by Tracy Sumner
Stymie released a whistle-breath through the gaping space in his teeth. "Professor used to tell me how to manage my sail. Pert near right most times. I think I mighta been pinching at that."
"Nice story." Noah shoved a few coins into Stymie's hand and took off down the pier.
The first raindrop smacked his face as he crossed the wharf, shrieking seagulls and pounding waves a seductively familiar chorus. He shouldered past a throng of whalers, cast-iron try pots slung across their shoulders, their ribald laughter peppering the air. He skirted a fishmonger's wagon and stepped over a length of rope. An old man perched on an overturned water cask glanced at him, lifted a weathered hand in greeting. Noah returned the gesture reluctantly and turned behind a concealing wall of stacked oyster barrels.
Humid air arrived in gusts from the east, thick from the increasingly steady drizzle, the final nod to the question of whether to wear his spectacles. Maybe it's better, he reasoned, pausing in front of a house facing the bay, the double porch sagging above a foundation of ballast stone, the cypress shake roof dull gray. The enticing scent of the marsh on the far side of the island distressed him enough without clear vision bringing added misery, transporting him back to a time of security and love, family and friendship. While he stood there, trying to remember whose house this had been, the loneliness inside him awakened, overflowing his heart, forcing aside every other emotion. Eyes downcast and shoulders hunched, he traversed the shell-paved lane, the owner of the house forgotten.
Shaking rain from his face, he broke into a trot. He must remember the promise he had made as his train exited Dearborn Station: he would not be drawn into wondering what if; drawn into reliving a period of his life he wished to forget; drawn into lowering his guard, allowing the people who had once meant the entire world to him to mean the world again. He had learned to survive on his own, after years of agonizing exertion.
No one to trust or lose trust in.
No one to risk his heart over.
By the time he arrived at Widow Wynne's boardinghouse, he had regained his equilibrium but lost most of his body heat. His wool underdrawers stuck to his skin, water dripped off his nose and slid past his collar. Cursing beneath his breath, he made a mad dash for the front porch and a reprieve from the storm.
The woman stepped into his path—or he stepped into hers. Her head bounced off his chest, his satchel landed in a puddle. His arms rose to steady her. "Excuse me, ma'am, terribly...." His voice tapered off.
Deep green eyes met his, glistening drops of water spiking the long lashes. A fierce ache started deep in his chest and moved to his gut.
Only one person had eyes as beautiful as these.
Goddamn luck, he thought.
Elle tipped her head, rain washing over her fading smile. She flicked a glance at the hands holding her. "Juste Ciel," she said, her throat doing a slow draw as she swallowed. Her face paled, and she lifted a trembling hand to her forehead.
Noah braced his knees, fingers tightening around her slim forearms. For a moment, he feared she would pitch into the mud at their feet. But she simply mouthed his name as her gaze again fell to his hands.
Remembering she had always liked them, even impulsively called them beautiful once, he snatched them from her and searched blindly for his satchel, trying to escape the ringing in his ears, the darkness dimming his vision. Coming home had been a mistake. If it hurt this much to face Elle Beaumont, how would it feel to face his brothers?
"Wait. Noah, there's nowhere else to stay. Unless you want to go home."
He halted by the gate, threw his head back on his shoulders, and blinked the ashen sky into view. Go home? God, no. Water trickled in his mouth as he said, "Nowhere? There must be."
"I've already refused two fishermen. Widow Wynne returns from her niece's in a month. Then she'll accept boarders. Trust me, I would tell you if there were anywhere else."
Trust her? Oh, yes, that had turned out well before. Sighing, he cut his gaze her way, to find her standing in a shallow puddle, a sack of vegetables hanging forgotten from her fingers. A mannish blouse clung, somewhat indecently, to her bosom.
She had curves in places once flat and uninspiring.
So he stood there a moment, drenched and shivering, wondering how much better she would look if he had his spectacles on. "I could telephone—"
"No telephone. I petitioned the town committee for a public one, like they have in Morehead City. I proposed we place it at the mercantile." Swishing her toe through the puddle, she needlessly splashed her jersey gaiters with mud. "Mr. Scoggins planned to install it on the boardwalk post so his mother didn't have to see it. She threatened to move off the island if he did. Thinks spooks will creep along the line and into the store." She lifted her gaze, a mix of emotions crossing her face. Delight, caution, even a hint of anger, damn her. He read them all, like ink stamped on her forehead, the same as he could when they were children.
"We have a telegraph," she finally added.
"Impressive changes. There was a telegraph before."
"Yes, well"—he observed in amazement as she pulled a watch from a narrow slit in her skirt and flicked open the tarnished copper cover—"impressive or no, the office closed forty-five minutes ago." She blinked rain from her eyes and pocketed the watch, faltering when she caught his look. "Oh. I have the seamstress specially sew the pockets." She stamped her foot, splashing more muddy water on herself. "Why should a man be the only—"
For the love of God. "A hotel?"
She shoved a sodden clump of hair behind her ear, the ends bright against her skin. "You think we've gone this long without telephones but suddenly have hotels?"
A fat raindrop hit his neck and slipped inside his collar, making him shiver. He wasn't about to stand around in a downpour and explore his limited options. "Tell me this isn't your home, Elle."
She lifted her chin, a flush sweeping her cheeks.
"Tell me you're married and have three children. Tell me you're only bringing the widow her groceries."
She shook her head, an angry circle of white rimming her mouth.
No way, not living in the same goddamn house, he vowed, and kicked the gate open. Elle emitted a squeak of panic and caught him by the wrist, throwing him off-balance and against the white pickets rising between them. Her breasts, firm and plump, bumped his chest, and he recoiled, but not much. She had a remarkably strong grip for a petite woman, and perhaps, if he were honest, he didn't want to move badly enough.
"Don't. Please don't. Not again."
Grief and remorse claimed him. "You don't have any idea what it has taken to get me here. But you have an idea what it took to make me leave, don't you?" He raised his hand in apology. "I've agonized for two months about this. I waited until I could... until I felt sure I could...." He tilted his head, icy drops of rain stinging his face.
"You're the marine biologist we've been expecting? The one I'm holding the coach house for?"
Nodding, he blew out a breath.
"I'll leave it to you to tell your brothers. I won't say a word. I promise. Caleb is gone for two more days, buying lumber in Durham. And Zach, well, Zach is here."
Noah closed his eyes, his skin prickling in anticipation and dread. Caleb and Zach. God, how he had missed them. "Too late for promises, Elle. Stymie Hopkins recognized me."
"Stymie Hawkins." She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. "It will be all over town by tomorrow then."
He tugged his hand through his hair. If he had a moment alone, he felt sure he could ease his discomfort. At least make a list of reasons for his return to Pilot Isle, something tangible to assess.
"Come in. Out of the rain," she said. "The coach house is very private. You have the second floor all to yourself."
A gust of wind pressed damp cotton against his chest, and he struggled to suppress a shudder.
"Some boxes arrived for you yesterday. Rory and I stacked them in the front room. Everything's clean, just a little dusty."
Who
the hell is Rory, Noah wanted to ask? Her fiancé, most likely. Good. "Second floor?" he asked instead.
"It has a private entrance. Widow Wynne even had facilities installed last year."
"Facilities. Ye gods." Concentrating on the clank and rub of boats edging the dock and the bang of the unlatched gate against its post, he made an indecisive halt, a half turn. "I don't know, that is... I don't know if I can stay."
"I understand."
She probably did. Elle had always been able to sense his moods. As a young man, he'd had no choice but to keep his distance, when she read him like a blessed book. How he'd hated that. Every subtle expression, even the ones he worked to conceal, visible to her.
"Noah." Her teeth began to chatter, her breath chalking the air.
Wonderful. He shrugged from his coat and flung it over her shoulders, careful not to touch her.
He left her behind, rounding the corner of the house.
Elle huffed, struggling to match her stride to his, her hands fisted in his coat lapel. "The bottom floor is vacant, pretty much. Water damage. Needs repairs before it can be rented. Right now, I use the space for my school. Two classes a week. Tuesday and Thursday mornings. The typewriting machine is loud, but it shouldn't wake you."
He halted at the bottom of the staircase leading to the second-floor landing. So did she, her boots skidding across slick grass, her body, warm and soft, skidding into him. He set her back, trying to ignore the teasing scent of gingerbread and soap. "School? What could you teach a child? How to break an arm rolling off a roof? Better yet, how to shatter the largest pane of glass in town with a misplaced kick?"
He watched her swallow her first reply, the only time he remembered seeing her halt a foolish word from tumbling past those lovely lips of hers. "For your information, it's a school for women. Anyway, climbing the trellis was Caleb's idea. How was I to know the roof was still wet? And I worked all summer to replace that glass." She shivered, possibly more from indignation than chill, and gripped his coat close. The sleeves hung well past her wrists, the hem hitting her just above the knee. She appeared fragile and defenseless, a facade surely, yet Noah experienced the familiar compulsion to protect.
He took the stairs two at a time.
"It'll be quite cold in there until you get the parlor stove lit."
Parlor stove? Chrissakes, he hadn't seen a parlor stove in ten years, wasn't sure he would remember how to light one.
"If it's too chilly, you can come inside."
He glared over the railing. "I live in Chicago, Elle. In a printer's warehouse. If it gets above fifty in there, in July, I'll eat my hat. So, thank you anyway, but no need to worry."
"Fine, Professor. Freeze your skinny rump off."
He leaned out. "What did you say?"
"Nothing." She forced a smile, her lips clenched.
He couldn't halt his study of her, the little not hidden beneath his pilot coat. Reddish strands of hair curled about her face. Slim fingers locked around his lapel, pallid against the black wool. He denied the urge to squint, to see if her lashes were as long and dark as they had appeared up close. The absence of his spectacles and the misting rain painted a fanciful portrait. She even looked—God help him—attractive, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide and very, very green.
Noah wrenched open the unlocked door, ducked inside, and slammed it behind him. Elle Beaumont was trouble and would never be anything but trouble. Forget about how much it hurts to look at her and remember the life I left behind.
Years ago, he had protected her from everyone, including herself. He wasn't going to do that again.
The woman was on her own this time.
Fury propelled Elle across the street at a fast trot. Wait until I get my hands on Zachariah Garrett.
Noah lived in Chicago. Zach had mentioned sending telegraphs to the people building the laboratory. Telegraphs to Chicago. And as town constable, Zach approved all the construction permits. He had let her stumble upon, stumble into, the one person she wasn't sure she ever wanted to see again.
Much less touch.
A biologist. A marine biologist. How perfect. No one loved fish and seaweed, the stink of the marsh at low tide, more than Noah Garrett.
She banged her fist on the door of Zach's office. Oh, she hoped he was inside. If not, she would find him.
The hinges squealed. Zach popped his head around the frame, a delighted smile growing. "Ellie."
Brushing by him, she charged into the office, words tumbling free. "How could... je suis... I never...."
"Boys," Zach said to the group of men gathered round the wood-burning stove, "how about I meet you at Christabel's in fifteen for dinner. Rory'll be along any minute, and we'll come over."
With a chorus of agreement and a few wide-eyed looks thrown toward the woman they had all seen in a similar state before, the men shuffled out.
Zach turned to her when the door clanked shut. "What's wrong? Your father? Another attack? I'll get Doc Leland. After the engagement disaster, I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to him."
Elle slumped into the nearest chair, head dropping to her hands, the heat from the stove making her queasy.
"Do you have a fever?" Zach crouched before her, his knuckles grazing her brow. "This coat isn't helping. Blamed thing is more suited to the North Pole."
"Or Chicago," she said between splayed fingers.
"Yes, Chicago, I sup—" His heels popped the floor; he rocked back. "Noah's here." He grabbed her shoulders, slid her forward in the chair. "You've seen him? Where is he?"
She shoved his chest with both hands and jumped to her feet. "You knew. You knew he was coming."
He nodded, an eager glow in his eyes.
"Mercy above, you could have told me. Warned me, at the very least." She sniffed and wiped her nose on Noah's sleeve. A potent scent, as purely masculine as any she'd ever smelled, clung to the material.
Zach tipped her chin high. "Could I? Then what? You move to the mainland until he leaves? Hide in Widow Wynne's basement for a month? No. It's enough your father has driven you from your home, forced you into a desperate situation. A situation you've refused to let me help you with. Caleb and I are the only family you have right now. I did what I thought best."
"I wouldn't call my situation desperate," she said, angling her chin away. She couldn't look at Zach and fib at the same time. "Not truly desperate."
"You've taken up residence in a boardinghouse and act as an old woman's nursemaid to survive. All for refusing to accept a loveless marriage. In my book, that's pretty desperate."
Elle turned to the window, pressed her brow against the cool glass. She would not marry a man she didn't love. Being alone seemed a far better choice than living a lie for the rest of her life. She agreed with Zach, but she didn't feel comfortable discussing marriage with him. Not after he had lost his wife to consumption two years ago. Hannah had been the light in his life and only recently had the light begun to shine again.
"How did he look?" Zach sighed, his toe tapping the stone floor. "Did he seem glad to be back?"
Her heart sank. Steadfast, reliable Zach.
"Did he ask about me? About Caleb?" His voice weakened with each word.
Elle pasted on a smile and turned to face him. "Well, he's really tall." She held her hand high above her head. "Six inches, maybe more. He had to duck inside the coach house."
"His head almost brushed the frame? Imagine that."
"And his voice, you remember, kind of rough, like sandpaper? Sounds the same." His lashes were long enough to make any woman jealous. "Hair, his hair was a little darker, I think." A face so handsome she had experienced an absurd rush of anger. "Thin, he looked thin."
"Did he seem happy, Ellie?"
Combative, defensive, suspicious.
"I didn't have much of a chance to talk to him." She chewed her lip and glanced away.
The stove lid rattled as Zach settled wood inside. "I should go to him. Get this confrontation over with. He c
an't hide in a town this size for long."
"I don't think he wants to hide." Her lids drifted low as she pictured Noah's expression when he'd stormed through Widow Wynne's gate. Disbelief, certainly, and mistrust. A definite trace of fear. "He mentioned waiting two months before coming back. I think he wants to be the one to decide when you'll meet."
She opened her eyes to find Zach staring at her. "He tell you all that?"
"Of course not. He won't tell Saint Peter that much at the Pearly Gates."
Zach nodded and flipped the stove lid closed. "It's still there between you two."
"No, Zach, it's not."
"Lord knows I tried, but I never understood him like you did. Even when he was no higher than my knee, the questions he asked nearly knocked me from my feet. As if I had this special person to tend to, to watch over. I was a ship's pilot. What would I know about how shells are formed or how birds fly? And that nonsense, the fishermen treating him like a carnival fortune-teller. Professor. What a stupid nickname for a kid." He grabbed his coat from a hook by the door and shrugged into it. "Yet you, you always knew what he was thinking. Heck, I never did. Made me crazy to even try."
Elle trembled beneath wool still holding Noah's body heat. She wanted to deny the notion, call it a whim, a flight of fancy, but she had always known.
"He came along when I needed a protector, someone who didn't laugh at my accent and knock me into the dirt in the schoolyard. I guess I loved him for that. An immature infatuation, one I did not manage well." She sighed. "Clearly, I don't need a protector any longer. I'm not going to drink too much cider at the Spring Tide Festival and get sick on my shoes. Or tumble off a slick roof and break my arm. Noah doesn't have to save me anymore."
"You don't really believe—"
"Papa!"
A boy burst into the room, filthy coattail flapping past his waist, bootlaces tripping him up. Elle watched Rory fling his arms about his father's shoulders, snuggle his cheek in the folds of Zach's shirt. A swift jab of envy pierced her. If she shielded her sight for a moment, she could imagine he was her child, this lovely boy who shared an uncanny resemblance to his absent uncle. Only, she had loved his mother too much to do that. Hannah's smile, the dimple in her cheek, the shape of her nose, all lived in Rory's face. Her warm laughter rolled from his lips, her gentle touch from his fingers.
