Safe in His Arms

by Christine Scott

  “Samuel, I’ll be fine…. Go,” she said, rolling her eyes at his concern.

  Finally, without another word, he did as she’d asked. He stepped outside, closing the door behind him. At his departure, an emptiness as vast as the ocean outside her door enveloped her.

  For the first time in days Jessie was completely alone.

  Slowly she glanced around the rooms. Somehow they seemed even darker, as though the storm clouds had settled inside the house as well as outside. The silence echoed in her ears. Jessie wrapped her arms around her waist and hugged herself tight. She felt Samuel’s absence like a raw aching spot in her heart.

  When had it happened?

  When had her feelings for him gone beyond the mutual need to find the truth behind their pasts?

  When had she fallen in love with him?

  Shuddering, more from trepidation over an uncertain future than from the actual chill of the rooms, Jessie hurried to the door and bolted the lock. Feeling weak and tired, she leaned her head against its solid strength.

  From the beginning she’d known that her relationship with Samuel would not be an easy one. She’d tried hard not to let her heart become involved. But now it was too late.

  No matter what the outcome might be, she knew she would not come out of this time with him unscathed.

  Samuel’s grip tightened around the steering wheel as he maneuvered the truck over the narrow, rutted lane leading away from Gull’s Cottage. Leaving Jessie behind, lying to her, had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. Even though the lie was one of omission, meant to protect rather than to hurt.

  Samuel wasn’t going to the boat this morning. He had no intention of going anywhere near the docks. Instead he was headed for town and a long-overdue confrontation.

  Since last night Samuel had been troubled by his conversation with Jessie. Other than leaving things unfinished between them, something else had bothered him. It had been the mention of Sheriff Broward and his reaction to their investigation into Eve’s murder that had nagged at his growing suspicions.

  For too many years he’d endured the sheriff’s disdain, telling himself that he’d brought on the older man’s censure by his youthful years of rebellion. After his parents’ deaths, Samuel had wanted to lash out, to find someone to blame for what had happened to his family.

  His rage had centered on Sheriff Gilbert Broward.

  Who better to blame than the man responsible for bringing his father to so-called justice? If it hadn’t been for Sheriff Broward and his flimsy evidence, his father would never have gone to trial. He’d never have been sentenced to a life in prison. His mother’s heart wouldn’t have been broken. Nor would she have died at her own hand.

  If it wasn’t for Sheriff Broward, Samuel’s life wouldn’t have been destroyed.

  The truck’s motor heaved in protest. The tires spun out, slipping on roadside gravel as Samuel lurched onto the blacktopped highway. Regaining control, he tromped his foot down onto the gas pedal and sped toward town.

  As a teenager, he’d found a way to vent his anger through pointless destruction and by lashing out at the town’s sheriff. As an adult, though Samuel had learned to control his emotions, he’d never found the strength to forgive the man he thought of as his nemesis.

  The animosity between him and Sheriff Broward remained as potent today as it had twenty years earlier. If anything, it had grown even stronger. The only difference was that Samuel had learned to bite his tongue and not indulge himself in the battle of wills the sheriff seemed so bent upon engaging in.

  Instead he’d taken years of verbal abuse from the mouth of a man who was supposed to be his protector.

  He would take no more.

  The gray brick building that housed the sheriff’s department stood on the outside of town. Patrol cars and various other county vehicles clogged the small parking lot. Samuel slid into an empty space beside a black-and-white patrol car. Slamming the gear into Park, he cut the engine and scrambled out of the truck.

  Lightning crackled in the sky, followed closely by the rumble of thunder. The sky’s electrically charged display matched his own agitated mood, serving as a perfect foil to the storm brewing deep inside him. Thrusting open the glass door, he entered the one-story building.

  A deputy, a man Samuel had gone to school with, stood at the front counter. He glanced up from a stack of papers. His gaze narrowed in recognition. “Morning, Samuel. What can I do for you, today?”

  Samuel wasted no time on niceties. “Is Broward in?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Not waiting for further explanation, Samuel pushed open the swinging half door that separated the lobby from the rest of the building. He strode purposefully down the center aisle of the large outer room toward the hall leading to the sheriff’s back office.

  “Samuel, wait,” the deputy called after him. “You can’t just barge in—”

  “I can and I will,” Samuel growled, setting his jaw in a determined line, daring the man to stop him.

  At the commotion, other deputies looked up from their desks. Some rose to their feet, snapping to attention at the first sign of trouble. Others stood staring in surprise, caught off guard by the intrusion.

  Samuel didn’t wait for an armed escort off the premises. He continued walking, not stopping until he came to the closed door of the office marked Sheriff. Without knocking, he threw open the door and startled its lone occupant.

  Sheriff Gilbert Broward was seated at his desk, talking on the phone. The conversation stopped abruptly. His expression hardened at the sight of his unannounced visitor.

  “Sheriff, we need to talk,” Samuel said, hearing the ominous tone of his own voice.

  For just a moment Samuel thought he saw fear flicker in the other man’s eyes. Recovering his aplomb, the sheriff glared at him as he spoke into the phone, “Harold, I’ll have to call you back. I’ve got a small problem to deal with.”

  Footsteps sounded behind Samuel, alerting him to the approach of others. Two large deputies stepped up beside him, each grabbing him by an arm.

  The deputy from the front desk scowled his impatience. With a contrite glance at his boss, he said, “Sorry, Sheriff. He got by me before I could stop him.”

  “That’s all right, Jimmy,” the sheriff said, his shrewd gaze never leaving Samuel. “I’ll handle this myself. Let him go.”

  Reluctantly both deputies did as they were bade: they released their iron grips. Samuel resisted the urge to rub the circulation back into his arms. Stepping away from the door, but leaving it open, the men disappeared down the corridor.

  “Sit down, Samuel,” the sheriff barked, his face a mask of stony defiance. “Let’s hear what you have to say, so you can get the hell out of my office.”

  Samuel almost smiled at the other man’s agitation, but he thought better of it. Enough tension filled the office. Samuel knew he was outnumbered and outgunned. There was no point in forcing the sheriff into a battle he would only lose.

  Instead, he seated himself on the chair in front of the desk. Once settled, he looked at the sheriff and said, “I want to know what’s been done regarding the break-in and shooting at Gull’s Cottage.”

  “Been done?” the sheriff snapped, looking appalled by the question. “We’re handling it. Just as we’d handle any other incident on the island.”

  “Have you found anything new? Anything at all?” Samuel persisted.

  The sheriff hesitated, uncertain whether or not to divulge the information he’d obtained. Then, with a shrug, he said, “Nothing useful. The ballistics test came back on the bullets. A .22 gauge rifle was used for the shooting. Which, as you know, is about as common a rifle among hunters as you’ll find in these parts.”

  “Convenient,” Samuel mused.

  The sheriff’s face flushed a deeper hue. “What’s this all about?”

  Ignoring the question, Samuel asked, “What else are you doing to protect Jessie?”

  “Jessie Pierce isn’t my on
ly concern on this island,” the sheriff said, his tone defensive. “I’m responsible for the hundreds of tourists visiting our community—”

  “So, in other words, you’re doing nothing.”

  “I’m doing everything possible,” the sheriff said, clenching his teeth. He rose to his feet and leaned forward, placing his hands on the desktop before him. “I’ve beefed up patrols in the area. And my men have been keeping a close eye on Gull’s Cottage.” With a smug smile of amusement, he added, “Close enough to know that our Ms. Pierce didn’t sleep in her own bed last night.”

  Samuel froze. His muscles stiffened at the innuendo. He refused to allow the sheriff to bait him into a fight, or to distract him from the purpose of his visit. Deciding that he’d wasted enough time on small talk, he came to the real point of his inquiry. “How well did you know Eve Pierce?”

  The sheriff’s smile faded. Instantly wariness returned. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “It’s about you and a murder investigation in which you had a conflict of interest,” Samuel said coldly. “You were involved with Eve Pierce before she died, weren’t you?”

  The sheriff’s mouth snapped shut with a click. His jaw tightened in agitation. A vein pulsed angrily along the side of his thick bull neck.

  Knowing he’d gone too far, but unable to stop himself, Samuel continued, “I know that you spent a great deal of time at Gull’s Cottage, checking on Eve’s well-being before she died. She was a beautiful woman. She had many admirers. It wouldn’t be a surprise if you were among them.”

  “That’s none of your damn business.”

  “It is if you allowed your feelings for Eve to influence the way you handled the investigation into her death.”

  The sheriff’s face turned a deep crimson. “Son, I think you’d better be careful what you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying anything, Sheriff.” Samuel leaned forward in his chair, forcing himself to remain calm in the face of the other man’s growing anger. “I’m telling you…I find it convenient that you were the first to arrive at the scene of the murder. I find it even more convenient that no one ever found key evidence, Eve’s diary. There certainly would have been ample opportunity for a law official—say, someone who was afraid of what the diary might reveal—to slip it out of the house with no one being the wiser.”

  “Diary? What diary?” Broward sputtered, his brows furrowed in confusion.

  “Eve’s diary,” Samuel repeated. “I want to know what happened to it.”

  “If there was a diary, this is the first I’ve heard of it,” the sheriff insisted, his bewilderment too real to be feigned.

  Samuel frowned, his confidence wavering. “You’re lying. I know the police searched the cottage for Eve’s diary.”

  “Who in the hell told you that?” the sheriff growled. Striding to the filing cabinets flanking a wall, he pulled open one of the drawers. “If there’d been a search for a diary, it would have been in the reports. But it isn’t there, because there was no search.” Taking a file from the drawer, he tossed it onto the desk, spreading its contents out before him. “If you don’t believe me, take a look for yourself.”

  At first Samuel didn’t move. His hesitant gaze traveled from the file to the sheriff’s adamant expression, then back again. Slowly, he picked up the file. Unease found root inside him, growing with each passing moment as he leafed through the documents.

  The course of the investigation was outlined in detailed notes. The evidence that convicted his father was set down in carefully typed print: a hat belonging to his father was found in the cottage; his father’s fingerprints were in the kitchen at the scene of the crime; testimony of Eve’s neighbor, Dora Hawkins, put Samuel’s father at Gull’s Cottage on the night of the murder. Though the evidence seemed circumstantial, it had been enough to convict him of the murder by a jury of his peers.

  But what was in the files wasn’t as important as what was missing. There was no mention of the diary. Nothing about a search for the diary, or even of its existence in the first place.

  “Samuel—” the sheriff said gruffly, startling him out of his runaway thoughts. “If there was a diary, this is the first I’ve heard of it. I don’t know who’s been filling your head with these wild stories, but they’re wrong—”

  Panic pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe. Who’d been filling his head with stories?

  Someone he thought he could trust.

  Someone who had no reason to lie, unless…

  “No…” Samuel surged to his feet, spilling the contents of the file to floor. Ignoring the irritable response from the sheriff, he turned on his heel and strode to the door.

  Broward caught up with him, grabbing his arm to stop him. “Samuel, where the hell are you going now?”

  “Jessie…she’s alone,” Samuel ground out harshly, knowing he wasn’t making any sense. But he didn’t have the time to explain. “I left her alone with the monster.”

  Shaking off the sheriff’s restraining hand, he turned and hurried from the office.

  Chapter 14

  Unnerved at being alone, Jessie filled the gaping silence by keeping busy. Despite the constant reminders, she refused to allow herself to dwell on the events that had happened in Gull’s Cottage. Avoiding the kitchen, which seemed to be at the heart of her fears, she began a search of the house. In the bathroom, she searched the closet, restacking sheets to one side, towels to another. The shelves were bare of toiletries, except for her own. Still, she found no sign of the diary.

  An inspection of the bedrooms turned up much the same. Other than a few forgotten photos, a hat, a pair of flip flops and a scarf, there was nothing else of her mother’s left behind. Disappointed, Jessie drifted into the living room, wondering if she was wasting her time. She paused to frown at the bookshelves, then sighed in resignation. As she was about to begin the daunting task of taking down each book to inspect one at a time, Jessie heard a noise coming from the kitchen.

  She stood still, her heart in her throat, as she listened to the sound of the back door being tried, then opened.

  Heavy, rubber-soled footsteps squeaked against the tiled floor. Then the door clicked as it closed shut. And once again, stillness descended upon the house.

  Jessie’s heart pounded in her chest. The raspy sound of her own breath filled her ears. Shaking off her fears, she told herself she was going to look silly standing in the middle of the room with a panic-stricken look on her face when she discovered Samuel at her back door.

  “Samuel?” she called out as she took a tentative step toward the kitchen.

  No one answered.

  “Samuel? Is that you?” she repeated, louder this time, wondering if the noise had been a product of her overactive imagination.

  Then she heard it again. The squeak of shoes on the ceramic tiled floor. Someone was definitely in the house.

  Jessie hesitated at the doorway of the kitchen, scanning the shadowy room, ready to turn and run if necessary. With the storm gathering outside and choking out the day’s light, she almost didn’t see the figure standing in the cover of darkness. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room with a blinding brightness. Snapping on the overhead lamp, she drew in a startled breath as she recognized her visitor.

  “Dora?”

  Dora’s round glasses glinted beneath the harsh light. She blinked, her square face and round body making her look like an owl. Dressed in her usual uniform of loose-fitting khaki pants and an oversize polo shirt, she stepped forward into the halo of light. “I didn’t think anyone was home. I’d have knocked, if I’d known.”

  Thunder rumbled, sounding closer this time. Frowning in confusion, Jessie stepped farther into the kitchen. “Dora, what are you doing here?”

  “The other night I saw all the police cars. That’s when I heard about the break-in and the shooting. Such terrible things,” she said, tsking loudly. She tilted her head to one side, eyeing Jessie curiously. “You’ve been gone a long time,
Jessie. I’ve kept an eye on the house for you. A moment ago I thought I saw a light in a back bedroom. I thought it’d be best if I checked it out.”

  “Of course,” Jessie said, with a heartfelt sigh of relief. “I mean, that’s very kind of you, Dora. But it was only me.”

  Dora nodded. Then, with a frown of concern, she asked, “Are you all right, dear?”

  “I—I’m fine,” Jessie lied, willing her pounding heart to still. “Just a little jittery, considering…”

  “Yes…considering all that’s happened,” Dora murmured, finishing the thought, as she stepped closer. Carefully she added, “I suppose you’ll be leaving soon. You won’t want to stay on Prudence Island now that it’s become too dangerous for you.”

  Jessie stared at her, mesmerized by the lilt of Dora’s hypnotic voice. She felt as though she was being drawn into a spidery web of unreality. Outside, the wind howled in protest, pushing its weight against the windows of the house, startling her out of her trance. “No, I won’t be leaving Prudence Island. At least, not anytime soon. Especially now…”

  She stopped, her voice breaking abruptly.

  “Especially now?” Dora prompted.

  Jessie stared at her, startled by the urgency behind the words. Was it her imagination, or did Dora sound scared?

  Dora’s eyes never left her face. “What’s happened to make you want to stay?”

  Jessie hesitated, not sure how much she should reveal. Prudence Island was a small community. Word traveled fast within its borders. But this was Dora, Samuel’s friend, one of the few friends who had stood by him and his family throughout the ordeal of his father’s murder trial. Surely Jessie would be safe confiding in her, of all people. “My memory…it’s returning.”

  “Your memory?” The words sounded sharp, agitated. “What do you remember?”

  Jessie’s stomach fluttered with unease. She shook her head, fighting the urge to run away. “Just…just bits and pieces. Mostly of the night my mother died.”