by Janet Dailey
Emma gasped as the cold words penetrated. “You can’t mean that,” she said. “You saved my life.”
“And what about my life? I was doing fine until you showed up. Now, half the time, it’s like I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I can’t even sleep for fear that something will happen and I’ll lose you.”
She stared at him, her heart pounding. “What are you saying?”
“What the hell do you think I’m saying?”
He reached across the seat, caught her in his arms, and jerked her against him. His mouth crushed hers in a forceful kiss that blended fury, desire, and exquisite tenderness.
Emma’s pulse rocketed. A throbbing heat surged from the depths of her body. The response to John’s kiss was like nothing she’d ever known. She went molten against him, her lips softening, her hands tangling in his hair, her mouth open, tasting him, feeling him. She wanted his hands on her, and more. Heaven help her, she wanted all the things she’d denied herself as a woman.
But it wasn’t going to happen here. Their awkward position in the seats, with the gearbox jutting between them, ended their embrace too soon. They broke apart, both of them breathing hard. Emma pulled down her shirt and smoothed back her hair. John was looking at her in a way that—perhaps for the first time in her life—made her feel beautiful.
It was a look that said to be continued.
“I think you’d better get me back to the hotel.” Her voice had taken on a husky, sensual tone that she barely recognized.
“I think you’re right.” He started the Jeep and pulled back onto the main road. “Just promise me you won’t take any more crazy chances, Emma. And that you’ll keep in touch with me. I need to know you’re all right.”
“I’ve learned my lesson,” Emma said. “I promise.”
They drove back into town, both of them striving to come to terms with what had just happened. It was too soon to talk about it, too soon to put a name on it—even if it was love.
“It’s not too late to change your mind about Sitka,” John said. “I’ve got another mail run the day after tomorrow. I can take you with me—or even take you sooner, if you want.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, retrieving her pack from where she’d stowed it by her feet. “If it’ll put your mind at ease, I’ll even stay inside the hotel while you’re gone.”
“That would help. I’m learning how stubborn you can be.” He pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel and came around to bring the bike. “Are you sure I can trust you with this?”
“Like I said, I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Call me,” he said as they stood on the curb. “I mean it. I need to know you’re okay.”
“I will.” And she would. Everything had changed with that soul-searing kiss. For the first time, she felt stirrings of hope, as if her shattered heart was already beginning to heal.
* * *
John left her and drove away, his heart still thudding in his chest. The euphoria from that kiss was mixed with uncertainty. Had he found something real with this tender, brave, impossibly stubborn woman? Or was it just a passing attraction that would fade when she no longer needed a protector?
Emma had believed completely in Boone and the future they would have together. But Boone had crushed her dream and her faith in the cruelest way possible. She would be a long time healing. Meanwhile, she was vulnerable, clinging to any refuge she could find. Right now he was that refuge.
He’d be wise to keep that in mind.
He glanced at his watch. It was barely eleven. He’d been headed back to Refuge Cove, but a sudden thought changed his mind. He had plenty of time. Why not check around town and see if there was any truth to Boone’s boast that he had people watching for Emma?
He’d seen Boone’s camouflage truck vanishing south down the highway with Lillian driving and Ezra sitting next to her, probably headed back to the homestead. Except for Marlena and David, who wanted nothing to do with him, Boone had no other family in town. But John knew most of Boone’s friends and where they hung out. Maybe they’d seen Boone recently. If so, they’d be more apt to talk to him than to the police.
At the top of his mental list was Sherman Philpot, the fake preacher who’d officiated at Emma’s so-called wedding.
Philpot lived on the lower floor of a cheap rental house in a part of town that dated back to the gold rush days. The dilapidated structure was peeling blue paint. Two rusted junk cars and a motorcycle were parked in the front yard. A feisty-looking mongrel dog yapped from the front porch but slunk off as John mounted the sagging steps.
The doorbell seemed to be broken. After trying it and hearing nothing, he rapped on the door. There was a scurrying sound from the other side. The door opened a few cautious inches, then more. A girl, slim and doe-eyed, with a face from a milk carton, was gazing up at him. She was dressed in a cut-down muscle shirt and ragged jeans. John couldn’t help wondering whose daughter she was and whether her parents were looking for her.
“Hey, John!” Sherman Philpot wandered out of the kitchen smoking a joint. He was wearing stained khakis with suspenders and no shirt. His carrot-colored hair hung down around his skinny shoulders. “What brings you here, old buddy?”
“Just looking for a friend. All right if I come in?”
“Sure, long as you ain’t the cops.” He opened the door and John stepped inside. He hadn’t been in the house before, but it was what he’d expected—mattresses and pillows on the floor, an Indian print cloth over the window, wine bottles, and the odor of weed permeating everything. A woman with a family resemblance to the girl wandered in from the kitchen looking stoned.
Sherman held out the joint, offering to share. John shook his head. Years ago he might have accepted, but not now. “Are you saying you’ve had trouble with the police?” he asked, knowing Sam Traverton had planned to question him.
“Yeah. Those ball-busters hauled me out an’ grilled me up one side and down the other about a joke I helped Boone Swenson play on this woman he’d met. She was one of them Sunday school types who wouldn’t go to bed with him lessn’ they were married. So I just helped him along a little. Boone paid me a hundred dollars, just like the last time. Hell, it was only a joke. No harm done. But I’ll bet those ladies were madder than hell when they found out they weren’t really married.”
Just like the last time.
John’s pulse slammed. Was Philpot saying Boone had done this before?
“How many of these so-called weddings have you done for Boone,” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Just two. This one and one last spring. Boone doesn’t usually have trouble gettin’ his women in the sack. The last one was a cute little thing. White wedding dress and all. Hell, she was so happy she even cried. The first one was older and as plain as a mud fence. Big thick glasses, had old maid schoolteacher written all over her. I can’t figure out for the life of me what Boone saw in her.”
“I’m guessing it didn’t work out.”
“I guess not. Boone never said.”
John would have pushed him for more, but he didn’t want to set off any alarms. “Speaking of Boone, he and I need to settle some unfinished business. Any idea where I might find him?”
“Not a clue. Haven’t seen him since the wedding.” Philpot’s grin showed a missing incisor. “Far as I know, he’s still off on his happy honeymoon.”
John thanked him, made his excuses, and left. If Philpot had spoken with Boone since Emma’s escape, the man was a damned good liar. But John was inclined to believe him. He didn’t seem to be hiding anything.
But the fact that there’d been an earlier wedding cast a whole new light on what Boone had done to Emma. Finding out what had happened to that first bride could make all the difference. He would start with the police.
He drove to the station, only to learn that Sam Traverton was out on a case. “He’s due back after lunch,” the dispatcher said. I’ll let him know you want to see him.”
Th
at left John with time to kill. He wolfed down a burger and Coke at the drive-in and drove on up the highway to a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. He didn’t like going into bars. They tended to remind him of what his drinking years had cost him. But this place was a hangout for the wild crowd from the old days, including Boone. And John himself was no stranger here.
He stepped inside, keeping to the shadowed entryway as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He didn’t expect Boone to be here, but he scanned every face just to make sure. It didn’t take long. The bar wasn’t crowded at this time of day.
The air was stale and smoky. The TV above the bar was broadcasting a pro wrestling match. From the pool tables in the rear came the click of colliding balls.
“John Wolf!” Maisy Jo, the tough, fiftyish woman who owned the bar, greeted him with a wave. “It’s been a long time. How about a beer on the house?”
John, who’d always liked the woman, gave her a wink. “If anybody could tempt me, it would be you. But you know better than to try. I’m on the wagon.”
“Too bad, honey. There’s nobody I’d rather tempt.” Her outsized breasts jiggled through her black tee when she fluffed her bleached curls. “How about a cold ginger ale?”
“I’ll take it, but you’ve got to let me pay.” He laid a five on the bar, knowing she wouldn’t give him change. She tucked the bill into her ample cleavage before she opened the chilled bottle and poured it into a glass.
“So, if you’re not here to drink, what can I do for you?” she asked.
“Just looking for an old friend. Boone Swenson. Have you seen him around lately?”
“Boone?” She shook her head. “I haven’t seen that big galoot in weeks. Why?”
“Let’s say it’s personal. So he hasn’t talked to you?”
“Not since the salmon run ended. But you’re welcome to ask around. You know who his friends are.”
John did. He left the bar ten minutes later, having learned nothing. Either Boone was bluffing about having eyes everywhere, or he had allies John didn’t know about. Either way, he could be lying low to hide his shameful burns.
John glanced at his watch. By now Traverton should be back in his office. He drove back to the police station and found the detective just pulling up in his car. They walked inside together.
“I hear you wanted to see me.” Traverton tossed his cigarette into a nearby shrub before stepping through the automatic door. “I heard your report about the bear. Lord, that must’ve given you a shock. But we can’t arrest Boone for killing a bear, especially if he claimed it was threatening him.”
“That young bear was no more of a threat than a dog. Boone killed it to spook me. Not that it would make any difference. This is something else. What did you learn when you talked to Sherman Philpot?”
“Just that he performed the wedding as a joke.”
“Did he mention that he’d done the same thing once before?”
“No.” Traverton paused with his hand on the doorknob of his office. “When?”
“Last spring. Philpot mentioned that the woman was older and not very good-looking. When I tried to find out what happened to her, he said he’d never heard.”
“What you’re implying is pretty farfetched,” Traverton said. “I’ve known Boone most of my life. He was always wild. I could believe the part about the fake weddings—but murder? That’s a pretty big pill to swallow. The woman probably just got sick of bush life and left.”
“Maybe,” John said. “But you can’t deny that it’s possible. At least it would be worth checking around that burned-out trailer.”
“It might be. But we’re short staffed, and I know the troopers have their hands full, too. You’re talking at least a full day for a team of investigators, all based on your say-so. We’re dealing with real crimes here. We don’t have time to chase after something that probably never happened.”
John reined in his frustration. Anger would buy him nothing. “In that case, I don’t suppose you’d mind if I checked the place myself,” he said.
“Knock yourself out,” said Traverton. “If you find anything, take a photo and leave it be. Any evidence that you’ve disturbed becomes questionable—and worthless in court.”
“Understood—but one thing more. You might check the local pawnshops and see if Boone’s hocked any expensive jewelry since last spring. I could do it myself but the owners would be more likely to talk to you.”
The detective sighed. “Fine. I’m not expecting a lot, but I guess I owe you that much.”
John thanked Traverton for his time and left. He’d hoped for a very different response from the cynical detective. But at least the door wasn’t closed all the way.
If nothing interfered, he could go tomorrow. Driving to the burned trailer wouldn’t be easy, but after flying over the spot, he had the position in his mind. All he had to do was find the logging road that cut off from the highway. For that, he could go to the library and use the Internet to look at satellite maps.
He could also ask Emma if she remembered anything about the road when Boone drove her to the trailer. But why force her to relive a bad memory when there were other ways of getting what he needed?
It might even be best not to tell Emma what he knew. Hearing that Boone had “married” another woman a few months earlier, and that his bride had disappeared would only upset her. He would save that story until he had more proof of what had happened. But at least he would need to let her know where he was going tomorrow. He would drop by the restaurant on his way home today and warn her to be extra cautious.
At the library, he spent the next half hour using Google Earth to pinpoint the road. From above, most of it was covered by trees. If it branched and forked, which was likely, he could use his compass to get the bearings for the right way to the trailer.
It would be deeply satisfying to find something that might incriminate Boone, he mused as he drove back to the hotel. The bastard had tormented Emma long enough. The experience would probably give her nightmares for the rest of her life.
John imagined being there to hold and comfort her in the night. He wanted it to happen—wanted her, more than any woman he’d ever known. But life could be unpredictable, and Emma had a long journey of healing ahead of her. Only time would tell whether he’d be there at the end of it.
He drove to the Gateway and parked outside. Through the restaurant window, he caught the flash of Emma’s pink uniform as she carried a tray full of beer mugs to a table. He was tempted to go in and order something, just so he could sit in a booth and watch her. But he’d already eaten lunch. He also needed to get back to Refuge Cove and finish servicing the Beaver’s vintage engine, which would run forever, but only if properly cared for.
Entering through the hotel lobby, he stood in the doorway, waiting to catch her eye. By now the height of the lunch hour had passed. Most of the late customers were getting ready to leave. Emma gave him a quick smile as she ran the bill to a table. He could wait a few minutes to speak to her. It was a pleasure, just watching her walk and interact with the people she served.
He was still waiting when the kitchen door swung open and a tall young man stepped through, wearing a uniform shirt and carrying a tray. John gave him a glance. Then the realization hit him.
It was David.
* * *
Emma saw them just before they saw each other. The feeling was like waiting for two trains to collide, with no power to stop them.
They would recognize one another, of course. Ketchikan was a small town. Beyond that, Emma had no idea what was going to happen. Since Pearl was out on break, there was no one to buffer the situation.
For a moment the two of them faced each other. Awkwardness hung in the air. John spoke first.
“Hello, David.”
David cleared his throat. “My mom says I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“I know. I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“I’m working here, to earn money for my own car.”<
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“Good for you. You’re growing into a fine young man. I’m proud of you.”
David swallowed. “I’ve got to work.”
With that he turned toward a vacated booth and began scrambling to clear the dirty dishes off the table. Plates clattered. A fork fell to the floor. David bent to pick it up. Emma caught the glimmer of a tear in his eye.
“Outside, Emma.” John, looking like he’d been gut punched, had stepped back into the lobby. Emma followed him out onto the sidewalk. He turned back to face her, his expression troubled in a way she hadn’t seen before.
“Why didn’t you tell me David was here?” he demanded. “You certainly had your chance.”
“I was told not to—by his aunt Pearl.”
“Pearl.” He shook his head. “If she was afraid I’d show up and try to talk to the boy, she was wrong. You saw what it was like in there. It was awkward and painful for both of us. And it wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me know he was working here.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “But I’m not a mind reader. How would I have known you’d walk in, or what would happen if you did?”
John’s scowl deepened. “Damn it, you should have told me. You should have trusted me enough to know I’d do the right thing and stay away.”
Emma looked into his stormy eyes. This wasn’t about David, she realized. It was about trust—a trust she’d betrayed by holding back the truth. And everything about John—his gaze, his voice, his posture—told her she’d made a serious mistake. And no amount of apologizing would undo it.
“So why did you come?” she asked.
He took a deep breath, as if silently counting to ten. “I came to tell you that I won’t be around for the next couple of days. Tomorrow I’ll be driving to the trailer site to look around for any evidence that might build a case against Boone. Then the next day I’ll be flying the mail route.”
“Will you let me know when you’re back?”
