Come Morning

by Pat Warren

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1998 by Pat Warren

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue,

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at

  www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  A Time Warner Company

  First eBook Edition: March, 1998

  The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-446-53565-6

  Contents

  “Do you believe there is a love that strong?”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Do you believe there is a love that strong?”

  Briana asked as she met his eyes, silvery in the moonlight.

  Slade had the feeling they were no longer talking about the legend. The night was heavy with humidity, with sudden sensual tension.

  “I’d like to think there is,” she said.

  Slade saw the wind blow her hair around her face, watched her reach up to try to tame it. “It’s an interesting story,” he said, wanting desperately to touch that lovely hair, to shove his hands into its thickness, to bury his face in its feminine fragrance. “But I still prefer reality.”

  Looking up at him, Briana saw his eyes change, darken, grow heated. Or was it just a trick of moonlight? Emotions so close to the surface lately, swirled inside of her, all tangled together, needs and longings and desire, thickening her voice. “What is reality?”

  Slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes on hers. “This.” Lowering his head, he pressed his lip to hers…

  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR BELOVED ROMANCE AUTHOR PAT WARREN AND HER AWARD-WINNING NOVELS

  “From page one, drama and mystery hang over your head, pressing you onward. Beholden’s superb visual intensity also helps make this a ‘frightfully good’ read.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Pat Warren is in top form with this fast-paced and exhilarating novel. Beholden is great entertainment.”

  —Romantic Times

  “[A] moving novel featuring timely plotting, timeless romance, well-realized characters, and plenty of suspense.”

  —The Paperback Forum on Forbidden

  “Captures the drama, action, and passion that one has come to associate with the Montana Maverick series.”

  —Affaire de Coeur on Outlaw Lovers

  “Ms. Warren melds chilling suspense and passionate romance into a marvelous amalgam of reading pleasure.”

  —Romantic Times on Till Death Do Us Part

  Also by Pat Warren

  Forbidden

  Beholden

  No Regrets

  Published by WARNER BOOKS

  To Frank and Eleanor Pugliesi, because old friends are the best friends.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My sincere appreciation to Ward Fleger with Battalion 202, Mesa, Arizona fire Department, for sharing his vast knowledge and walking me through a devastating explosion fire step-by-step.

  Also, I’d like to thank the people at the Nantucket Chamber of Commerce for all their helpful advice and for the many booklets and all the material on their lovely island that they sent to me.

  Lastly, a great big thank you to my editor, Tina Moskow, for her unflagging support and for always making my books better than they start out.

  Prologue

  On the winding walkway of the Public Gardens on Charles Street across from the Boston Common, Briana Morgan snapped pictures of her seven-year-old son tossing chunks of bread to the sassy ducks in the pond. In the morning sunlight, the child’s blond hair shimmered with golden highlights as he watched an elegant swan regard him disdainfully before swimming off. A baby duck upended himself in the blue water, shaking his little tail, and Bobby giggled.

  Briana smiled as she lowered her camera, then checked her watch. “It’s time to go. We don’t want to keep Dad waiting.” Every other Saturday since the divorce, her ex-husband picked up their son for the weekend. The arrangement was amicable.

  Bobby tossed the rest of the bread at the ducks, then skipped along the walk, his mother following. They hadn’t gone far when he spotted a green balloon caught up in the branches of a tree. Without waiting for permission, he started climbing.

  It wasn’t far up, Briana decided, so she let him go. He was a spontaneous child who loved life and she hated to squelch him in any way. Instead, she took more pictures of her son reaching out to the green balloon, finally freeing it, then carefully scampering back down and looping the string around his wrist. He sent her a triumphant glance, his blue eyes shining, then continued hopping and jumping because merely walking was boring.

  They reached the street and Briana looked up and down the block, finally spotting her ex-husband at the corner of Beacon and Charles. He was in an animated conversation with a man whose back was to her. There was quite a lot of foot traffic along the Common, people blocking her view and making recognition of Robert’s companion impossible. So she busied herself snapping more pictures of Bobby studying a caterpillar and passersby hurrying to complete weekend errands and tourists enjoying a warm and lovely April morning.

  When next she looked up, Robert Morgan was walking toward them with long, angry strides and a dark frown on his face. But when he saw his son running toward him, Robert’s smile was genuine and welcoming. Briana snapped father and son sharing a warm hug. She decided not to ask Robert why he’sd seemed angry, since he’d apparently put aside whatever had upset him. Instead, she bent down and kissed her son good-bye.

  “I love you, Mom,” Bobby said, as he always did.

  “I love you, too.” She watched him reach for his father’s hand as they crossed the street together on their way to visit the zoo. “Be careful,” she called after them, as she always did.

  She’d planned to drive over to Chinatown to take more pictures for a book in the works, but she could find no better subject anywhere than her son. For the moment, she stood next to a lamppost and kept shooting frames, tilting this way and that for better angles. She switched from wide lens to zoom, capturing each small gesture, each nuance and smile, as Bobby chattered away to his father, the green balloon weaving along on a mild breeze.

  She shot around a city bus, a yellow cab changing lanes, and a gray sedan barreling up the street in a rush of speed, nearly colliding with a blue van overflowing with children. Then she shifted her attention to a forsythia in full bloom, its golden blossoms a welcome sign that summer was near.

  The crackling sounds didn’t register at first. Briana didn’t even pause in her picture taking, thinking the noise was a car backfiring. It wasn’t until she heard people screaming that she lowered her camera. Peering with ever increasing horror through the Charles Street traffic, she could see several people on the ground directly across from her, others scurrying for cover, and a few shouting for help.

  No! It couldn’t be.

  Disbelief clotted the scream in her throat. Terror was an ice-cold hand squeezing her heart. Dear God, no!

  Dodging cars, Briana raced across the street, not for a moment considering her own safety as a convertible swerved and a Volkswagen screeched to a halt, narrowly missing her. People were gathered around two still figures on the ground, while
others got warily to their feet, fear in their eyes. Shoving, she broke through the crowd, looked down, then shrieked as she fell to her knees.

  Robert was on his side, not moving, one leg twisted under his body, a horrible gunshot wound in his cheek. And next to him, lying very still, was her son, his denim jacket soaked through with bright red blood. The green balloon, its string still tied around his wrist, flipped and flopped in a macabre dance.

  Oh, Lord, not Bobby! Not her baby!

  She gathered Bobby to her and held him close, a keening cry bubbling forth from deep inside. A voice behind her yelled for someone to call for an ambulance, quick.

  But Briana Morgan knew it was already too late.

  Chapter One

  Four months later…

  It was half a mile from Gramp’s house to Brant Point Lighthouse on Nantucket Island, a walk Briana Morgan had taken countless times. There were fewer tourists up that way, the sand not quite so pure, with clumps of grass growing sporadically along the slight incline. The lighthouse itself sported a new coat of white paint and the walkway leading to the front door looked recently renovated. Leisurely strolling along the beach, she noticed a young couple maneuvering a bicycle built for two along the boardwalk, laughing as they struggled for balance. Probably honeymooners, she decided.

  She and Robert had never had an actual honeymoon. She didn’t count a long weekend at Manhattan’s Plaza Hotel as such. They’d vaguely promised each other they’d make the time one day for a really special trip. But he’d been intent on climbing the corporate ladder at his bank and she’d just begun her job at the advertising agency the month before they’d married. The time had never seemed right, and suddenly, they were sitting on opposite sides of the aisle in divorce court.

  Briana lifted her face to the warmth of the August sun. She’d flown over from Boston via Hyannis, arriving bag and baggage a mere hour ago, glad to have left behind a chilly three-day rain. It seemed to Briana that she’d been cold a very long time.

  It also seemed as if the disturbing memories outnumbered the good ones lately. If only she could turn off her mind, she thought as she trudged along. Dr. Alexander Davis, the physician her mother had insisted she see when her weight loss and sleepless nights had become noticeable, had told her in his best bedside manner to get plenty of rest, eat right, and that time healed all wounds. Perhaps that old adage would apply to most everything except the death of one’s child. Seven years old was too young to die.

  Maybe some things in life couldn’t be healed by time or sleep or good food, by magic potions or even fervent prayer. Maybe there were times when the best a person could hope for was to learn to cope with the ugly hand they were dealt. Maybe just making it through another twenty-four hours without jumping off the Longfellow Bridge was all the victory one could manage. One day at a time, as the saying went.

  Briana stopped, squinting up at a cloudless blue sky, feeling warm from her walk. She swiped at her feathery bangs, slightly damp now, and wished she’d brought along a scrunchy so she could twist-tie her shoulder-length hair off her neck. She wished she’d brought along some cold bottled water as well. She kept on going.

  Her eyes skimmed the horizon, then drifted to the weathered rocks at the water’s edge just this side of the lighthouse, only a short distance away now. She could see a man sitting on one of the higher boulders where she’d daydreamed away many an hour as a teenager. It was one of her favorite spots.

  For a brief moment, her hands itched for her camera, her mind setting up the picturesque scene, considering angles. Then she dismissed the thought She hadn’t held a camera in four months.

  She noticed that the man was barefoot, wearing jeans and an unbuttoned blue shirt, its open flaps blowing about. His black hair shifted in a playful breeze as he stared out to sea, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Over the years, Briana had come to know almost all the permanent residents, by sight if not personally. She didn’t recognize the man, who was likely a summer visitor.

  Slowing her steps, she kept watching him, wishing he’d chosen to sit elsewhere. She’d have liked to climb up the steep rocks, carefully avoiding the green moss clinging to the sides, and spent an hour emptying her mind as she gazed at the ever changing sea. But someone had beaten her to it.

  As she neared, the man started to rise, then teetered on the slippery rocks for several seconds, and finally toppled backwards. He lay very still exactly where he’d fallen. He might have hit his head, Briana decided as she rushed over, both curious and concerned. Carefully, she climbed up the familiar formation and reached his side.

  He was on his back, wedged into a crevice in a semi-seated position, eyes closed. Leaning forward, she pressed two fingers to the pulse point of his neck and felt a strong heartbeat. She slipped her hand to the back of his head, searching for a bump or a cut, but found nothing. Easing back, she stared down into his face.

  He had the kind of looks that drew a woman’s eye— lean, lanky, athletic. At least two days’ worth of dark beard shadowed his square jaw. Ruggedly handsome, most people would call him, with thick eyelashes and a small, interesting scar just above his left brow giving his face a dangerous slant. Unaware of her, he sighed heavily and began to snore lightly. Not injured, but sound asleep. An odd place for a nap, in broad daylight on a pile of uncomfortable rocks decorated with seaweed alongside a fairly remote lighthouse.

  Then she spotted a brown paper bag alongside his hip. Checking, she found that it contained half a dozen empty beer cans. Not merely asleep, Briana realized, straightening. Passed-out drunk.

  The sun was most decidedly not over the yardarm, yet here he was, an able-bodied man somewhere in his mid-thirties, drunk as a skunk. What a waste.

  She was about to turn away when something made her glance back at him. Even in a deep sleep, his forehead seemed drawn into a frown. There were tiny lines near the corners of his eyes, lines that seemed to her to have been put there more by worry than laughter. There was no relaxation in the way he held his mouth; rather, there was tension evident even in his alcoholic slumber.

  Briana sighed. Who was she to judge this stranger? Perhaps he carried burdens as heavy as hers. If she’d thought she could find an answer in alcohol, she might have tried it herself. She had a feeling that, whoever he was, he was going to discover soon that drinking only made things worse. And he was going to have a whopping headache when he finally woke up.

  Not her problem, Briana thought, scrambling down. Studying him from the ground up, she decided he was firmly entrenched in his crevice and out of harm’s way, with no likelihood of falling off. Even the tide rolling in wouldn’t reach him. It wouldn’t be dark for another couple of hours and he’d probably awaken before then. Later, after she’d unpacked and returned from getting her supplies, she’d check on him again. Just to be sure.

  However, she felt certain that God looked after fools and drunks with equal ease.

  She’d almost reached Gramp’s house when a high-flying beach ball came out of nowhere and whacked her on the shoulder. Turning, she caught it on the bounce and swung around. A towhead around seven or eight with two front teeth missing stood several yards from her, grinning his apology. For a long moment, Briana just stared at him, at the beautiful young boy gazing up at her, so full of life.

  “Hey, lady,” he finally called out impatiently. “I’m sorry. Can I have my ball back?”

  With trembling hands, Briana tossed him the ball, then turned and hurried into her grandfather’s yard and up the stairs. Inside, she leaned against the door, breathing hard. Tears trailed down her cheeks as she swallowed a sob and waited out yet another storm.

  Slade had one hell of a headache. Three aspirin washed down with two glasses of water and a hot shower followed by an ice-cold drenching hadn’t helped much. The man who stared back at him through the steamy bathroom mirror had bloodshot eyes and foul breath. He’d brushed his teeth twice and still tasted beer.

  Moving slowly, like he was eighty-six instead of thirty-six, h
e pulled on clean jeans and a white tee shirt, then slipped his feet into tan Docksiders. Where his black sneakers were was anyone’s guess. He’d been wearing them yesterday when he’d set out for a stroll, carrying along a little liquid refreshment, but he’d awakened sometime in the wee small hours of the morning out by the lighthouse. His beer had disappeared and so had his sneakers.

  Slade walked into the kitchen, blinking at the bright sun pouring in through the windows. His sunglasses had to be around here somewhere, but he felt too shaky to look for them just now. He reached up to slant the louvered blinds, but the movement cost him as his whole body protested. Hours spent sleeping it off on a pile of rocks could do that to a man. Suppressing a groan, he opened the refrigerator and gazed inside. Not a lot of choices, but then, he’d only been in Nantucket a week, mostly eating out. He’d have to do something about groceries real soon.

  There was milk, but even the thought had his stomach roiling. Juice would have tasted good, but he’d forgotten to buy some. “Oh, well,” he muttered, and grabbed a can of beer, of which there was plenty.

  Carefully, he made his way out to the front porch, mindful of his head, afraid to jar it unnecessarily. It felt like a percussion band had set up residence inside his brain. Moving closer to the porch railing, he managed to bump his head on a hanging pot filled with nauseatingly cheerful red geraniums. The drumbeat in his brain picked up the tempo. Stepping back, he stumbled into the lone rocker and it went over with a noisy crash. He swore inventively.

  Grimacing, Slade righted the chair and eased his aching body into it. Even the popping sound as he pulled the tab on the can had him moaning. He studied the can a moment, some vague memory insisting that beer wasn’t the best remedy for a hangover. But he’d already had water and there was nothing else fit to drink. Tipping his head back with care, he drank deeply.

  Blinking, he sat waiting for the explosion, sure he’d detonate with the addition of more alcohol to his system. All he could hear was someone banging around something solid and heavy on the enclosed porch next door. Praying his stomach would settle, he set the can onto the floor, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.