by Norah Wilson
As soon as the words were out, he grimaced. Maybe not the best choice in the circumstances, considering last night.
He waited for her answer, which would no doubt be scathing.
But he heard something worse—
Nothing but the wind.
“Dammit, Ocean.” Titus pushed the door open, knowing what he’d find on the other side.
She was gone.
“Ah, Christ!”
The bed was made, but there was something lying on it. Pages and pages of paper. He crossed the room in four fast strides for a closer look. A manuscript.
She’d weighted it down with the partially burned candle from last night, still solidly planted in its ashtray base. Weird. Even if she’d left the door wide open, there was no need of a paperweight to keep the papers together. They were bound together by a large elastic band. Titus moved the candle, removed the elastic from the manuscript and read the top page.
JUDGING KATE
By Ocean Siliker
It wasn’t the neatly typed title and byline that grabbed him as much as the words scrawled beside it in vivid purple ink.
Here’s that kindling I was telling you about. Fair trade.
I hope you find what you want, Titus Standish.
Ocean
“Dammit!”
He flipped through the pages to see if she’d written anything else. Nothing in the margins. Well, nothing in her handwriting anyway. There were notes aplenty, but they were written in someone else’s hand, in red ink. He scanned the pages, his eye drawn to those vivid comments.
Needs emotion!
I’m not feeling it.
Where’s the pulse? The emotion?
I want passion!
Where’s the heart?
Life!
But the final note on the last page was different. Longer. This wasn’t a few words his eyes couldn’t help but catch. It was obviously a personal note to Ocean. Guilt raked him at the thought of reading it, invading her privacy like that.
On the other hand, she’d left it for him. Whether he used it to start a fire or whether he read it was up to him, wasn’t it?
He read on.
Ocean,
This is a technically and structurally sound piece of writing. Your directions are crisp, clear and flowing. But there’s a certain flatness to the writing. Where is the emotion? Where’s the passion? Intellectually, I can appreciate the story, but it doesn’t grab me by the throat like it should. I’m not feeling it.
Don’t hold back, Ocean. Give me a MS that bleeds. Give me a story that bares its very bones, and then we’ll talk.
– Roz.
Titus swore. Poor Ocean. What was it he’d said about her being this great big New York City playwright? Way to rub salt into the wound.
He looked around the cabin. Her backpack was gone, of course. His was right where he’d left it. The big pot of water he’d sterilized last night still sat at the back of the old stove. He crossed to it and took the lid off. The level had dropped slightly, just enough for her to have refilled a couple of water bottles.
He glanced down again at the top page in his hands. What had she meant by fair trade?
He looked back at the bed and the candle in its makeshift holder. The candle that had served as an unneeded paperweight. Then his eyes went to the cupboard drawer from which she must have scrounged the candle. His jaw tightened.
He strode to the cupboard and pulled the drawer open. It was filled with the jumble all kitchens attracted, even ones this far off the beaten track. Serving spoons, ladles, spatulas, and knives of all descriptions. A roll of resealable sandwich bags secured by an elastic band. Not one but two corkscrews. Spare flashlight batteries and bungee cords and a never-used basic screwdriver set. But what he didn’t see there was the old map that had been in that drawer. It was dated and didn’t have half the trails marked on it, but Angel Trail was there. He knew that because he’d penciled the route in himself years ago.
No doubt about it. Ocean was on her way to White Crow.
It was a tricky route. Not easy for a novice on the best of days. And as the wild wind outside reminded him, this wasn’t going to be the best of days. Far from it.
He opened the stove’s door. The embers in the firebox were barely still glowing, more ash than ember. Which meant she hadn’t put any wood in this morning. If she had, he might have been able to estimate how long she’d been gone.
He’d better assume she’d struck out at first light.
Why hadn’t he heard her leaving?
Because you chased sleep half the night and didn’t really find it until almost dawn.
Shit. He shouldn’t have bothered with sleep at all. He should’ve used that wakefulness, stayed up and kept an eye on the cabin. After his parting words to her last night, he should have known she’d try to give him the slip.
Why had he left her alone in the first place?
If you’d stayed with her, this wouldn’t have happened. She never could have slipped out of your arms and gotten away. Hell, she wouldn’t have wanted to slip away.
And the question that stabbed him like a knife in the chest: Why didn’t you keep her safe?
Anxious as he was, he forced himself to pause long enough to have a drink of water and tear the wrapping off a protein bar. As he ate, he refilled his canteens. In two minutes, he was out the door. He paused at the tent long enough to grab his sleeping bag, roll it up with the self-inflating pad and strap the works to his pack. If Ocean fell trying to traverse that path, or got stranded out there in this wind, she’d need its warmth.
Zippering the tent shut, he headed north toward White Crow.
He was fifty yards away when he thought of something else and turned back to the cabin to retrieve it. A minute later, he was on her trail again. As he settled into a ground-eating pace, he prayed he wasn’t already too late.
Chapter 15
SCOTT HAD had a rough night.
Around eleven p.m. he’d found a cache of protein bars in Titus’s truck, stashed in behind the seat. Sitting on the Ford’s tailgate, he’d peeled back the wrapper of something that promised to be a full meal replacement. After a sniff and a cautious nibble, he decided that claim was wildly misleading. That compressed bar of sawdust and peanut butter could hardly be called a meal. He’d locked up the truck, hopped on his bike and driven into town for some fish and chips.
It being a Friday night, he’d known the Duchess Diner could be counted on to stay open until at least midnight. It was, and the fish and chips still rocked. He’d even snagged some donuts for the morning. That was as close to a breakfast as he was going to get. After cooking his meal, the owner of the diner, Doris, aka Duchess, had come out from behind the counter to wrap him up in a bear hug. Then, between pauses to serve a few young couples who stopped by for a late snack at the end of their dates, she’d sat with him, catching up over strong coffee.
Though he wasn’t a big talker, that wasn’t the tough part of his night. Doris had been Aunt Margaret’s dearest friend. He’d enjoyed the meal, the conversation, and both cups of coffee. The wind had kicked up a notch while they’d chatted. When it came time to close the diner, Duchess insisted he park his bike under the awning behind the restaurant and let her drive him back out to Titus’s vehicle.
If the road that went by the mountain hadn’t been the same one that carried her home, Scott wouldn’t have taken her up on the offer. But he’d been glad of the ride. The wind carried the promise of rain. Much as he loved his bike, riding in the rain was miserable, and it would surely be pouring buckets by the time Titus got down off that mountain tomorrow with Ocean.
The tough part came later, when he’d fidgeted and cursed in the reclined seat of Titus’s pickup. He could’ve blamed it on the caffeine, but truthfully, that wasn’t what had kept him awake until the wee small hours. Nor was it the growing roar of the wind.
So this morning when his cell phone buzzed in his hand, he startled awake.
He fumbled t
o reset the seat in its upright position and blinked wide to look at the number. Ember.
“I’m up,” he growled.
He looked out the truck’s window. When Doris had dropped him off, he’d moved the vehicle closer to the river than before, to keep an eye on things. He took in the terrain around him now: the rushing Prince River churned harder than normal, and the trees bent and swayed in the wind.
“Well I should hope you’re up,” Ember said. “It’s almost seven o’clock.”
This from the kid who’d power-walked five miles before sun up every morning of high school. He should know—he’d gotten up to shadow her from a discreet distance every single one of those black mornings. Seven was practically high noon for Ember.
“I’ve been up for hours,” he said. “In fact, I’ve been sitting here on my second pumpkin pie latte waiting for your call. And yes, I did get whipped cream.”
Ember didn’t respond to the bait, probably because she knew no Standish man would be caught dead sipping a latte. Their drink was coffee. Black. The stronger the better.
“I’m just checking in,” she said. “Per Titus’s protocol.”
“Still with your patient?”
“Yes, I am. Okay then, I’ll—”
“Have you seen the river?” He cut off her words before she could end the call.
There was a pause. “Why?”
“It’s pretty rough with that wind, and when the rain comes, which will be soon, the runoff could make it breach its banks. Your lame patient might want to stay put until it blows over rather than trudging back along that shoreline.”
“Yeah, um, good idea. I’ll suggest that.”
“Great. Just give me a call when you set out and I’ll meet you halfway.”
“No!”
The hair rose on the back of his neck. “No?”
“I’m not coming out yet. The patient still needs attention. But I’ll check in. Thanks, Scott.”
Something was off. There was something different about Ember’s voice. And she clearly wanted the call to end.
“Wait,” he said before she could hang up. “Is everything okay out there, kid?”
“What? Yeah. Everything’s fine. And don’t call me kid.”
“At least tell me the name of the guy with the ankle—”
“Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”
He rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. “All right. Call back within six hours.”
“Sure. But I’ll probably text you.”
Before Scott could question or protest, Ember said, “What’s up with Titus’s situation?”
“He’s called a couple times. Last night he sent up a white flare from the cabin.”
“Really? His phone must be dead or something.”
“Nah, phone’s fine. I’d just talked to him within a half hour of the flare.”
She snorted. “Does that sound like a Standish man or what? Send up a flare rather than pick up the phone twice in an hour. You are men of few words.”
“Hey, he’s been more talkative than you, Miss Texter. And who knows? Maybe he was showing off for Ocean.”
“One could only hope.” Ember gave an exasperated huff. “If that brother of ours had half a brain, he’d see what a sweetheart Ocean is.”
“Maybe she isn’t anymore.” Scott doubted that very much, but was so used to playing devil’s advocate with his cousins that it just came out. “People change.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But you know as well as I do that she had a ginormous crush on Titus when we were in high school.”
Oh yes, he’d known. Though Mrs. Siliker had extracted a vow of silence on the subject, he hadn’t had the heart to tell her the cat had been out of that particular bag long enough to have used up half its nine lives. But a promise was a promise. “I plead the fifth.”
“We’re Canadian, Scott. We don’t plead the fifth, we—oh, never mind.” Ember pulled a deep breath. “When you do see Titus, will you tell him something for me?”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“Tell him not to freak out.”
“Wait? What?”
She lowered her voice. “Scott, I’ve got to go.”
“Why are you whispering? Ember!”
“Just trust me. I’m fine.”
Shit! Was she in trouble? One way to find out. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“Make it ten bucks and we have a deal.”
It was the correct response, but her voice didn’t sound right.
Before he could press her, she spoke again. “I’m okay. Don’t worry. But, Scott…”
“What?”
“Don’t you freak out either.”
“Ember—”
Nothing. The line had gone dead.
Jesus, that girl was cryptic. Annoying. Scott looked at the phone in his hand. She’d said it—make it ten bucks and you have a deal. Which translated into not in danger. He knew there wasn’t any sense in calling her back. His call would go straight to voice mail.
And Titus?
Scott thought about phoning him but knew he and Ocean would be on the move. Even descending the mountain, you needed both hands free, and it could be a pain in the ass digging out the phone and answering it. He’d wait on Titus to check in when it was convenient for him. That would be soon enough to relay Ember’s cryptic message.
Don’t freak out. Fat chance of that.
What the hell was going on with Ember?
For that matter, what the hell was going on with Titus? He’d called them home for some must-attend Thanksgiving dinner. Instead of getting an explanation, he’d ended up here, with too much time to think.
He closed his eyes and listened to the wind howling through the pines. Then he opened them and looked out over the river, then up to the mountain. Finally, he turned his gaze up to the sky through the moon roof at those darkening clouds.
Nope. Not gonna sit here staring at the sky. He reached for his pack and dug around in it until he came up with the Robert Crais novel he’d stuffed in there. He’d nabbed it just as he was going out the door, off the table in the hall where someone—probably Titus—had left it. He’d read this one before, but even if he could recite the chapters by heart, it’d still be better than his thoughts.
Chapter 16
BEING WRAPPED up in Titus’s arms had been everything Ocean had hoped it would be. His lips on hers, the heat of his breath, the rumble of his voice... It had been just like she’d always imagined.
For a few brief, ecstatic moments.
Then he’d pulled back. Pulled away.
Okay, yeah, probably the sight of her bruises had been a bit of a shock. She’d give him that much. But they were just that—bruises. No reason to call off the lovemaking. She was a big girl; she knew what she wanted and knew what she could handle. She was no masochist, either. If anything he was doing had hurt, she’d have stopped him herself. God, he had to know that.
He did know that.
Hurting her bruised torso was not why he’d called it off, and they both knew it. And when she called him on it, he’d gone all authoritarian on her. Tomorrow, we’re heading back down this mountain.
She’d felt like such a fool. An angry fool.
But Titus was angry too. Yesterday, he’d drawn the line at forcing her back down the mountain against her will. She wasn’t so sure he would exercise the same restraint today. She’d flat out called him a coward, and every time he looked at her, he would no doubt hear that accusation echo. She doubted he’d back down again. And if she complained to anyone about his interference, he could just tell them she’d had a significant fall—as evidenced by her contusions. He couldn’t in all conscience leave her stumbling around up on Harkness Mountain.
Her foot caught on a gnarly tree root and she almost went sprawling. She lurched a few staggering steps, windmilling her arms wildly before recovering her balance. When she finally came to a stop, she bent, braced her arms on her kn
ees, and tried to breathe away the pain in her side. Crap. Maybe she should have just let herself fall instead of doing all those contortions to try to avoid it. But she never had been any good at that.
Good thing Titus wasn’t around to see that stumble and Kermit-flailing recovery. No doubt he’d point out there were plenty of places along this trail where a mistake like that could get her killed.
And there she went again. Thinking about that man was not good for her health. Not up here. The climb had been tough enough already and she hadn’t even cleared the woods.
She’d woken before dawn, with the wind rattling around the cabin, and she’d known what she had to do. She’d known too that she probably shouldn’t do it, but she was going to anyway. Set out on her own again toward White Crow Cliff.
And she’d do it as fast and fearlessly as she could.
Except right now she had to rest. Not just because of her stumble just now. She needed to rest because she’d been working her way carefully through the woods on a gradually steepening incline for the last ninety minutes. The sun had come up fully about an hour ago. The trek should have gotten easier, but it hadn’t. It only illuminated the hard climb and conditions she had yet to face.
Finally able to take a deep breath, she straightened up and looked around. The softwood trees were beginning to give way to thinner, scragglier poplars and other brush. To her left was a rock face stretching up maybe twenty-five or thirty feet. Painted on its ragged gray face were the initials E & J. Good. That meant she was still on course. Unless those weren’t the right letters?
Okay, she was going to have to consult the map again to refresh herself.
She made her way over to the cliff face. A few feet away from the initials, she found a boulder to sit on, one that was as flat-topped as any chair and that offered back support from the cliff itself. How many weary climbers had paused to rest their tired muscles here? Probably quite a few.
She sank down on the rock and leaned back. The relief of finally sitting wrung a moan out of her.
