by Irene Hannon
“I realize that, and I’m doing my best to rectify the situation as fast as possible.” He hated the pleading note that crept into his voice, but desperation was beginning to undermine his usual composure. He’d been short-tempered with his staff too—not his usual style, either. Thankfully, they attributed his grouchiness to his wife’s declining health and were cutting him some slack.
“I’m confident you are.” The man’s tone remained cordial, but there was a steel edge to it. “However, we need to begin looking at alternative arrangements.”
A wave of nausea rolled through him. Like what? That seedy facility on the edge of town that charged half as much and had been cited more than once for resident abuse?
No way.
Trouble was, at this point he couldn’t even afford that place.
“Will you give me a little more time?”
“How much?”
“The end of the month. If I haven’t paid my bill in full by then, I’ll move Leah.”
The man let an uncomfortable five seconds drag by. “All right. We’ll expect the balance by April 30.”
“Thank you.” Roger rose and picked up his cup. “I’ll work toward the deadline.”
Without waiting for a reply, he left the office.
Once outside, he drew in a lungful of the fresh spring air. No matter how high-end these places were, all of them had the same distinctive odor. They reeked of advanced age. Lingering illness. Imminent death.
After taking another swallow of the bitter coffee, he pitched the rest in a trash container in the parking lot.
The only positive outcome from today’s meeting was the temporary reprieve. He’d bought himself twenty-three days to come up with almost twenty thousand dollars for the March, April, and May bills.
A fortune, when your checking account was on fumes and you had zilch in savings.
Only one thing would allow him to raise that kind of money by the deadline.
A miracle.
He unlocked the police cruiser, slid inside, and gripped the wheel.
Please, God—help me find a way to get through this crisis. Leah has been your faithful servant all her life. She doesn’t have much time left . . . help me make her last few months comfortable. Please.
A drop of rain splashed onto the windshield. Another followed. Several more splattered on the glass. Then the skies opened. Driving back to Beaumont on the rural roads would be tricky.
But he could handle this kind of storm.
It was the storm in his life that sent his blood pressure soaring.
And as he put the car in gear and aimed it toward Beaumont, he hoped the good Lord had heard his plea.
Because if God ignored him, he didn’t have a clue what he was going to do next.
This had to be it.
Finn slowed as he approached the gravel road that veered off the main drag. A rusted wagon wheel was propped against a rock, but no mailbox stood at the entrance.
Since there were no other driveways anywhere close to the entrance to Mark Busch’s place on this side of the two-lane highway, the screaming woman’s cabin must be down here.
Twisting the wheel, Finn maneuvered the SUV through a ditch that would no doubt be impassable in a downpour and drove down a narrow, woods-bordered track that barely accommodated his vehicle.
After a few hundred yards, he emerged into a small clearing behind the cabin he’d invaded last night. A parking pad large enough to hold two cars was off to the side of the structure, but it was empty.
Had the woman fled rather than wait for him to appear today?
Only one way to find out.
He parked the SUV, retrieved the repaired screen and the toolbox he’d found in Mark’s shed, and circled around to the front of the house.
Pausing, he took in the scene.
What a difference from the sinister mood of last night.
With sunshine spilling through the new green sprouts on the trees and sprinkling the blue water of the lake below with diamonds, the tidy cabin looked more like a peaceful retreat than a house of terror.
Hopefully some of that peace had seeped into the occupant in the past few hours.
Ascending the steps to a porch furnished with two caned-seat rocking chairs separated by a table topped with a pot of geraniums, Finn prepared to issue another apology.
Once at the door, he set down the toolbox, leaned the screen against the wall, and ran a hand over his smooth jaw. Dispensing with the stubble had gone a long way toward giving him an air of respectability. Exchanging last night’s sweatpants and plain white T-shirt for jeans and a real shirt should work to his advantage too.
He hoped.
After wiping his palms down the denim covering his thighs, he lifted his hand and knocked.
Fifteen silent seconds passed.
He tried again.
Zilch.
Propping his hands on his hips, he examined the screenless window. He couldn’t put the screen back in from the outside—but the woman could do it herself when she returned. It wasn’t a difficult job.
Assuming she did return.
This could be a vacation rental. In that case, after what had happened last night, she might have decided to cut her visit short and . . .
“Sorry. I was taking a break for a few minutes down near the dock.”
Pulse vaulting into overdrive, he whirled around, every muscle taut and poised for action.
The woman from last night stood twenty feet away.
“Sorry again. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He squinted against the glare of the sun and gave her a discreet once-over. The longish brown hair was familiar, though the copper highlights sparked by the sun were new—but man, did she look different in the daylight, long legs encased in snug jeans, red Stanford sweatshirt hinting at enticing curves.
Too bad dark glasses hid her eyes. Based on her model-like cheekbones and lush lips, they were probably—
“Are you okay?”
He did his best to rein in his wandering thoughts and relax his posture. “Yes. I, uh, didn’t expect to find you outside.”
“And I didn’t expect to find you in my cabin last night. Shall we call it even?”
“That would be far too generous on your part.” Her stark terror as he crashed through her bedroom door would be etched in his memory for the foreseeable future. “But I hope to make amends.” He indicated the screen and tool kit.
She inspected them, then shoved her hands in her pockets. “The door’s open.”
After retrieving both items, he twisted the knob and entered.
She didn’t follow.
Who could blame her after last night? She might have accepted his story—or perhaps done as he’d suggested and checked it out—but he was still a stranger. In her place, he’d be cautious too.
Within two minutes, the screen was locked back into place. Tool kit in hand, he walked down the hall toward the bedroom, surveying the kitchen as he passed. The room was cheery, if dated, with knotty pine cabinets, white porcelain sink, faded checkered yellow curtains, and a wooden dinette set that appeared to be used more for work than eating. Half of the space was taken up with a laptop and a large monitor displaying grossly oversized text.
Curious.
Ten minutes later, he finished securing the door. The bedroom was much neater today than it had been last night, a quilt covering the double bed, pillow plumped, the water and aspirin gone. Had she straightened up in anticipation of his visit—or was she simply a neat person?
Based on the spotless, clutter-free house he passed through en route to the front door, it was the latter.
She was sitting on the porch steps as he exited, but she rose the instant he appeared and backed off, putting distance between them.
“All finished.” Finn sent her his warmest smile. The one most women found irresistible.
She didn’t return it.
“Thanks. And thanks, too, for responding last night to what you thought was an e
mergency. A lot of people wouldn’t have bothered.”
“That’s not how I was raised.”
“Kudos to your parents.”
“I’ll pass that on.”
Silence.
Finn transferred the toolbox to his other hand. The lady hadn’t offered any explanation about the nightmare . . . or the reason for her visit here . . . or why she was alone. Nor had she given him her name.
If he wanted more information, he was going to have to prolong this conversation and work in a few subtle questions.
“Nice lake.” He surveyed the glistening expanse at the base of the gentle slope that led from the house to the water.
“Yeah.” She cast a lingering glance that direction, giving him an excellent view of her perfect profile. “Great fishing too.”
Not what he’d expected. Despite her casual attire, she exuded a certain polish that suggested she’d be more at home juggling a latte and briefcase than worms and a fishing pole.
“You fish?”
“Not much these days—but Pops taught me to bait a hook with the best of them right there on that dock.” She gestured to a listing wooden structure in obvious need of repair.
He took his best guess. “Your dad?”
“Grandfather. This was my grandparents’ weekend place. After Pops retired, they spent their summers here.”
So she wasn’t a renter.
But where were her grandparents?
And how long was she going to be here?
“Nice spot for a vacation.”
“Yes.”
“Do you come often?”
She focused again on the lake, and her throat contracted. “I haven’t been here in several years. Not since Pops got sick. I hoped we might make another trip here together before he died, but . . .” Her words choked, and she lifted one shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” She swallowed again. “It’s been six months, but it’s still hard. Pops and I had a special bond that grew even stronger after my grandmother died twelve years ago. When I inherited the place, I couldn’t bring myself to come here at first. But after—” She stopped abruptly.
After what?
Not much chance his curiosity was going to be satisfied, based on the firm clamp of her jaw.
Move on to a new topic, McGregor.
“Your dock needs some work.” He surveyed it again. Several of the wooden planks were missing or rotted.
“I know.”
“I’d be happy to replace the boards for you.”
She studied him from behind her sunglasses. At last she reached up and removed them.
Warm, intelligent—gorgeous—hazel eyes regarded him. She didn’t seem to be wearing a speck of makeup . . . meaning those thick, sweeping lashes were all hers.
He forced himself to pay attention to her words as she spoke.
“I don’t want to interrupt your vacation. Besides, you’ve already repaid last night’s debt.”
Maybe—but he wanted another excuse to call again.
Needed another excuse.
He’d figure out why later.
“I’ll be here a month. I have plenty of time on my hands. Unless you’re leaving soon?”
“No. I’m here . . . indefinitely.”
He flicked a glance at her ring finger. Empty. So a husband wasn’t financing her extended sojourn in the country. She could be independently wealthy. Or she might have inherited a lot of money from her grandfather, along with the cabin. Or maybe she was between jobs and living off her savings.
Whatever the reason for her protracted stay, he’d take it.
“Why don’t I give it a quick look?” He inclined his head toward the dock.
After a slight hesitation, she motioned for him to precede her and slid her glasses back onto her nose.
They walked down in silence, and he did a quick inspection. If he paced himself, he ought to be able to stretch the job out over a couple of days.
“This won’t be too difficult to fix.” He stood to face her. “And there’s a hardware store in town.”
“I know. I have an account there—and at the general store. If you put together a list of what you need, I’ll call and order it. They deliver twice a week. I can have everything by Wednesday.”
“Or I could load it in my SUV and get started sooner.”
“No sense making a special trip into town. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“It’s not a . . .” The phone on his hip began to vibrate, and he pulled it out. “Huh. This worked in town this morning, but I haven’t been able to get a signal anywhere out here.”
“Mine works down here too.”
He skimmed the screen. Mac. Between his two brothers, they’d left four messages since he’d arrived Friday night—and neither had picked up when he’d tried to return their calls while he was in Beaumont.
Better take this, or they were likely to send in the cavalry.
“Do you mind if I answer? It’s my brother, and I doubt I’ll have a signal again today.”
“Sure. Go ahead.” She strolled away, along the edge of the lake.
He put the phone to his ear, keeping her in his line of sight. “Hey.”
“Finally.”
“There’s not much cell service out here.”
“That’s what we figured. Listen, you need to call us every couple of days.”
The same instruction his mom had given him.
“It’s not that easy. I don’t want to drive into town just to make a phone call.”
“Then we’ll be trekking your direction on a regular basis.”
“Not necessary.”
“It is if you won’t call.”
He angled away and lowered his voice, reining in his temper. “I’m fine.”
“Define fine.”
Leave it to Mac to detect an exaggeration and give him the third degree.
“Better than I was.”
His brother expelled a breath, accepting the amended version. “I still don’t get what you’re going to do down there for a month. You’re not an assume-the-lotus-position-and-contemplate-mother-nature kind of guy.”
“There’s stuff to do here.”
“Like what?”
“Read books. Take walks. Chop wood.” And fix a dock.
“You’ll be bored with all that in three days—and I don’t like the idea of you being there all alone once that happens.”
He shifted again toward his neighbor. She’d bent down to examine some kind of flower at water’s edge, her hair sleek and shiny in the sun.
Bored?
All alone?
Not if he could help it.
“Finn?”
“Yeah.” He watched the woman pluck the flower and finger the petals. “I’m not bored—and I need to go.” If nothing else, maybe he could finagle ongoing visits to the lake by asking to take advantage of the cell service sweet spot.
“What’s your hurry? You have a hot date waiting?”
He gave his neighbor’s lithe figure a once-over. Hot was a perfect adjective to describe her.
“Right. In the middle of a national forest.”
“As I recall, you always managed to scrounge up dates wherever you were.”
“Not on my priority list at the moment.”
“Which tells me you’re nowhere close to fine yet.”
“I’m getting there.”
“You know you can call me anytime, right?”
His throat tightened. “Yeah. I’ll be in touch later in the week.”
“I’ll hold you to that—and take care of yourself in the meantime.”
The line went dead, and Finn slipped the phone back onto his belt.
His neighbor twirled the flower between her fingers and wandered back toward him, her demeanor wistful. “It must be nice to have family who cares enough to keep tabs on you.”
“You don’t?”
She shrugged, lifting the posy toward her nose—to smell it or to hide her e
xpression?—and changed the subject. “Did you want to measure the boards?”
“Yeah.” He dug a retractable steel measuring tape out of the toolbox, along with a pencil, and went to work.
After taking all the measurements and jotting them down on the back of his receipt from the general store in town, he held up the slip of paper. “Would you like me to leave this on the table on the porch?”
She hesitated . . . but in the end, she approached him and took it from his fingers.
Progress—even if she did back off a few steps again.
“I’ll call the order in this morning.”
“And I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” He closed the toolbox and stood. “What name will it be under?” Pushing, perhaps—but since she hadn’t offered . . .
She bit her lip. “I never introduced myself, did I?”
“Nope.” He smiled to make certain she knew he didn’t hold the lapse against her.
“Dana Lewis.” No offer of a hand.
“And I’m Finn McGregor, as I mentioned last night. Feel free to verify that with Mark.”
“I did.”
In other words, she knew he was legit.
Then why was she still wary?
Not an answer he was going to get today.
“Well . . .” He hefted the tool kit. “I’ll be on my way—but I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks again.”
She stayed where she was as he ascended the small hill. When he turned at the top, she was where he’d left her. Watching him.
He lifted his hand.
No response.
The lady was playing her cards close to her vest.
But that was okay. He’d have other opportunities to see her—and try to find the answers to some of his questions.
Once behind the wheel, he put the SUV into drive, crunched over the loose rock toward the state highway—and felt the corners of his mouth tug up.
Odd.
Spontaneous smiles hadn’t been part of his world for quite a while.
Even more surprising?
For the first time in almost two years, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow.
3
Mail call.”
Roger turned from hunting-and-pecking a fender bender report as Lynette Jackson dumped a bunch of paperwork in his in-box.
