What did it mean to delight herself in God? She winced. Delight was not the word she conjured up when thinking of the Almighty. Gratefulness . . . awe . . . definitely fear. But delight? No wonder she had a problem grasping the idea of God granting her wildest dreams.She’d hardly “delighted” in Him.
Mona put the Bible on the night table and picked up Siberian Runaway, unable to face her self-indictment. Tonight she needed Jonah’s struggle against the wilderness in Russia. Struggle was something she could definitely relate to. Mona tucked the book under her arm, intending to whittle away the first chapter while she perked a cup of decaffeinated coffee.
Determined to conquer fear, Mona flicked off the hall light on the way to the kitchen. She deftly assembled the coffee in the pot, then leaned against the counter, reading to the dim blue light from the gas burner. Although she owned a coffeemaker, she preferred the enticing nip of freshly perked coffee to calm her ragged nerves.
Jonah’s story ate the time, and only a heady coffee aroma successfully yanked her from a tiny village in northern Siberia. She could almost feel the arctic wind swirl in and curl around her bare feet.
Pouring herself a cup, she tucked the book under her arm and balanced a leftover donut on the rim of the mug. Then she padded up the stairs, ready for an evening of peace. She would tackle Joe and her problems with renewed vigor in the morning.
A tickle of wind betrayed the intruder just as Mona entered her room. She had enough time to gasp before a steel arm snaked around her neck. She caught a familiar scent of cologne; then a rough hand jammed a cloth against her nose and mouth. Mona tried to scream, but the rag ate the sound. She had the vague sense of burning as coffee coursed down her leg. Hot breath filled her ear. She clawed skin from his forearm and he yelped, then cursed. The rag crushed her teeth; her nose burned. Fear fogged her brain. Help! She thrashed. Her breath leaked out. She slammed her heel into his shin. Pain spurted up her leg. The room spun, began to turn gray.
The iron grip held her until her body turned to lead and her mind drowned in darkness.
16
Joe sat on a ledge above a rocky outcropping in the shoreline, where the lake slapped the rugged surface and sprayed foam up the cliff face. Farther out, the waves crested white at full peak and glinted in mysterious beauty against the kiss of the rising moon.
Joe didn’t know how long he had lingered here, watching the sunset, stroking Rip’s smooth short hair, and mulling over saboteurs. His hair felt mussed from running his hands through it in frustration, and he knew he looked like something the dog dragged in, having abandoned the idea of shaving in lieu of an after-dinner beach stroll. He wasn’t planning on running into anyone who mattered, anyway. Mona was out with Brian, Mr. Smooth and Sultry, and Joe was crouched alone on a cliff with Rip, his only friend in the world.
He sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to facing Mona. Her doubts hurt like a fist in the gut. Still, he’d spent the better part of the evening mulling over Mona’s “accidents.” He knew all about saboteurs. He had one of his own—his own flesh and blood, Wayne Michaels, phantom from the past, haunting his future.
Joe’s tenuous life in Deep Haven could unravel in a second if his father decided to make a grand entrance back into his life via Gabe. Wayne Michaels couldn’t be trusted. He had failed their family completely. And Joe knew that even if he couldn’t protect Gabe from the games his father played, he would protect himself.
His father had written to Gabe. His father, the traitor, cultivating a relationship with the only family Joe had left. Joe’s chest burned as he remembered the letter and the carefully printed words, simple enough for his brother to comprehend. Maybe we can go fishing . . . Joe clenched his teeth and winced.
Fishing. A memory revived so clearly he could hear the water lap against the boat, taste the salt of a mouthful of sunflower seeds, and feel the cork of the pole handle rub against his hands. He’d been eleven years old. A golden time. His mother was pregnant with what he hoped was a baby brother, and his summer plans were wrapped around the hope of rebuilding, shoulder to shoulder with his old man, the Ford clunker his father had just purchased. The Friday before Memorial Day, his father had roared up to the school as students were whooping their way out of the building.
Joe recalled the thrill that had zipped through him as he spied the pickup packed with camping gear and bait. They’d headed north, found a remote lake, and fished from dawn to dusk the next day. He’d learned to fillet northern pike and cook a walleye shore lunch, while reveling in his father’s love for what would be the last time. By the next Memorial Day, Gabe would be on the scene, his father would be avoiding home, and Joe’s life would begin shredding in wide, painful swaths.
Joe moaned aloud. Memory burned through his resolve to keep his father at arm’s length. In truth, he ached for the peaceful life before Gabe’s birth. For years after his father’s disappearance, he told himself his father would return. He’d hung on to hope . . . and his fishing gear. Later, he went fishing again, finding the exact lake, as if reliving the sound of his father’s voice mingling with the wind would bring him solace and help bury his demons.
He never went again.
Joe watched the moonlight part the dark choppy waters and forced the memory to oblivion. It did no good to dwell on what would never be. His father had sabotaged his life, then and now. Saboteurs. Joe had one. Mona had one.
Joe suspected that Brian was the mastermind behind the Footstep’s inexhaustible repairs. His suspicions were based on more than just the way his stomach lurched every time he was near the man. It had to do with the way Brian ogled Mona as if she were a prime-cut sirloin for him to devour. Joe didn’t trust Brian as far as he could throw him.
And Mona was out with him.
Joe went cold. Brian wasn’t aiming to hurt Mona, was he? Like pushing her into a river . . .
Joe scrambled to his feet. Rip, up in a flash, broke into a run beside his master.
The Footstep greeted him dark and silent, just as he’d left it. Joe slowed his pace, still a block away, as sweat dripped off his chin and into the hollow of his neck. Clutching his knees and fighting for breath in the middle of Main Street, he realized with mortification he’d let panic ride and control him. Again. With his luck of late, Mona and her hot date would drive by any minute and spot him, looking like a hoodlum who’d just robbed a bank, and confirm their every suspicion.
Joe straightened, forcing his pace to a comfortable, innocent stroll. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions by blaming Brian. After all, the man seemed eager to help.
Joe smelled the pungent odor two houses down from the Footstep. The sick, oily smell made his nose curl. Burning paint and plastic. Joe scanned the darkness for the offender—burning garbage within city limits was strictly banned. As he drew nearer the Victorian, the foul smell saturated the air. Rip trotted ahead, then scurried back to him and whined. Joe frowned. Rip barked, then tore off up the Footstep’s walk, around the house, and toward the garage.
Joe watched his dog and in a moment made out the glow emanating from the backyard. He broke into a run. Surely Mona wasn’t burning trash. Leaping the fence near the front corner, he nearly mowed down the poplar sapling and sprinted to the back of the house.
The size of the blaze made him gasp. Creeping up his stairs, growing and sparking high into the inky sky, the fire glowed orange and red, licking the garage and spitting embers. He ran for the hose. It was coiled where he’d left it. Joe cranked the water on full blast and raced back to the blaze, now chewing up his stairs. He aimed the water where the source appeared to be, next to the garage under the stairs—where he’d thrown the paint, the gassy rag, and the drying grass clippings. Realization spread like tar through his chest.
His carelessness had started the fire.
The wind began licking up the sparks and blowing them toward the nearest available kindling . . . Mona’s century-old roof. Joe’s heart stopped at the sight of flames flickering out from under the eaves
above Mona’s bedroom window. Directing the spray, Joe aimed high, praying he could saturate the roof before it flamed like a haystack. Thank the Lord, Mona was still out with Brian and wasn’t here to see her dreams burn.
“Mona!” Liza’s voice came from the front yard.
Fear gripped Joe. “Liza?”
Liza appeared, screaming. “Where’s Mona?”
Her expression told him all he needed to know. “Call 911!” he yelled and ran for the house.
The back door was locked, but two jams with his shoulder dismantled the flimsy doorframe. “Mona!”Smoke wisped through the lower floor. Joe’s eyes watered. “Mona!” He raced toward the stairs, scrambling, falling, then scampering up on all fours. “Mona, where are you?”
He found her crumpled in her bedroom. Scooping her into his arms, he crushed her to his chest. His pulse roared and his eyes flooded, but he managed to find the stairs. Smoke twisted past him as he stumbled down the steps. When he hit the landing, sirens blared in his ears.
He burst through the front door, clutching Mona tight. The cool, clear air revived her, and her eyes jolted open when he jumped off the porch. Joe held her tighter, subduing her immediate struggles. “Don’t look, honey.”
Liza met him in the front yard. “Is she all right?”Tears glistened on her cheeks.
“I think so.”
“Oh, thank You, Lord!” Liza’s hand trembled as she covered her mouth.
Joe lowered Mona to the grass. Her green eyes gripped his with confusion and a growing terror. He ran a gentle hand over her ashen cheek, forcing himself to remain calm.
“I’ll be back,” he said in a voice that betrayed his emotions. Before she could protest, he sprinted toward the backyard.
The inferno attacked Mona’s house without mercy. It inhaled the gutter, crawled down the siding, and roared like some ancient world dragon.
Joe wove a path through the hazy ground layer of smoke and unearthed the flimsy garden hose. He aimed it at the roof, praying that the spray would somehow halt the assault. But the flames only flickered, undaunted. As he gritted his teeth and edged closer, they mocked him and climbed higher, out of the reach of his feeble stream. Behind him, his back stairs cracked as the weight of the upper landing crumpled the charred posts.
Joe’s heart fell to his knees as he watched the fire lap at his apartment door. Everything he owned, and more, was trapped in that apartment.
He turned back to Mona’s house, trying to ignore the fact that a year of unfinished work—scraps really, of unworkable schemes—lay at the bottom of his rumpled duffel bag. Drenched in sweat and with tears stinging his eyes, he sprayed doggedly, hoping to stun the blaze. He felt as if layers of his skin were peeling back in the face of the searing heat.
“Move!” The command was screamed into his left ear. Joe whirled, and a man in a face mask and helmet roughly shoved him aside.
Stumbling backward, Joe barely escaped the full force of a fire hose. The blast blanketed the house in a film of water, the hiss of steam adding to the commotion of the night as the volunteer fire department swarmed Mona’s backyard.
“Anyone else in the house?” a fireman yelled.
Joe shook his head.
Staggering back to Liza’s shed, he gulped deep breaths. The air grated his scorched lungs as he watched the firefighters battle the flames.
“Oh no! No, no!” Mona’s voice wailed above the din. Joe spied her rushing toward the fire, a blanket falling off her shoulders. Horror constricted her beautiful face.
He sprinted and caught her tight. She struggled against him, beating at him with her fists. “What have you done?” she sobbed. “Why, Joe?”
Her words made him reel. “What?” He held her away from him.
Mona’s eyes flooded. She shook her head and wrenched herself from his grasp. “Why? What did I ever do to you?”
Joe grabbed her forearms and held on, despite her struggles. “I didn’t do this, Mona. Please, you have to believe me. I wouldn’t hurt you!” The image of the pile of rags and clippings flashed through his mind, and he felt sick. Had his recklessness caused her dreams to explode?
Her green eyes bored into his, searching. His heart wrung at her wretched, smoke-streaked expression. He began to pull her toward him, but she shook her head and tore away.
“Please, Mona!” he yelled, but she stumbled toward the front yard.
When he started after her, an iron grip on his arm stopped him. “This is the man, Chief.”
Joe turned and anger coursed through him. He yanked his arm from Brian’s grasp. Beside the weasel, a cop scowled at Joe like he was the local horse thief.
“Sam Watson, Chief of Police.” The man offered his hand, but Joe knew he wasn’t trying to be friendly. Joe caught Brian’s dark smile. “You’d better come with me,”the chief suggested.
Stone-faced, Joe followed the police chief to his squad car, parked prominently in front of the house where the entire neighborhood could watch. Joe leaned against the hood and folded his arms, intending to keep the house and Mona in sight.
It crushed him to see Mona sobbing into Liza’s embrace. Even more horrifying was the sight of Brian joining the duo and taking Mona into his arms. White-hot anger seared through him.
“I didn’t do this,” he said tightly, meeting the police chief’s steely appraisal. The man, perhaps in his late thirties, with a thick thatch of blond hair, had too few lines on his face to suggest experience. Joe surmised he didn’t have a rough job defending tourist country. But from the set of the chief’s jaw, Joe realized he took his job very seriously—at least tonight, when the newest business in town threatened to wipe out Main Street a month before tourist season.
“I had nothing to do with this,” Joe repeated.
“We’ll see about that,” the chief retorted. “Why don’t we start with you showing me some ID and telling me what you’re doing in my town.”
The fire roared in Mona’s ears, snarling as it consumed her house. A moan escaped her lips, emanating from her soul, and all she could do was cover her head and weep. She felt Brian’s arms around her, heard his soothing tones, but it couldn’t ease her sorrow. Not only was her house crumbling to ashes, but it was her fault for hiring a drifter with criminal intent. Mona bit her lip and shuddered.
Brian’s sweaty hand caressed her hair. “I know you’re upset. But it will all work out. Insurance will cover the fire, and I am sure you can still sell the place.”
Mona looked up at him, frowning through her tears. In his eyes she saw the same odd expression she’d seen in the restaurant.
“Some things just aren’t meant to be,” he continued.“You have to know when to throw in the towel.”
Mona winced at Brian’s well-meaning words.
“You’d have to agree that the Footstep of Heaven is turning out to be a nightmare. It’s just over your head.”
Gulping back the painful emotions that filled her throat, Mona pulled away from Brian. She had to gather her senses, focus, stay in control. Brian’s words had the power to unravel her.
Mona clenched her fists and stared at her burning Victorian. A white spotlight from the fire truck illuminated the tragedy. The black smoke and the orange-red blaze made the house appear like a fright-night spook show.
Her chest constricted with the horrible truth: it was time to concede defeat. Gritting her teeth, she folded her arms, fought a violent tremble, and watched her dreams burn.
“So no one can vouch for you this evening, is that right?”
Joe ran a hand through his singed, dry hair and flinched. Rip. His dog was the only one who knew the truth. He reluctantly shook his head.
Chief Sam looked grim.
“C’mon, Chief. Think about it—the weed killer, the water in the basement. I’m not responsible for this. There’s a saboteur out there.” Joe held out his hands and gave a hopeful, pleading look.
Chief Sam scratched his chin. “I don’t know, Joe.Considering your situation, I want to believe yo
u, but it isn’t looking good. Not unless you can find due cause and a reasonable perpetrator.”
Joe stared at the chief, liking him despite the awkward situation. After a moment of disbelief, Chief Sam had easily accepted Joe’s credentials, laughed ruefully, and put them on a first-name basis. Under different circumstances, Sam might be a guy Joe would seek out for a morning of angling or a quick game of hoops. He hoped the chief was a man who could keep secrets.
“Help! Get this mutt off me!” The cry pierced the murmuring crowd, the hiss of the water hoses, the shouts of firefighters, and found Joe’s ears. He frowned and scanned the darkness.
“Help me!”
Sam whirled, now hearing the desperate plea. He cast a glance at Joe. “Stay here,” he ordered, but Joe was on his heels as Sam ran toward a man stumbling from a neighboring backyard. A small, milling crowd gasped and parted like the Red Sea. Joe skidded to a halt, horrified to see Rip attached to the man’s calf. The Lab was growling and blood stained his lips.
Chief Sam steadied the man as Joe wrapped a hand under Rip’s collar. “Let go, Rip!”
The dog responded with another growl.
Joe tightened his grip. “Let go!”
Rip grudgingly released his victim. He backed up, sat down, and whined. Joe ran a hand between the dog’s ears. “Stay.”
The man collapsed into a heap, clutching an ugly wound. He glared at Joe. “I’m gonna sue you into bankruptcy,” he snarled. Joe surveyed the man’s appearance and his gaze hardened. Besides the black coveralls and a ski mask pushed back on his head, the gassy odor seeping from his gloved hands cultivated a hearty suspicion.
“Who is he?” Joe asked as Sam crouched beside the man, giving him a stern once-over.
“Leo Simmons. He works for the City Park Department.”
Joe glowered at the man and wrinkled his nose. “You stink.” He glanced at Sam, who met his gaze and nodded. “Good work, Rip,” Joe whispered.
Happily Ever After Page 16
