Enemy Waters

by Justine Davis

  She’d wear the heavy jacket and her sheepskin boots; it was chilly enough. That would save her a lot of room. She would take the little native carving Roger had given her—no way she could leave that behind. And the beautiful blown glass orca she had bought on impulse with her first paycheck from the café. And of course the thick, soft and delightfully warm scarf Sheila had knitted for her last month. Nell had been stunned at the thoughtful gesture, but Sheila simply laughed and said she’d already buried her family and friends with knitted gifts, and she was delighted to have a new person to swath in miles of yarn.

  Nell sighed. Sheila had promised to teach her the craft this winter, when things slowed and the café went to winter hours. She’d actually been looking forward to it. She half-suspected the woman had a herd of sheep in her backyard, keeping her in wool.

  “Do you really think your husband sent him?”

  “I can’t take the chance. He was asking too many questions about where I was from, what my life was like.”

  Roger cleared his throat. “Nell, dear, he’s a young man interested in a pretty, sweet young woman. Why wouldn’t he ask?”

  “Because I’m neither,” she muttered, as she stuffed a pair of socks into a small void in the corner of the duffel.

  “You’ve gone to great lengths to disguise it,” Roger admitted, “but a discerning eye can see what’s really there. And I suspect your Cooper has that.”

  “He’s not my Cooper!”

  It came out sharply, much more vehemently than the disclaimer deserved if it was the casual, meaningless retort she’d meant it to be.

  “And you’re sorry about that, aren’t you?” Roger said softly.

  She was sorry about many, many things. Not the least of which was leaving this place, this friend.

  “Maybe I’ll be back,” she said, aware she sounded almost desperate but unable to help it. “That’s probably the last thing he’d expect.”

  “You must do what you think is best,” Roger said. “But you’ll always be welcome, Nell. Know that.”

  She lost her battle not to cry. Roger quickly came to her, pulled her into a gentle hug. For a moment she felt like the surrogate daughter he’d once called her. His embrace was warm, comforting.

  And carried none of the explosion of heat Cooper Grant’s embrace had caused in her. Which only told her how she’d been fool enough to let her guard down.

  Although she had to admit, now that she was out of his presence, she was starting to wonder if maybe she’d been wrong. If perhaps Roger wasn’t right, that they had been only casual, normal, curiosity-based questions.

  You only can think that because right now you don’t have those eyes turned on you, she told herself sternly. And she knew it was true; out from under the intensity of his gaze it would be easy to convince herself it had been innocent. She wanted to convince herself. Because she didn’t want to leave.

  She wondered how long she was going to be paying for the worst choice she’d ever made.

  Stop it, she ordered herself. Tris is the one who really paid for your decision. So quite whining.

  “You’ll take Riley’s car back? And explain for me?”

  “Of course.”

  It was a shabby thing to do. She should talk to the man herself, on the phone at least. But she’d scrupulously avoided ever having a cell phone because of the tracking possibilities, and she didn’t want to call anyone until she was safely away.

  “Now I’ll go gather up some food for you to take,” Roger said, turning to his solution to most difficulties. “Come up to the house when you’re done, then I’ll take you to the bus station.” He gave her a final squeeze. “I shall miss you deeply. Find your way back as soon as you can.”

  She hugged him back, and after he’d gone she simply stood there for a long silent moment, fighting tears once more.

  “Pack,” she muttered, and went back to it.

  A few minutes later she was nearly ready to zip up the bag. She picked up the last piece tossed on the bed, her Waterfront Café sweatshirt, and pondered. The T-shirts she had neatly folded and stacked, ready to be returned to the café, but the sweatshirt was the only one she had. She should give it back, too, but…

  She packed it, figuring her pay due from the weekend shifts, that would have been on her check this Friday, would more than cover it, plus the inconvenience of her sudden departure.

  The T-shirts could go to whoever replaced her. Roger had said he’d take them back for her when he took back Riley’s car, just as he’d agreed to take back the stack of library books on her nightstand. Of course, they were checked out on his card…and what would she have done without them as distraction in the long, quiet hours when the memories hovered and she was fighting the plunge into the dark chaos her life had become?

  Mad, she thought. She’d have gone stark, raving mad. She would—

  A sound at the door made her jerk upright. She hadn’t moved fast enough. Cooper Grant stood in the doorway.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  His query was sharp, short and as intense as his gaze. But she couldn’t help noticing what appeared to be a touch of relief in his manner. The possible reasons for that weren’t something she cared to contemplate. He was also breathing deeply; had he run here from the café? He didn’t seem the type, but she wasn’t surprised he was capable of it. He looked in shape to run more than two miles if he had to. Hadn’t she felt his strength, just yesterday?

  “Packing,” she said, needlessly. “I have to…go somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s an emergency,” she began, thinking that much was certainly true.

  He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Nell…” he began, taking a step toward her. She backed up the same distance he moved, all the while aware he could get to her easily.

  “Don’t try to stop me.”

  As soon as the words were out she regretted them. No point in warning somebody when you had absolutely no means of following through.

  Cooper ran his fingers through tousled hair. She heard a two-note message chime from his cell phone. He ignored it. He stayed focused on her.

  “What the hell did I do to set you off?” he asked, sounding truly bewildered. “Just because I asked a few questions?”

  “Why did you ask them?” she countered, quickly stuffing the small bag that held her toothbrush and the few other toiletries she had into the duffel, then zipping it up with a sharp jerk that betrayed her emotions.

  “Curiosity. Interest. What’s wrong with that?”

  She ignored the sharp-edged comment. Kept packing. She wasn’t sure she could bluff her way out of this. He was too perceptive, and her reactions had been too definite for him to be fooled. But the thin hope that he didn’t know she knew was all she had.

  “Where are you going?”

  She almost said “I don’t know,” because it was the truth. She had no idea. Maybe she would have to find that boat to take her to Alaska. Too bad the one person she knew with a boat was the one who was making this necessary.

  It occurred to her then that he might well follow her, or try to. And she didn’t know how to deal with that. She’d managed to get this far because Jeremy hadn’t expected her to have the nerve to actually leave, and because he thought so little of anything outside himself.

  “I thought we were friends,” he said. “At least, I thought you thought we were.”

  “I did.” The words were out, in a pitiful near-whine, before she could stop them. And before she considered the odd way he’d phrased that.

  She heard the slam of the door of the big house. Roger. Was he headed to his garden for something to harvest for her, or was he coming back here? And with a jolt that was almost physical her priorities shifted. She couldn’t let him be hurt. Not for her sake. And she knew he would try to help, to protect her. He was tough, and strong, but he was still a man in his seventies. And he was the best friend she’
d had in a very long time.

  She’d rather die than let anything happen to him. The very idea made her throw caution—and her only advantage, that he didn’t know she knew—to the winds.

  “Don’t you dare hurt him.”

  She said it through clenched teeth, with a fierceness she felt down to her bones.

  Cooper looked completely taken aback. “Hurt him? Roger? Why on earth would I hurt Roger?”

  “Because it would hurt me. And that’s what he wants.”

  His demeanor changed, shifted. In an odd way it reminded her of Tris, which made no sense.

  “What who wants? Who wants to hurt you?” he asked, his voice soft yet intense. And demanding an answer.

  She had to end this now, she couldn’t risk Roger being hurt. She couldn’t carry any more guilt.

  “You know damned well. Didn’t he tell you why I left? His version, anyway?”

  Cooper blinked. He looked genuinely puzzled. “Whose version?”

  No denial that she’d left for a reason, she noticed. And she was more certain than ever that she was right. She ignored the pain that was trying to well up inside her with the ease of long practice. She focused on the immediacy of the moment, and what she was going to do. Was he going to try and stop her? Physically? That was the thought that was paramount in her mind as she tugged free the shoulder strap of the duffel.

  She didn’t think he was armed. She’d never seen any sign of a gun, although she was far from an expert and supposed he could have a small one hidden somewhere. Of course, guns weren’t the only possibility. She swallowed tightly, remembering the night Jeremy had threatened to carve her into pieces; did Cooper carry a knife?

  “The man who hired you,” she said bluntly.

  “Nell,” he began, but she barely heard. She was looking at his face, and saw only one thing; the uncomfortable truth.

  The last tiny hope she’d held crumbled inside her. And for the first time she wondered exactly what orders Jeremy had given him.

  And for the first time, she didn’t really care. Something bigger had died inside her, and it made her voice flat, dull, when she spoke.

  “Did he tell you to kill me, or bring me back so he could?”

  Chapter 16

  Cooper Grant was rarely shocked. Surprised, startled, occasionally stunned, but not shocked. But she had done it.

  Kill her?

  He knew he was gaping at her, speechless.

  “You didn’t think I’d guess? I almost didn’t. You’re good, don’t worry. You had me fooled.”

  He gave a shake of his head. “Nell,” he said again.

  “No need for pretense now. You can use my real name.”

  He wasn’t sure how she’d guessed, or if her paranoia—for he was beginning to think it must be just that—had made her suspect him, but the fact was clear she was certain he wasn’t who he said he was. And he supposed it didn’t matter how confused she was about the rest. Because she was right.

  Guilt stabbed at him, hot and sharp. And no amount of telling himself it was his job, just a job, seemed to ease the slicing pain. But right now he had to deal with the obvious fact that she was near panic, and determined to run. And there was only one way to stop her, no matter how much it might tick off the man who’d hired him.

  “Listen to me, Nell—Tanya,” he corrected himself. She didn’t even react, which told him how certain she was that she’d been right.

  Well, she had been, hadn’t she?

  He ignored the jabbing thought and went on. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you. He wanted the pleasure himself.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he did.”

  Her voice was so harsh, so bitter, it scraped at him like a claw. He had to fight through the sensation to clear his thoughts; her anger at him was one thing, he’d expected that to some extent—people didn’t like being fooled—but this was something else.

  Think, idiot, he ordered himself. She still thought her brother was dead. So what the hell was going on?

  He decided the best thing to do, before she got it in her head to bolt and he had to physically stop her, was to just get it over with.

  “Tristan’s alive.”

  There, it was out. But the words just hung there, in dead air. She didn’t even blink.

  “Is that what he told you to tell me? That my brother was alive?”

  “It was your brother who hired me,” he said.

  A deep, awful sort of agony flickered across her face, settled in her eyes as she stared at him.

  “My God,” she breathed. “How could somebody so cold and cruel come across as so—” She stopped short, let out a clipped, utterly bitter laugh that clawed at him even harder. “Never mind. Obviously the problem is with me. I was too stupid to see through either of you.”

  Cooper was beginning to feel in over his head. He hated this, hated that she could look at him like that, talk to him with that tone in her voice. But he had to think, and clearly. She was so convinced Tristan was dead, of course she thought anyone who’d tell him he wasn’t was cold and cruel. And there was only one person he could think of who could be the other one she was referring to.

  But none of that mattered right this moment. What mattered was putting an end to this torture. Now.

  “He’s alive, Nell.” He gave up trying to think of her as Tanya; he had a feeling she would always be Nell to him. “He’s been trying to find you ever since that he woke up after that night. He knows you think he’s dead, and he almost was.”

  “He died,” she said flatly, “in my arms. Do you think I would have left him there if he was still alive?”

  Cooper winced inwardly. He hadn’t known that. He pressed on. “I’ve talked to him. Several times.”

  “What?” Her brow furrowed, and for the first time he was sure she was at least listening.

  “He called me because he thought you might come here, to the northwest. Because it was the last place your family was together and happy.”

  Her eyes widened. But then her expression hardened again, as if she’d thought of an explanation that fit her paranoia. He pressed harder.

  “He told me you camped out at a lake up here, the four of you. And that your parents already knew your mother was sick, but they kept it a secret from you, so you could have one last carefree vacation before she started chemo.”

  She went pale. Almost wobbled, but caught herself. He wanted to reach for her, hold her, but he knew that was the worst thing he could do right now.

  “Your dad laughed at you because you always wanted to set the fish you caught free rather than eat them.”

  She went paler still. He almost had her.

  “Your brother told me he called you ‘trout-hugger’ from then on.”

  She gasped. And then she did wobble, as if her knees were giving out.

  He did grab her then, holding her up. He couldn’t just let her fall, could he? She sagged against him, murmuring something in an oddly rhythmic cadence. He had to bend his head to hear it.

  “No, no, it can’t be,” she was saying.

  Did she still not believe it? He hadn’t known Jones had died—or so she thought—in her arms like that. No wonder she was finding this hard to believe. If only she hadn’t run that night….

  If she hadn’t run, you never would have met her, he thought, as he eased her down to sit on the edge of the bed. He sat down beside her. He felt the shudders going through her. Reached over and with a gentle finger under her chin tipped her head back slightly. He needed to see her eyes.

  They were wide, dark, and filled with confusion. He wasn’t surprised. She’d been so certain. And for the first time he realized her brother had been absolutely right when he’d said she’d never believe it until she saw him in person, alive and kicking.

  But she seemed so shaken he had to think she was at least taking in the possibility she’d been wrong. It would take a while, thinking would be overwhelmed by joy at first, but eventually she’d get there. And he couldn’t imagine how she’
d feel when she finally realized she’d fled the scene that night when her brother was still alive. Had she known, she never would have left him. Cooper was certain of that. He’d better point that out to Jones, make sure he realized that, so he could help her through it.

  It took him a moment to realize the pang he felt was at the realization that he himself wouldn’t be around to do it, to help her. Or more likely, she wouldn’t be around. Her brother would probably whisk her back home, back to her old life of wealth and comfort. It would take some time for her to put the pieces back together, but she would.

  He stood there for a long moment, staring at her, trying to picture her morphing back into the woman in the photograph, letting her hair grow out, going blond again, trading the jeans and T-shirts for the glamorous gowns. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

  Or maybe he just didn’t like the idea. Would the woman in that picture have literally lost her breath over a waterfall? And even if she did, would she have hidden her reaction behind a facade of cool, worldly experience?

  He made himself focus on the moment, on getting her through this. This, at least, he was here for. And if his own tangled emotions were anything to go by, she must be in internal chaos.

  She shifted, looked up at him. “Who are you?”

  The question took him aback for an instant; of all the things she could ask, she chose that? He quashed the spark of pleasure he felt, that he was the first thing, telling himself it had nothing to do with he himself and everything to do with the fact that he was the safest topic for a mind that had to be spinning.

  “Besides a liar, I mean,” she added.

  Ouch.

  “Everything I’ve told you is the truth,” he said.

  “It’s just all based on one, huge lie.”

  “It just wasn’t all of the truth.”

  She was looking at him as if he’d utterly betrayed her. The pain in her eyes, jabbed at him. He didn’t understand—she should be so happy her brother was alive that nothing else mattered. And he didn’t know whether to be flattered or worried that apparently he mattered.