Tangled Webs

by Irene Hannon

  She exhaled and relaxed against him. “The feeling’s mutual, in case there’s any doubt.”

  “Nice to know.” Especially tonight. “Shall we continue to the park?” He took her hand again.

  “Sure.”

  As they ambled toward their destination, Finn tried to redirect the conversation. But when his attempts were met with monosyllable answers, he gave up. Ignoring the elephant in the room wasn’t going to make it go away.

  “You’re still thinking about what happened, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. About Chief Burnett, actually. I know what he did was wrong—both keeping the gold a secret and staying quiet about that meth lab—but I can’t help feeling sorry for him. It’s hard to fault someone for wanting to take care of a person they love.”

  As far as he was concerned, wrong was wrong . . . but he could appreciate the nuances that troubled Dana. If he was in a situation like Burnett, desperate to provide for a loved one, who knew what lengths he might go to, what kind of compromises he might consider? He’d like to think he’d stand firm on his principles and take a higher road . . . but pressure could bend even the strongest person. That didn’t make it right, nor was it an excuse, but it happened.

  Sometimes with fatal consequences.

  And the chief had definitely paid the price for his deception.

  At least he’d redeemed himself somewhat in the end by doing what he could to help thwart Phelps.

  “The situation was messy, no question about it. And you do have to admire his loyalty to his wife.” He could concede that much.

  “I agree. I’m glad the company that owned the gold offered to pick up her bills after it was returned to them. Setting some funds aside as a reward and applying them to her care was a generous gesture.”

  “Good PR too.”

  She nudged him. “Cynic.”

  “Realist. Besides, it didn’t cost them that much.”

  “That’s true. Everyone in town said she’d been slipping, but I think they were all surprised when she died five months after the chief.”

  “Uh-huh.” They were approaching the park, and he didn’t want one millisecond of sadness to mar the surprise he had planned. Time to lift the somber mood. “Our bench awaits.” He guided her to their usual spot.

  “Yes . . . and the pansies are beautiful despite the chilly nights. In New York, most of the flowers are gone by Thanksgiving.” Her tone was more upbeat now—as if she, too, was anxious to leave heavier subjects behind.

  Excellent.

  “Does that mean you’re liking it here in Atlanta?”

  “Yes. The city has many attractions.” She sat.

  “Such as?” He joined her.

  “Hmm.” She leaned back, her expression speculative. “Warmer weather than New York, reasonable access to beaches, Southern charm, fabulous ethnic food . . . let’s see, am I leaving anything out?”

  Finn reached into his jacket . . . took a deep breath to steady his nerves . . . and pulled out a small square box. “They have great jewelry stores too.”

  Her gaze dropped to his hand. Darted back to his face. Dropped again.

  He flipped up the lid to reveal a marquis-cut diamond in a platinum setting that the clerk had assured him would dazzle any woman.

  Based on the sudden sparkle in Dana’s eyes, the man hadn’t overstated his claim.

  “Is there a . . .” She stopped. Swallowed. “Is there a speech to go with that?”

  “Yes—if I can remember it. Being around you has a tendency to muddle my brain.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should.” He tried to coax up the corners of his mouth, formulate a witty response, but for once his ability to lock down his nerves in stressful situations failed him. He couldn’t manage either the grin or the comeback.

  Giving up, he gripped her hand and launched into his speech instead. “Being around you also makes me smile—more than I ever have in my life. And it makes me want to be the kind of man you’ll always be proud of. It also reminds me of what’s important in life . . . and how precious every single day is. You bring out the best in me—and you help me notice things I never appreciated before. The pleasure of a gentle touch. The joy of shared laughter. The sweetness of simple moments spent together. Just by being part of them, you make ordinary days extraordinary.”

  A sheen appeared in Dana’s eyes, and she reached up to swipe her fingers under them. “If you keep this up, Finn McGregor, you’re going to ruin my mascara.”

  “Then get your makeup kit handy, because there’s more.” He extracted the ring from the box—a far harder task than he expected, thanks to the tremors in his fingers. “I love you, Dana. I love your courage and kindness, your sense of humor and intelligence, your empathy and caring. I love the way you look at me right before I kiss you, how your eyes get soft and that little pulse beats in your throat. I love how you make me feel like the luckiest man in the world. And the truth is, that’s what I am. Or I will be if you answer this question with a yes. Will you marry me so we can end every day in each other’s arms and greet every morning with a kiss?”

  “Yes.” Her acceptance came out in a soft rush of air as she lifted her hand and held it out.

  His lips finally agreed to curve up. “I guess all those roses and candlelit dinners and classic movie nights at my condo paid off.”

  “They helped seal the deal—but you want the truth? I think deep inside I knew almost from the first day we met that you were destined to be the one.” She wiggled her finger. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Without further delay, he slipped on the ring.

  And as he slid the shiny band into position, elation surged through him, just as it used to after finishing a high-risk mission, when all was well and he was heading home.

  Except this time he was heading home forever.

  The sooner the better.

  With the ring firmly on her finger, he grasped both her hands. “I have one other question. How fast can we get married?”

  “Anxious?”

  “Close enough.” And a more polite way of phrasing it.

  “What would you think about a Christmas wedding?”

  One month away.

  He could wait that long.

  Maybe.

  “I think that would be the best Christmas present I ever got.”

  “Then let’s shoot for that.” She fingered the edge of his crew-neck sweater, the brush of her knuckles against his jaw driving him crazy. “Too bad you’re new on the job, though. If you had more vacation accrued, we wouldn’t have to settle for a long weekend somewhere after the wedding.”

  She thought he intended to take an abbreviated honeymoon?

  Ha.

  “Oh, I have some pull with the boss. I think I can wrangle a few extra days off. Is there any specific place you’d like to go?”

  “No . . . although I’m partial to privacy and palm trees and white sand.”

  “That gets my vote too. And I know the perfect spot. Have you ever heard of Cayo Espanto?

  “No.”

  “It’s in Belize. A private island resort with coconut palms, empty beaches, and great food. They only have a handful of individual, secluded villas.”

  “Wow! That sounds exotic—and very expensive.”

  “Worth every penny to get you all to myself.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “No, but I’ve done some research on honeymoon destinations. I had several possibilities in mind, depending on your geographic preference.”

  “Is there anything to do there other than eat and be a beach bum?” Her eyes began to twinkle.

  “Oh yeah. I have lots of activities in mind. Shall I give you a preview?”

  “By all means.”

  She lifted her chin.

  He leaned down.

  And in the instant before their lips met, he sent a silent thank-you heavenward.

  For the sweet love of this special woman who would bless his days fo
r always.

  For the grace that had led him from the darkness of battlefield demons to the light of hope.

  And for absolute proof that happy endings didn’t only happen in books.

  Not again.

  Adam Stone slammed the door on his decrepit Kia, expelled a breath, and surveyed the damage.

  The rustic, one-room cabin he called home appeared to be untouched this go-round. But it would take some serious sanding to get rid of the profanities spray-painted on the small outbuilding that housed his woodworking shop.

  At least the vandals hadn’t broken any windows this time.

  But where was Clyde?

  Breaking into a jog on the gravel drive, he scanned the surrounding woods that offered peeks at the pristine Oregon beach and choppy April sea a hundred yards away.

  “Clyde!”

  No response.

  “Clyde! Come on out, boy. It’s safe.”

  Silence, save for the distinctive trill of the sandpiper that gave this secluded cove its name.

  He clamped his jaw shut. Damaged property, he could deal with. But if those thugs had done anything to . . .

  A soft whimper came from the direction of the workshop, and the swinging door he’d rigged up for the adopted stray gave a slight shimmy.

  Adam switched direction, digging out the keys to the shed as he goosed his jog to a sprint.

  “I’m here, boy. Hang on.” He fumbled the key as he inserted it in the lock, tremors sabotaging his fingers.

  Clenching his teeth, he tried again. It was crazy to worry about a dumb mutt who hadn’t had enough sense to move out of the path of a car. Letting yourself care for anyone—or anything—was an invitation for grief.

  And he didn’t need any more of that.

  Yet walking away from a hurt, defenseless creature hadn’t been an option on that foggy day by the side of Highway 101 when he’d found the injured pooch barely clinging to life.

  The lock clicked, and he pushed the door open.

  From the corner of the shop where he’d wedged himself behind some scrap wood, Clyde poked out his black nose. He whimpered again, his big, soulful brown eyes filled with fear.

  Adam exhaled, his tension whooshing out like CO2 being released from a soft drink can.

  Clyde was scared—but okay.

  Hunkering down, he held out his hand and gentled his voice. “You’re safe, boy. Come on out.”

  Clyde didn’t budge.

  No problem.

  Adam sat cross-legged on the rough-hewn floorboards and waited. Pushing any creature to trust if they weren’t yet ready to do so could backfire—no matter how well-intentioned the overture. The small white scar on his right hand from the night Clyde had mistaken a friendly reach for a threat proved that.

  But these days, it didn’t take long for the mangy mongrel to emerge from a hiding place.

  Less than fifteen seconds later, Clyde crept out and inched toward him, limping on his bad leg.

  As the dog approached, Adam fought the urge to pull the shaking mass of mottled fur into a comforting embrace.

  Instead, he remained motionless until Clyde sniffed around, stuck a damp nose in his palm—and climbed into his lap.

  All forty-three pounds of him.

  Only then did Adam touch the dog.

  “No one’s going to hurt you, fella. Everything’s fine.” The last word hitched as he stroked the mutt. “I’m here, and I won’t be leaving again until I go to work tomorrow morning. We’ll spend the rest of Sunday together. I might even grill a burger for you too, instead of making you eat that dog chow the vet recommended. How does some comfort food sound?”

  Of course the stupid dog had no idea what he was saying—but his soothing tone seemed to calm the canine. Clyde’s shakes subsided, and when their gazes connected, the mutt’s eyes brimmed with adoration.

  A sudden rush of warmth filled Adam’s heart—but he quickly squelched it. How pathetic, to be touched by a dog’s affection.

  Besides, it was all an illusion.

  Dogs didn’t feel emotions.

  Without breaking eye contact, Clyde gave his fingers a quick, dry lick. As if to say, Yes, we do. And I think you’re great.

  Pressure built in Adam’s throat as he smoothed a hand over Clyde’s back, his fingertips feeling every ridge of scar tissue that had been there long before their lives had intersected sixteen months ago, when both of them had been in desperate need of a friend.

  Okay. Fine.

  Maybe he was reading too much into the dog’s reaction.

  Maybe he was being too sentimental.

  But for today, he’d let himself believe the abused pooch did have deeper feelings.

  Because while he’d made a few friends in Hope Harbor during the year and a half he’d lived here, the only one waiting for him in Sandpiper Cove at the end of each day was Clyde.

  And without the canine companion who’d claimed a wedge of his heart, his life would be even lonelier.

  “Happy Monday, Lexie. How’s your week starting out?”

  Hope Harbor Police Chief Lexie Graham leaned a shoulder against the side of Charley’s taco truck and considered the man’s question as she gave the picturesque wharf a sweep.

  Planters overflowing with colorful flowers served as a buffer between the sidewalk and the sloping pile of boulders that led to the water. Across the wide street from the marina, quaint storefronts adorned with bright awnings and flower boxes faced the sea. A white gazebo occupied the small park behind Charley’s truck, where the two-block-long, crescent-shaped frontage road dead-ended at the river.

  All was peaceful and predictable . . . as usual.

  Just the way she liked it.

  “So far, so good. Everything’s been quiet.”

  “I don’t know. Looks can be deceiving. You ordering for one today?”

  “Yes.” She studied the taco-making artist, who hadn’t changed one iota in all the years she’d known him. Same leathery, latte-colored skin. Same long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. Same kindly, insightful eyes.

  It was comforting to have one unchanging element in a world that liked to throw curves. The town sage and wisdom-dispenser could always be counted on to offer sound advice and brighten her day.

  But his looks-can-be-deceiving comment didn’t leave her feeling warm and fuzzy.

  Squinting, she took another survey of Dockside Drive. Nothing amiss in town, as far as she could see. Nor did there appear to be any issues meriting attention on the water. The long jetty on the left and the pair of rocky islands on the right that tamed the turbulent waves and protected the boats in the marina were as unchanging as the sea stacks on the beach outside of town.

  Everything seemed normal.

  Maybe Charley’s comment had just been one of those philosophical observations he liked to throw out on occasion.

  Whatever the impetus for his remark, she didn’t intend to dwell on it.

  “What kind of tacos are you making?”

  “Cod’s the star today.” He pulled a handful of chopped red onions out of a cooler and tossed them on the griddle, alongside the sizzling fish. The savory aroma set off a rumble in her stomach. “Enhanced by my grandmother’s secret lime cilantro cream sauce.”

  “Sounds great, as always.”

  “We aim to please.” He flipped the fish and sprinkled some kind of seasoning over the ingredients on the griddle. “So did you find any clues out at Adam’s place?”

  At the non sequitur, she blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “The vandalism at Adam Stone’s place yesterday.” He stirred the onions. “Didn’t he report it?”

  “Not that I know of.” And she would know if he had. Every crime report landed on her desk.

  “Hmm. That surprises me, seeing as how this is his second hit.”

  There’d been two incidents of unreported vandalism inside the town limits?

  “Well, I can’t solve crimes if people don’t report them.” A prickle of irritation
sharpened her tone.

  “I suppose, given his history, he might prefer to stay off law enforcement’s radar. You do know Adam, don’t you?”

  She called up an image of the man she’d seen only from a distance. Six-one or two, lean, muscled, dark hair worn longish and secured with a black bandana, bad-boy stubble, usually attired in jeans and a scuffed black leather jacket. She wouldn’t be surprised if he sported a few tattoos too.

  In other words, a guy who’d feel at home in a motorcycle gang—and who fit the hard-edged name everyone in town except Charley called him.

  Stone.

  “I know who he is.” When an ex-con came to town, the police chief did her homework. “But we’ve never spoken.”

  “Is that right?” Charley set three corn tortillas on the counter beside him. “He’s a regular at Grace Christian. I assumed your paths had crossed.”

  They might have if she still went to church.

  Not a subject she was inclined to discuss over fish tacos on a public street.

  Interesting that the guy went to services, though. She wouldn’t have pegged him as a churchgoer.

  “No. I work a lot of Sunday mornings.” Like all of them. On purpose.

  “Well, I hope you get a handle on this vandalism before it escalates to a lot worse than spray-painted graffiti, a few broken windows, and some uprooted flowers.” He gestured to the planters along the wharf as he began assembling the tacos. “Rose and her garden club members spent hours salvaging what they could of the flowers after the last incident. And quite a few of the planters are damaged. They’re being held together with spit and prayers.”

  “We’re working the case as hard as we can, but whoever is doing this is picking times when no one is around. With our small force, we can’t be everywhere at once 24/7.”

  “I hear you.” He wrapped the tacos in white paper, slid them into a brown bag, and set them on the counter in front of her. “It’s a shame about Adam’s place, though. He’s had too many tough breaks already.”

  “Not much I can do if he doesn’t bother to file a report.” She dug out her money.