Wild: Whispering Cove, Book 1

by Mackenzie McKade

  Her hands shook with each button she fastened on her shirt. In the distance she could see the first beachcomber of the morning with a metal detector in his hands, scanning the sand. As Andrea inched her skirt down, she prayed the man hadn’t seen or heard anything. A quick glance toward Brody revealed he was thinking the same thing. The last thing the sheriff of Whispering Cove needed was to be discovered fornicating on the beach. The thought curved her lips. It wouldn’t be the first time they had been caught.

  Brody extended her a hand and she took it to stand. He grabbed the blanket and gave it a snap to shake the sand from it. Wadding the afghan beneath an arm, he bent down, retrieving something. “Don’t forget these.” Her panties hung from his index finger. His eyes twinkled. He looked so happy, a lump thickened in her throat.

  There’s that split second in time when a person stops dead in their tracks and thinks, What the hell did I just do? Andrea was caught in that dreadful moment as she snatched her underwear from him and crammed them into a pocket. As she brushed the sand from her legs and clothes, she knew she had let things get out of hand. Turning back now would shred Brody’s heart and annihilate hers, but she had no choice. In a couple days she would be leaving.

  Brody slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her next to him. With her shoes in her hands, she couldn’t help leaning in to him and stealing the last bit of warmth from his body.

  Mr. McDougal raised a hand when he saw them. The seventy-something, hunched-over gentleman gave Brody a nod. “Sheriff.” Then he smiled. “Andie, girl, you’re back.” His approach was achingly slow. But when he stood before her, he took her into his embrace.

  This was why she missed Whispering Cove. The people were so friendly. She tensed with the acknowledgement. She missed Whispering Cove.

  The gray-haired man released her. “You come to see Mrs. McDougal before you leave town. You hear me, girl?”

  “Yes, sir,” she managed to say.

  The metal detector made a whine. His smile deepened. He poked the ground with the shovel he held in his other hand, while Brody and Andrea took their leave.

  The rest of the walk was done in silence. When they climbed the stairs leading to the front door of her grandfather’s house, Brody pulled her into her arms. Capturing her mouth, he kissed her softly.

  Then he released a sigh, leaning his forehead against hers. “I have to work today.” The confession was expressed as if he were apologizing. “I’ll come by afterwards. We’ll do dinner.”

  Andrea didn’t respond. In her mind she struggled with the idea of catching a plane later today. How could she approach the subject of what happened between them on the beach that should never have happened? It made it even more difficult to say the much-needed words when he looked down at her with so much love and happiness.

  She cursed the unmerciful fist that squeezed her heart. Only another reminder of what she had thought dead was alive. She still loved Brody. She still loved Whispering Cove.

  Andrea stole one more kiss before she stepped out of his arms. When she grasped the door and opened it, she looked over her shoulder to find Brody standing there. Watching.

  As the screen door screeched, she wondered how could she walk away?

  Chapter Four

  “Argh…” The sweet ache between Andrea’s thighs should have made her smile. Instead, she released a long, tortured groan and buried her face into her pillow to block out the light of day pouring through the thin curtains of her grandfather’s guest room.

  For what little sleep she had received, Andrea had dreamed of Brody. His kiss. His touch. The way he seduced her body and mind, until she woke up hot and needy. And then she’d fallen back to sleep and nightmares had crept in, stealing the sliver of peace she had found in his arms.

  It had been heaven…and hell.

  Pressing her face deeper into the feather down, she held her breath until her lungs ached. When the burn started, she yanked her head up, gasping for air, at the same time her fingers curled into the pillow, slinging it across the room. It crashed against the door, falling to the floor.

  Her tangled feelings were like a loose cannon—all over the place. One minute she wanted to reach for Brody’s offered love. The next she planned her departure. Andrea was truly up the creek without a paddle and no way of saving herself.

  A sudden pounding on the bedroom door jerked her into a sitting position. Her heartbeat jumped and sped.

  “Lassie? Ye be sleeping the day away?” Her grandfather’s muffled voice bled through the closed door.

  A quick glance toward the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand revealed she had done just that. It was two in the afternoon.

  “No.” Andrea pushed back the covers and started to rise, only to plop back upon the bed. “I’m not feeling well, Grandpa.” It wasn’t really a lie. Her body felt leaden as if she wore an anchor around her neck, weighing her down.

  “We got company.”

  “Company?” That was the last thing she needed, especially if it was Brody. “Grandpa—”

  “Rise and shine, lass.”

  “Rise and shine?” she grumbled.

  The old queen-size bed moaned as she crawled across it to stand on the cool wooden floor. As she stole a moment to stretch, every ache made itself known. Some induced by her frolic on the beach with Brody, some just from stress, and others obtained at the pier during her meltdown. The scratches stinging her legs were a gift from her grandfather’s mock-orange bushes.

  “It’s great being home.” Her sarcasm rose with the ill mood threatening.

  Walking toward the bathroom, she studied her reflection in the antique dresser mirror, which matched the cherry wood furniture in the room. She frowned. Her hair was mussed. Her eyebrows stuck up in places where she had laid on them too long, and her eyes were swollen from tears she wept after Brody left. Half the buttons of her pajama top were dislodged from her struggles last night—this morning.

  Andrea kept forgetting she hadn’t fallen asleep until after the sun rose.

  “Shiny is definitely not in the picture today,” she muttered, disappearing into the bathroom.

  Heat. Hot, steamy water was exactly what she needed to ease the tension as she reached and adjusted the shower faucets with both hands. Stepping back, she started to shed her clothes, before she eased beneath the spray, allowing the soothing pulse wash away her problems. For the moment, she stood there with no thoughts, no clawing desire to run back to California—nothing but the beat of the water.

  A sudden gush of cold water squeezed a shriek from her. Andrea had lost track of time.

  Her teeth were chattering by the time she finished shampooing, soaping and rinsing off. Hands trembling, she pushed past the curtain and grabbed a towel. The downy-soft towel smelled fresh as she slid it over her skin, through her hair, drying her feet before she exited. A swipe of her hand against glass left a path through the haze on the mirror.

  She didn’t want to face the day or Brody.

  So Andrea took it out on her teeth, brushing like a demon, leaving a cool minty flavor in her haste. Next she abused her hair, only to slow the strokes and again stare at herself in the mirror.

  How had she gotten to this dreadful place in her life? Once she’d had everything in the palm of her hand. When life was good.

  Another knock on the door and a couple of muffled words from her grandfather. She pinched her cheeks. Andrea wasn’t much on make-up. Her natural features were sufficient. Nevertheless, she reached for the tube of mascara lying on the counter. A dab here and a dab there, then she pushed the brush back into the tube.

  One more look at her reflection and she shrugged. “It’s as good as it’s going to get.” At least she had been able to tame her hair and eyebrows.

  She stepped into the bedroom, locating a pair of comfortable jeans. Then she slid on a lacy, emerald-green tank top, before shoving her feet into a pair of coffee-brown Mary-Janes. Her moist hair was already dampening her shoulders by the time she opened the do
or and moved through the hall.

  Her skin began to crawl with anxiety as she climbed down the stairs. What should she say to Brody? How could she get him to understand that she had to leave?

  “Pipe down you ol’ fool,” her grandfather whispered as she approached the kitchen, the smell of garlic strong.

  Garlic fingers?

  She hadn’t had cheesy bread with Donair sauce since she left Maine. Cutting through the strong scent was a light, fishy one. She inhaled, attempting to guess what other delicacies her grandfather had concocted when she heard a gruff reply.

  “You got twenty dollars and a pair of underwear and no plans of changin’ either, cus you’re a cheap ol’ bastard.”

  Andrea knew that voice and she had a bone to pick with him. As she entered the kitchen, her gaze went straight to the table where Byron Mitchell sat alongside Errol Wilson. Her grandfather was scowling at both of them from across the table. Her presence jerked surprised stares in her direction.

  Hands on her hips, she tried to hide her smile. “What are you three up to now?”

  Chairs screeched across the floor as the men rose. Errol grasped a cane, leaning on it as he walked. She was amazed at how time had weathered all of them. In his sixties, Errol had been a smooth-talking ladies man. Now in his seventies, he was almost bald with a long patch of hair trying to hide the obvious. His blue eyes were cloudy with age. Andrea’s grandfather had written her about the death of Errol’s beloved wife and the toll it had taken on him.

  Then there was Byron—the devil. He had misled her into believing her grandfather was ill.

  Tall and broad, he had been the most muscular, but now he reached for her with arthritic hands, swollen and so sore looking that a wave of melancholy swept over her. Yet his hug was strong.

  “Chickadee, I’m so glad you’re home.” The sincerity in his shaky voice almost made her cry. He released her to an arm’s length, swiping his gaze up and down. “I’ll be damned. By the cut of her jib, Harold, she’s the spittin’ image of your boy.”

  A pang burst in Andrea’s chest. She fought the need to place her palm to the pulsating pain.

  Her grandfather shot Byron another scowl, but it was Errol who saved her from Byron’s scrutiny and the flood of memories.

  “Give that girl to me.” Errol pulled her out of his friend’s arms into his own. He smelled of the sea, salty and brisk. “Welcome back, Andie.” The tender kiss she laid on his cheek made him release her and grab for his chest. He pretended to faint, sagging his shoulders and weaving. “Be still me aching heart.”

  Laughter bubbled in her throat. “You three never change.”

  Her grandfather pulled a chair out and waved her to it. “Sit. How about some chowder and crab cakes?”

  Her mouth watered. She glanced toward the oven before taking a seat. “I’ll take a couple of those garlic fingers too.” It would be hell around her waist, but she might as well enjoy herself while she could.

  “So, how long are you staying?” Byron forked a crab cake from the plate her grandfather set down on the table before he sauntered back to the stove.

  “Since Grandpa is doing so well,” she emphasized the last word and Byron had the good sense to duck his head, “I thought I’d catch a plane tomorrow.”

  Errol glanced from Byron to her grandfather, who stood motionless with a cast iron pot of steaming soup hanging from his hand. When he slowly turned around his expression was crestfallen.

  Guilt rode her like a monkey on her back. “Grandpa—”

  “You can’t leave.” His face lost all color on his approach. He wheezed, his breathing a little too strained. “You just got here.” Placing a pot holder on the table, he sat the soup down before pinning a sorrowful gaze on her.

  “My case load is so high I can’t see over my desk,” she whined, but could see from the faces around the table she wasn’t winning their sympathy. Instead, her grandfather’s eyes misted, stealing her appetite. Her stomach ached, but not from hunger.

  How could she stay in Whispering Cove and face her memories? Face Brody again?

  “Please. Just a couple of days,” her grandfather begged.

  Dammit.

  Andrea owed so much to him for helping her pay college tuition. He loved her—she loved him. What were a couple days of hell?

  “Just a couple of days,” she agreed.

  Lunch was over.

  The three men moved around the kitchen, refusing to allow her to help clean up, so Andrea remained sitting to stay out of their way.

  Byron bumped into her grandfather and he sharply turned. “Give me some leeway, you saltwater cirriped crustacean.”

  “Grandpa!”

  “Never you mind that blubbering ol’ fool.” Byron grinned. His gray-blue eyes danced with mischief. “Besides, you know what they say. ‘Old sailors never die; they just get a little dingy’. That would be Harold here.”

  Everyone laughed, except her grandfather.

  “Dingy? Dingy my ass.” Her grandfather laid down the towel he held. “I be the sharpest hook in the ocean, much less this room. Well, other than me granddaughter.” The pride on the old man’s face warmed Andrea’s heart.

  Errol closed the cabinet with a thud. “Do you remember how she used to sneak onto the fishing boats?”

  “Sneakiest little urchin in the village.” Byron chuckled, ruffling her hair.

  Andrea tried to smile, but the memory only made her heart ache. Her father had thought to cure her of stowing away by putting her to work. That day she had mopped the decks, strung lines twice her size, and gutted fish taller than her.

  She had loved every minute working beside her father. When she had returned home her mother had been waiting, worried. The scolding had been minimal, but her mother’s frightened hug had left Andrea breathless.

  “…skipping school. Brody sniffing at her heels.” Andrea only caught the tail end of her grandfather’s story. The truth was that Brody had followed her wherever she went. They had been inseparable.

  Another pang struck her chest with an intensity that rocked her. She shot out of her chair, almost knocking it over. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

  Andrea was already at the back door, her hand on the doorknob twisting, when her grandfather asked, “Walk?”

  She glanced over a shoulder. His brows were bunched together in what looked like worry. “Yes. A walk. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  The door slammed behind her.

  Her footsteps echoed across the porch, heavy on each of the stairs. Sucking a much-needed breath into her lungs, she hastened her steps toward the tree line. The scent of pine and cedar, heavy and woodsy, surrounded her. Dead leaves and pine needles crunched beneath her feet. A squirrel jumped from branch to branch above. Several cardinals chattered their annoyance at her arrival, their scarlet wings beating the air on retreat. Trumpet vines curled and caressed the bark of a tree, calling to the hummingbirds darting through the air.

  Andrea struggled to build the inner wall inside her tall and thick enough so her grandfather and his friends’ memories did not trigger more of her own. She wanted a silent world, devoid of the past. She needed to forget as she walked the forest she had tracked through so many times. A cottontail skittered beneath a buttonbush.

  A patch of sunlight broke through the trees, bathing the ground littered with trout lilies and marsh marigolds. She had picked flowers here with her mother. Andrea could see her mother’s smile, the tenderness that had always chased Andrea’s bad moods away.

  A tear rolled down her cheek. She turned and fled the opposite direction, only to pull to a dead stop.

  High above in the arms of a large white ash, through an ocean of green leaves, peered a broken-down, old tree house, a place she and Brody would disappear to be alone as children. The ladder reaching upward was broken and missing boards. From the entrance she thought she saw an eight-year-old boy waving her up.

  Another tear released.

  Andrea spun around and ran, but
no matter how fast or far she ran, memories were everywhere. The brook she and her father waded through on their trips to town. The grove of berries she and her mother picked fruit from. The rock jutting up from the ground where she had buried her first cat, and afterwards Brody had held her hand. The next summer he had kissed her for the first time beneath the old red oak where they had carved their names.

  Blinded by tears, haunted by memories, Andrea didn’t slow until she was completely out of breath. Bending at the waist, she attempted to gain control, but when she rose to her full height a lump thickened in her throat.

  Her heart stuttered, pulse speeding. She closed her eyes as if she could block the anguish striking hard and fast. Swaying, she groaned, counting out loud, praying when her eyes opened this would only be a nightmare.

  Eyelids heavy with sorrow inched slowly upward. The fist around her heart clenched, a solid rock in her chest, as she read Whispering Cove Cemetery written on the arch above the open gate.

  She wasn’t ready to face this memory. The day she had laid her parents to rest.

  Oak, pines and aspen trees towered, shading the grounds in welcome. Even the ground cover looked rich and fertile. If it weren’t for the gray, white and black marble stones scattered about, it would have been a perfect place for a picnic.

  But this was no picnic for Andrea.

  Her feet appeared to have a mind of their own, carrying her through the open wrought iron gate. Beautiful old headstones sprang from the grassy surface, many of them sporting designs of fishing boats and picturesque ocean sceneries. Winding throughout the trees the musty scent—of time, of history, of loss—encompassed her.

  Taking a right at the whitewashed mausoleum erected for Whispering Cove sailors lost at sea, she padded across the spongy ground toward a single marker beneath an Aspen.

  A wave of grief rocked her, knocking her off her feet, and she landed hard on her knees. The moist ground bleeding through her jeans created a chill that went bone deep.