by Becky Flade
“And you broke down here.”
“And I broke down here.” She sat in the chair facing him and raised her eyes to his face, braced for the judgment she was sure she’d see.
“Anything obvious happen in the past, like the door being open, things missing, stuff like that?”
“Nothing like the door, but sure, little things have gone missing. But how do I know I didn’t just misplace or lose those little things?”
“Because someone very real broke in here today.” He kept his gaze direct. It calmed her, his cool, direct statement combined with the kind but no-nonsense expression on his face. Compared to the furious, terror-stricken man who had arrived on the scene, this was the real Carter. And he was all cop. “I want you to consider the possibility that you were being stalked in Cleveland. Take some time and try to think of who, back then, might have been following you; if anyone on your travels looked out of place or were somewhere they shouldn’t have been. Because, Doc, I’m not questioning your sanity.”
She had never had anyone believe her. First about her gift, and second about the harassment she couldn’t prove. The first canceled out their ability to accept the second. He was. He did. She could see it in his earnest expression, the darkening of his blue eyes—he believed.
“Have you lost the sense of safety you found here? Will you run?”
“I can’t. I have to finish paying off the repairs on my car.”
“I wouldn’t hold you to that, Henley. You have a right to feel secure.”
“I’m not sure running will accomplish that.” She returned his direct gaze. “You honestly believe someone was in here?”
“I do.”
“He or she will follow me if I leave. Right?”
“Safe bet, yeah.”
“I’ll stay.”
“Until I figure this out, maybe you shouldn’t stay here, specifically. Move into town, Doc. Temporarily, until this is resolved.”
“No.” She shook her head to emphasize her rejection of that idea. “I’ve spent too much time running. I’ve earned the right to hold firm. I have the right to a life, whatever I make of it.”
“Well, I’m going to crash on the couch tonight.” He held up his hand when she started to protest. “Doesn’t matter what you say, I’m staying.”
Henley checked the clock. It wasn’t late, but she was tired. She wanted a shower, a glass of wine, bed, and one of her new books. She told Carter exactly that.
“You don’t have to entertain me. I’m going to make a couple of phone calls, crack a beer, and watch television. Do what you want.” He grabbed his phone and went out onto the porch. Henley decided to read in the tub instead, so she selected a paperback and poured a glass of wine. She could see Carter’s silhouette through the window. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, but she found his presence comforting.
She stared in the mirror as the tub filled with hot water scented with sandalwood and jasmine. Every experience changed a person, for better or for worse. Henley knew this better than most. Her former patients had shown her how resilient humanity was and that a person could grow after facing adversity. What had the last few years done to her? She was older, certainly, not in body but in spirit. She didn’t see Dr. Elliott anymore. It was her eyes, she supposed. They appeared both weary and wary. Yet she thought she saw a glimmer of hope.
She twisted her hair up into a knot, stripped, and slid into the swirling water. With her eyes closed, Henley focused on tensing and relaxing her muscles, starting with her toes and ending with her face. She picked up the now sweating goblet and took a long sip of the sharp Moscato. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t silence her mind enough to slip seamlessly into the story of her book. Old ghosts rattled her chain. She put the book aside and shut off the jets.
When she exited the bathroom moments later, all but one light had been extinguished, and the room was cast in shadows by the blue haze of the muted television. Carter looked up from where he lay on the couch. He had removed the taupe uniform shirt, his belt, shoes, and socks. Wearing only a sleeveless tee shirt and unsnapped jeans, the remote in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other, he defined the relaxed male. And he was sexy as sin. Something about him made her think of that old idiom about still waters. He’d understand how tragedy changed a person, strengthened them. She often thought he saw right through her shields to the woman she wanted to be.
She felt self-conscious in her flannel pajama bottoms and black camisole. She leaned against the back of the chair she’d perched in earlier and prayed the pose looked unaffected.
“Do you need anything?” She thought his stomach muscles tensed at the unintentionally provocative invitation.
“I’m good.”
She nodded and carried her drink and book to the stairs with her. She paused at the bottom step and turned back. His eyes were on her, and the way he had to lift his gaze to hers implied he’d been staring at her rear end as she walked away.
“Do you need anything?” His mischievous smile disarmed her, and for a moment her mind was a blank. She recovered, but she was certain he’d caught her hesitation.
“How did . . . whoever . . . get in?”
“Through one of the porch windows.”
She’d enjoyed her first cup of coffee with the dawn from the comfort of the porch rocker. She had opened the window on the right side of the front door to hear her cell phone if it rang. Henley remembered closing the window but was unclear on whether she had locked it.
“Yeah, that one.” Carter had noticed her gaze shift. “I found the screen leaning against the side of the house. But he closed the window.”
“And left the door open.”
“Yeah.” Carter took a pull from his beer and rested the bottle on his stomach. Henley tried, and failed, not to stare. “I know you haven’t had much time to think. But any ideas who it could’ve been, Doc?”
She shook her head and said good night. Henley assumed, based on her inability to relax in the tub, that she’d be up most of the night. She’d be on edge, jumping at every little noise, since the forest wasn’t totally quiet, even in the deepest, darkest night. Her mind would be too full of old memories and new questions to settle.
But she fell into a heavy slumber, soothed by the glow from the television set and the man keeping watch.
Chapter Seven
“I can’t thank you enough for having me. Dinner smells heavenly.” Henley waved the bottle of merlot she’d brought with her and waggled her eyebrows. Maggie grinned and gestured to a drawer to the left of the kitchen sink. After popping the cork, Henley grabbed two wineglasses from the cabinet she’d seen Maggie pillage on her first night in Trappers’ Cove, and moments later they were each tipping a goblet.
“Ah. Damn, that’s good.” Maggie hummed. Henley agreed. The merlot was excellent, lush and velvety. She and Maggie loitered in the Gaels’ generous kitchen, surrounded by the mouth-watering scent of roast beef. Henley did her best to record the contentment of the moment. She’d had too few of these in her life, and she wanted to value this one, her first since finding out her life was her own again. Maggie’s eyes popped back open. “Hungry?”
“Oh yeah.” Henley watched as Maggie pulled open the oven door. “Where’s Turnip?”
“Turnip, huh?” Maggie closed the door and shot her a glance Henley could best describe as speculative amusement. “It’ll be a few minutes yet. Tala is down at the stable with Aidan.” Maggie paused. “And Carter.”
“I didn’t realize the sheriff was here. I didn’t see his Jeep out front.”
Maggie shrugged. “I ran into him in town and invited him to dinner. He rode with me.”
“You’re not as clever as you think.”
“Oh, yes I am. I don’t bother being subtle. Discretion may be the better part of valor, but I’ve always found it mildly dishonest.” Maggie winked and swirled the dark plum wine. “There’s still time for you to run back to the cabin.”
Henley laughed. “My God,
Maggie, you are unbelievable.”
The woman’s bright smile dimmed. “You’re quiet and careful. Analytical. I always get the feeling you’re standing apart from every situation in which you’re involved, an observer instead of a participant, and by choice. But I also get the impression that a very large part of you wants to jump right in and be as obnoxious as I am. Is the man you’re running from responsible for your hesitation?”
“You missed your calling, Maggie.” Henley set down her wine. The sharp clink of glass on granite surprised her. She hadn’t realized how much force she’d expended until then. She stared at the glass, watching the wine settle, and sighed. “I think most of those qualities you described are beneficial to a psychiatrist, and they were, in fact, drummed into me throughout my childhood. My parents are reserved intellectuals. They raised my sister and me to follow that example. The answer to your question is no. And I’m not running from anyone. Not anymore. What made you think a man was responsible?”
“You’re at ease with Tala and I, but you freeze up around men. Some more than others, but from what I’ve observed there is still a definite chill in the air whenever a man enters your personal space. It hasn’t escaped my notice that you don’t touch people and you shy away from being touched. It didn’t take a psych degree to put two and two together.” Maggie took a sip. Henley reclaimed her glass and followed her lead.
“And you got four. Congratulations, Nancy Drew.” Henley couldn’t believe she’d voiced the snarky comment. Before she could apologize, Maggie threw back her head of unruly, red curls and laughed.
“That was fantastic. Good for you, Hen.” Maggie set the table, waving away Henley’s proffered assistance. “I was a good journalist. I’m a people person and have a real knack for soliciting confidences. Assembling information, fact finding, research, drawing insightful conclusions, composing a compelling story—all these elements that make for a good reporter come naturally to me. But I couldn’t stay objective. I took everything to heart, including the people I wrote about, inadvertently inserting myself into the action. A great newswoman does not become newsworthy. I’m not an observer; I’m a doer. And though I was successful for a while, I wasn’t truly happy until I shed that career and started writing fiction. It fulfills me.”
“I turned a young patient’s care into a personal crusade. I caused him more harm than good and suffered my own mental health crisis as a result.” Henley refilled her glass. “I’m stronger now. I think I’m going to be okay.”
“See what I mean about drawing stories out of people?” Maggie held out her glass for a refill. Henley chuckled.
“I empathize with your inability to maintain an objective distance despite a professional standard. But if I could do it over again, I’d do it differently.”
“But then we’d never have met.” The door opened, saving Henley from having to decide if the ends had justified the means. She couldn’t deny these were interesting people whose company she enjoyed and suspected would enrich her life if she allowed it. Did that make it worth it? Dublin streaked through the door, a laughing Tala on his heels, followed by Aidan and Carter. They were a striking duo. She had nothing to fear from either of them, but for reasons she didn’t want to explore, they both frightened her. There was something threatening about Aidan Gael. It wasn’t the open animosity and cautious overprotectiveness; she’d sensed darkness, felt a wildness when she’d touched his arm. Without understanding why, she flashed on the image of Tala wandering the woods with a wolf by her side. She shook it off and offered the newcomers wine.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here, Doc,” Carter commented, grabbing a beer for himself as she poured Aidan a glass of merlot. Henley didn’t miss the look he shot Maggie. It promised payback. Maggie smiled at him with exaggerated innocence, and Aidan swatted her behind as he approached Henley to claim his drink.
“Behave, rock star.” Aidan stopped less than a foot in front of Henley and assessed her. She didn’t know what he saw and wouldn’t ask, but he smiled and thanked her when she handed him the glass. She returned the smile hesitantly. It wasn’t an overture of friendship, but she felt as though she had passed a test.
“When are you adopting a pup for Turnip?” Carter’s question ignited a heated conversation that included coquettish begging from the ten-year-old, who had serendipitously returned to the kitchen. Henley leaned back, enjoying the family’s dynamics. She was aware of the fact she had, again, removed herself from a situation and stood apart—ever the observer.
Carter McAlister, formerly of the Philadelphia Police Department, current sheriff of Trappers’ Cove, folded his body into a crouch beside Tala, who rubbed Dublin’s belly as the dog squirmed in delight. He looked up, caught Henley’s stare. She watched as the laugh lines around his eyes faded, though his smile remained. Now his gaze smoldered. Henley felt the tug of sexual awareness in the pit of her stomach, flushed, and looked away. He inspired thoughts and feelings she’d thought long gone.
“Let’s eat.” Henley caught the quiet communication between the married couple. She ignored the exchange, certain they’d caught the heated eye-lock between her and Carter. She could imagine their unspoken conclusions.
Dinners in the Elliott household had been polite, well-mannered affairs. Meals weren’t for dining alone, they were an opportunity to share accomplishments and discuss current events in moderated tones. Later, a successful psychiatrist with a full schedule who donated her free time to pro-bono work, Henley subsisted mostly on frozen dinners and fast food. Granted, she had the occasional meal with an associate or her family. But she had often begged off due to her schedule. These last couple years, living on the road, she’d made an art form of casual, solitary meals. Dinner with the Gaels was an event the likes of which she had yet to experience. It could best be described as organized chaos.
It appeared as though everyone spoke at once, on a variety of topics, but was completely engaged in what the others had to say. There was no order to it, but all the plates got filled. Despite the frenetic disorder, or perhaps because of it, this meal felt more intimate than any she’d experienced. Carter leaned toward her.
“You with us, Doc?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. Please pass the potatoes.” His finger slid over hers when she took the bowl from him. The sensation spiked up her arm. She gasped, but she didn’t flinch or pull away. His emotions were highly charged. Lust swamped her. Her gaze met his, and she saw the passion that rioted within her reflected in his beautiful blue orbs.
Oh, yes. I have plenty of reason to fear this man.
Chapter Eight
Immediately following the break-in, Henley found the forest threatening. But as days passed and became weeks, the fear and uncertainty faded. The weather grew warmer, and the foliage surrounding the cabin exploded into a riot of beautiful colors and scents. She’d seen baby does, rabbits, and raccoons sipping from the brook, all from her soft bed with a steaming cup of coffee. Nature called to her with the sounds of late spring. Most days she found the time for a walk and marveled at how wonderful she felt. She experienced her own rebirth, like the wilderness around her.
She pushed any decisions about her future to the back burner, wanting only, for now, to enjoy where she was without having to worry about who she was. Or would be. Henley had been clinging to the fact that she still owed a debt to the sheriff’s department for her car. Why fester over the decision to stay, go back, or move on until she had to make a decision?
“Hi, Mom.” Henley considered it progress that calling home no longer sent her into a fit of nervous guilt.
“Henley. It’s good to hear from you. Are you still in that little town in Minnesota?”
“I am. I like the people here. I may have even made a few friends.”
“You sound well.” Henley knew she meant sane. “Does that mean you’ll be coming home soon? Perhaps reopen your practice?” She should’ve known her mother would ask—it was a routine inquiry. Henley always wondered if the question w
as made out of obligation. And resented the pressure she felt. Regardless, she wasn’t sure if Cleveland was her home. Not anymore. Maybe it had been once, before she’d left for college. But she felt a connection to Trappers’ Cove that she had never felt in her adult life.
“No, Mom. At least not yet. I have financial obligations here. I told you about the repairs the car needed.”
“I do. I also remember mentioning that your father and I are willing to help with that.”
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t ask for or accept their assistance. It came with strings. When she first left town, their conditions had included hospitalization. She couldn’t be sure they didn’t still.
“I appreciated it when you made the offer, and I still do. But this is something I have to do for myself. If I can’t handle what amounts to a secretarial position, I have no place opening a medical practice. This is good for me. I hope you understand.”
“I’ll try. If you’re not ready to move back, I expect you will be here for your sister’s wedding?”
“Pardon me?”
“Michelle’s wedding is the weekend after next. We fully expect to see you there. Your absence will be noted.”
“By whom, Mother?” Henley heard the frigidity in her tone, so her mother would have as well. “Seeing as how Michelle failed to tell me she was getting married, much less invite me to celebrate the event with her, I sincerely doubt she’ll miss me.”
“People will notice. And people will whisper. Our family does not need another scandal in your name.”
“This one would be on Michelle.” But her sister would spin it, make it crazy Henley’s fault. It’s what Michelle did best—look out for Michelle.
“Please consider it. It’s the least you can do, Henley, after all you’ve put us through.”
She stared at her cell for several seconds after she disconnected, weighing the pros and cons of calling her sister immediately or waiting, allowing her time to gain perspective. Fuck it! She dialed Michelle’s house line. Each ring fueled her indignation.
