry but charismatic environment.

  Only a mile or two past town, Jake flipped on the blinker, which was a ludicrous precaution when no one was coming in either direction.

  “Where are we going?” Megan repeated, hating that her voice cracked.

  The Jeep turned off the main road and rolled and heaved over a rutted driveway as the fine mist of the sea speckled the windows.

  Jake flipped on the wipers. “Cooper gave me directions. I need to speak to this guy, John Morse.”

  John Morse? John Morse? The name rolled in her head until she jolted. The guy from O’Flanagan’s who scared the hell out of me the other night?

  “Why?” Her voice cracked again.

  Through the condensation on the windshield, Megan could just make out a small shack in the distance. It sat on the threshold of land and sea, a crag shaped like a fist that dared the Atlantic to mess with it. Before she could get a better look, Jake stopped the Jeep and shut off the engine, letting the sea mist cosset them.

  “There’s something I have to tell you.” His tone was grave. The grip he had on the steering wheel was painful to watch.

  Oh God. Here i
t comes. He was about to tell her that he wanted nothing to do with her messed-up world. He had no need to be involved with a murderer and his psycho prey.

  What made the situation so impossible was that she looked at Jake now, the dark concentration that tugged at her breath, the sheer intimacy she felt in his company, and knew that she had fallen in love with the man who was about to leave.

  “I found out the truth about my parents.”

  Oh. “You found out…” she began breathlessly, “…what did you find?”

  Concern for the man at her side surged through her. She was sickened by the fact that it had taken till this moment for Jake to share his news, having been consumed by her outrageous plight.

  It was all so apparent now. A muscle pumped in Jake’s jaw, and the hands that gripped the steering wheel were so taut she thought he would wrench the shaft out of the vehicle.

  How could she have not spotted it before? Was their relationship so budding that she didn’t detect the fine lines of worry? Was she so selfish, so consumed with her fears that she neglected the newfound pain in Jake’s eyes?

  “Jake.” Megan touched him. Her fingers wrapped around his arm, but the muscle flexed beneath her touch, creating a circumference she could not close around. “Honey, tell me.”

  Where the endearment slipped from, she’d never know. Only Margaret had relationships with men, and never once had she used the term honey. But the depth of her feelings for Jake manifested at unusual moments—in foreign ways.

  If Jake heard the slip, he didn’t acknowledge it. His gaze was fixed on the rivulets of water that trickled down the windshield. In a painfully sluggish move, he abandoned his grip on the wheel, which also drew him from her touch.

  “Crow Musgrave was my father and Gabrielle was my mother.”

  That declaration came as no shock to Megan. In the material and references they had come across in the past few days, the revelation seemed logical. But to be offered an identity at this stage in life had to be overwhelming—far more traumatic than dismissing an identity.

  “But Jake…” She touched his thigh. She wanted him to feel connected with her.

  “Everything we read, everything we heard at O’Flanagan’s—he sounds like a wonderful man.”

  Crisp golden eyes pinned her, and under the scrutiny she swore she heard the wind kick up. It grabbed a hold of the Jeep and began a gentle tug in an effort to pull it out to sea.

  “Meg.” Pain laced his voice. “I’m half Native American.”

  In those golden swirls she saw angst and uncertainty, fear of the unknown, fear of some form of rejection he had yet to even comprehend.

  “Oh, Jake,” she whispered.

  Megan looked at the naturally bronzed skin, the shiny dark hair and enigmatic eyes. There was an identity to attribute his sinfully good looks to.

  “I’m not going to sit here and try to imagine how you must feel—how shocked you must be—maybe even slightly betrayed for having this kept from you all your life. But…” she smiled at him now, a soft smile filled with everything in her heart, “…you are a beautiful man. You are a caring man. You have qualities that you should be damn proud of. Are you honestly worried about the color of your skin, or is it something deeper than that?”

  Jake’s head was tipped toward the driver’s side window, but she could tell he listened to her intently. Tension made his jaw clench as he reached up to massage the back of his neck and dropped his hand back down on the steering wheel with a dull thud.

  “Because I’ve got to tell you,” Megan persisted, “I’m half-Polish, and I’m immune to the jokes by now, but you can go ahead and take your best shot.”

  For a moment there was simply the sad whistle of the wind leaking through the Jeep’s chassis, and then Jake shook his head and turned toward her with a droll grin.

  “You’re too damn much, Meg, do you know that?”

  Feeling victorious over the minor triumph of his smile, Megan laughed. “Did you ever hear the one about the—”

  Jake cut her off with the sweep of his thumb across her bottom lip. Megan’s breath hitched in her throat. There was enough turbulence in his stare to challenge any storm.

  “You better watch it, Megan Summers—or Margaret Simmons.” His voice was soft and husky. “I’m just liable to say something that will dramatically change the scope of our relationship.”

  Megan wanted to believe it was something to mirror her own feelings, but she dared not risk the temptation. How in God’s name could he care for a woman with razor-studded baggage? A woman he couldn’t even address by name?

  She opened her mouth to respond, but his thumb continued its soft perusal.

  “So,” Jake sighed and reluctantly withdrew. “That is why we are here.”

  Her lips formed a small o. She cleared her throat and managed, “Oh.”

  Jake held her gaze for a weighted moment, a moment during which she heard her heart pounding in her ears. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “Hail,” Jake muttered. “Better make a run for it.”

  Before her wits could return, Megan watched Jake jut a long leg out into the mire and then he thrust his whole body into the motion. Still hypnotized, she caught his murky shadow round the front of the Jeep, crossing to her side to haul open the passenger door. A frigid mixture of wind and ice instantly pricked her face, but she mechanically followed Jake’s lead.

  Hail pelted the craggy path before her, some exceptionally large pellets bouncing up to assault her legs. Relying on Jake’s arm for support, Megan finally let go and sprinted the last few steps to seek shelter under a sagging aluminum overhang.

  Up three unstable steps, she stomped her boots on the rotted porch and shook out her hair. Jake mumbled something to the effect of just lovely as he regarded the deck littered with garbage cans and firewood barely shielded under green tarpaulin. She turned to look at him, but his head was craned in scrutiny of the gutter that had broken loose and surged water into a pool near the stairs.

  Preoccupied, she gasped when the front door opened.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Megan recognized John Morse from the brief encounter at O’Flanagan’s. On his turf, under his surly perusal, she felt no less anxious than she had at the inn. He was a dark, severe man and resembled a wild horse with his black mane billowing out in the wind and then cascading back against his face.

  “Wasn’t expecting guests,” Morse muttered as he coughed into his fist. Through the screen his features were distorted, but his guarded demeanor could not be concealed. She couldn’t tell if it was hostility or curiosity in those penetrating eyes, but what was obvious was that he was not looking at her. John Morse was staring at Jake.

  “I know you don’t know us,” Jake began, “but my name is Jake Grogan, and I’m wondering if I could have a few moments of your time.” He hesitated and held his palm out as if his hand could speak for him. Finally, he managed, “To talk about your uncle.”

  The dark eyes did not waver. In the ensuing silence, Megan wrapped her arms about her to ward off the coastal wind as she watched its frigid fingers toy with Morse’s hair. Still, Morse did not move or speak. She glanced over her shoulder at the Jeep already blanketed with a thin veil of snow. She sought Jake’s gaze, but he was locked in a visual tug-of-war.

  At last, Morse pushed the screen door open and stepped back to admit them.

  Only the assuring touch of Jake’s hand at her waist could propel her forward. For as much trepidation as she felt though, the allure of the warm fire inside suppressed some fear.

  “Thanks,” Jake said gruffly, the door slamming shut behind him. “I guess you’re wondering who I am—or what we’re doing here?”

  Morse had taken only one step back and crowded Megan and Jake on the unraveled throw rug sitting just inside the doorway. He might have fallen a few inches short of Jake’s dominant frame, but John Morse was no less intimidating. There was an animalistic keenness to his eyes that made Megan instinctively move closer to Jake.
r />   “I know who you are,” he said with solemn resolve.

  Taken aback, Jake’s hand clenched. “Oh?”

  For the first time, Morse blinked. The swarthy stranger slowly gauged Jake and his eyebrow arched in conclusion.

  “You’re my cousin,” he uttered with feigned disinterest.

  The floor suddenly seemed unstable. Not made of wood, but something porous that threatened to suck him under. Jake looked at the man—really looked at him. Long black hair was tucked behind one ear to reveal a bronze complexion with shrewd eyes narrowed in scrutiny. Jake searched the broad cheekbones and slightly hooked nose for any resemblance, but it was as if he had a complete mental lapse as to what his own countenance looked like.

  Jake sought Megan’s gaze. Just the fact that she was there, with an encouraging smile and a tender touch tugged at something inside his chest, but his plaintive look must have asked the question his lips refused to pose.

  “I don’t really see a whole lot of resemblance,” she offered uneasily.

  Morse shrugged a flannel shoulder as if he could care less about their opinion.

  “Harriet told me you would probably stop by.” Turning his back to them, he moved through the central room that served as a sleeping quarters, galley and hospitality suite. Across the back wall ran a nicked Formica counter from which he grabbed a percolator coffeepot and held it up in invitation.

  “Coffee?”

  When Megan and Jake shook their heads, Morse’s dark eyes sliced to the kitchen table. “Whisky?” He snickered.

  Their silent denial made him shrug.

  “So.” Morse gave them a guarded look. “Why are you here?”