Desperate Measures

by Christy Barritt

  “Well, it will be nice to have you around here. I might be able to use some of your expertise from your coast guard days, especially if these vandalisms continue.”

  “Anytime. But only if you show me some of those fishing holes you’ve been telling me about.”

  Samantha tuned out their conversation for a moment. The sheriff’s words caused Samantha to shudder. Vandalisms? Here on Smuggler’s Cove? There wasn’t anywhere one could get away from the bad in the world, was there? She wasn’t naive enough to think there might be; she’d only hoped this place might be different. Might be safer.

  At a lull in the conversation, the sheriff turned toward her. “You here visiting from out of town? I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

  Her throat burned as she nodded. “I’m Samantha. I’m going to be helping to restore the cabins here.”

  “These places might need a bit of a woman’s touch.” He grinned personably. “Where you from?”

  Familiar tension began pulling at her. Why did people always have to ask for details? “Everywhere actually. But I was raised in Georgia.”

  He tipped his head. “Well, nice to meet you, Samantha. Hope you enjoy your stay here. Make sure that John shares some of his fish with you. Nothing better than grilling out with the fresh catch of the day on the menu.”

  Tempting, but there would be no enjoying her stay. No, the only part of life she’d taken delight in over the past year had been Connor. He was her happiness. The rest of life...it scared the breath out of her.

  As the sheriff walked away, John turned toward her. “How about if I show you to a cabin?”

  Samantha nodded and called Connor over. Putting some space between herself and the rest of this town sounded perfect at the moment. Even if that meant hiding out in a shabby, drafty cabin that hadn’t been used in years.

  She knew the better end of a bargain when she saw one.

  * * *

  John unlocked the door to the cabin next to his. Of all the cabins, this one’s structure was the most stable. It had electricity and plumbing. The furniture was decent.

  The whole place still needed to be spruced up and aired out, but he figured it was the most sufficient for Samantha and Connor.

  He pushed the door open and squirmed at what he saw inside. The whole place felt musty and dark. There were rust stains on the kitchen sink. A door hung slightly askew. The wallpaper peeled in the corners.

  Maybe this wasn’t suitable for Samantha. For anyone.

  She seemed to read his thoughts. “This will be fine.”

  “It’s not much.” John looked down at Connor and saw the boy frown. He also saw Samantha squeezing her son’s shoulder, probably a nonverbal message for him to stay quiet. Honestly, John wouldn’t blame the boy if he had reservations about staying here.

  “It just needs to be cleaned up a little,” Samantha said as she examined the room with her gaze. “Needs a little paint, everything needs to be wiped down, maybe add some curtains and get rid of those dusty ones. It will be great.”

  The cabins weren’t large—only eight hundred square feet or so. The front was a great room with a living room on the left, a dining room and kitchen on the right. The two spaces were separated by a breakfast bar.

  A short hallway stretched beyond that. There were two bedrooms and one bathroom.

  At least the refrigerator and stove worked in this cabin.

  He’d offer them his own cabin, one that was larger. Except it wasn’t in any better shape than this one. In fact, one of the bedrooms had a hole in the floor that he needed to patch. Way too dangerous for Connor.

  “I’m thinking we should start here today,” John said.

  “Good idea.” A smile tugged at her lips.

  “I’ll bring the supplies over, if you don’t mind painting and getting a little dirty. You can start now. We’ll get this place in shape for you.”

  “Not at all.”

  He stomped across the rickety porch and walked toward his cabin, where he kept his supplies. He couldn’t believe that Samantha had actually come. If he’d even had an inkling, he would have started preparing this place earlier.

  He’d followed his gut when he’d invited her here. Now his brain had to kick into action so he could figure out his next step. He needed to make a list of things she could do around here. Having her here was the right thing; he felt sure of it. But there were details that needed to be considered.

  He grabbed what he needed and started back toward Samantha. As he approached the cabin, the sand soft—and silent—beneath his feet, he paused. A conversation drifted out from the open window.

  “This isn’t a discussion, Connor,” Samantha said, her voice firm.

  “I’m tired of moving, Mom. Why couldn’t we just stay where we were? I liked my school. I liked my friends.”

  “It’s not an option, Connor.”

  “But, Mom...”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  “There’s nothing to do here. This place is boring. There aren’t even any cars. Probably no TVs. Not in here, at least. I bet you there aren’t any kids my age, either.”

  “You might be surprised. And getting away from those video games will be good for you. Besides, you can help me work. Then you won’t be bored.” Her voice lilted near the end.

  “This stinks.”

  “We’re going to make the best of it. That’s what we do. It’s a good life lesson. A hard one. But a good one. We don’t choose our circumstances, but we choose our attitude.”

  John had heard enough—enough that he felt as though he was intruding. He knocked on the door, more curious than ever as to what their story was. He knew he couldn’t ask.

  Samantha pulled the door open and stared up at him with eyes as wide as full moons. “Mr. Wagner.”

  “Please, call me John.” He held up his supplies, quickly observing that Samantha had already changed into some old shorts, a T-shirt, and had tied a purple bandana around her hair. “Let’s get this place into shape. There’s a washer and dryer at my place. You should probably wash the sheets and comforter. I bought them used from someone in town.”

  “I can definitely handle today’s assignment. Especially since Connor will be helping me. Right, Connor?” She looked back at her son.

  The boy frowned as he looked up from a handheld video game, his expression like most eight-year-old boys probably would have in this situation. Just then, John’s phone rang. He saw Nate’s number.

  “Excuse me a moment.” He stepped outside and hit Talk. “What’s going on, man? You miss me already?”

  “Ha. Yeah, I wish my reasons for calling were that simple.”

  That didn’t sound good. “What’s going on?” John focused on some seagulls fighting over something on the shoreline.

  “I just thought you should know that someone broke into the restaurant last night.”

  “What?” Was this related to Samantha? It had to be. He didn’t like the sound of this already.

  “Yeah, someone went through our former tenant’s apartment.”

  “Trying to find Samantha,” John filled in the blank.

  “Exactly. I think she’s in trouble. Big trouble.”

  He remembered her sweet face, battered and bruised. He thought about her little boy. “I hate to hear that. Any reason you wanted to call and tell me, though?” He hadn’t mentioned his offer to Nate.

  “We had to call in a police report. We gave the cops a copy of the rental agreement we had with Samantha, and they did a routine check on her driver’s license number. It turns out there’s no record of any Samantha Rogers, not one with her license number or at her previous address. She doesn’t exist.”

  “What?” Was Samantha using an alias? Why? Just what was her story?

  “The plot thicke
ns, bro. There’s more. After the local police came by, an FBI agent paid us a visit.”

  John’s mind raced. What in the world was going on?

  “He claims that Samantha isn’t in trouble. He says that Samantha is trouble.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Samantha was obviously scared, but nothing about the woman screamed devious.

  “That’s what he said. He said something about her being a suspect in the murder of her estranged husband back in Texas.”

  THREE

  “A murder suspect? I don’t believe it.” John glanced across the sandy yard just as Samantha stepped onto the porch with an armful of sheets. Connor ran ahead of her, and she began racing after him. Connor giggled as his lead widened. That was not an image of a killer. Samantha, if anything, was a victim. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I couldn’t believe Samantha could ever hurt another person and that I had no idea where she went. It’s the truth. I don’t want to know. My guess is that this agent is trying to track her down, though. I don’t know how long it’s going to take.”

  “I don’t think you ever answered my original question. Why are you telling me this?” John asked.

  “Samantha texted Kylie last night and did an informal character check on you. She wanted to find out if you were a classy kind of guy.”

  “And Kylie said?”

  “She said she’d trust you with her life. I know your past. I figured you might have passed on your contact information to Samantha. I just thought I’d let you know what happened last night. Just in case. I have a hard time believing Samantha’s dangerous. But, should you see her, keep that in mind.”

  John did see her. She paused at his cabin doorway, then turned around to get his approval before going inside. When he nodded, she flashed a smile and then ducked into the doorway.

  A killer?

  Never.

  But whatever was going on in her life sure had created a tangled web. If he were smart, he’d stay away.

  But the chivalrous side of him couldn’t stand to see a woman or child in danger.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking when he’d agreed to hire her. He knew what Alyssa would tell him. She would say that his heart was too big for its own good. Then she’d smile and tell him that’s why she loved him so much.

  There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t miss that woman. Time had made his grief more bearable, but it hadn’t lessened his loss.

  That’s why he had to help Samantha while still keeping her at a distance. His moral duty was to aid someone in need. But helping was as far as it went.

  * * *

  After working a seven hour day, Samantha relished the tepid shower water. She was even thankful for the lousy water pressure as she scrubbed the grime off nearly every visible surface of skin. She had to admit that the physical labor today had felt good, despite her sore ribs and the tender skin around her eye.

  She’d been working a desk job for the past few months. While working this new job, she found it invigorating to submerge herself into a task at hand, even better because Connor could work alongside her. Her injuries were grim reminders that not everything was as idyllic as it seemed here, though.

  She climbed out, toweled dry, and pulled on some clean clothes. Then she rubbed the steam from the mirror and stared at her reflection. She noted the lines around her eyes and on her forehead. Those hadn’t been there a year ago. The events of the past twelve months had taken a toll on every part of her—physically, emotionally and spiritually.

  Her mom had once told Samantha that she was a survivor. She held on to her mom’s proclamation, hoping it was true. But she didn’t feel like one. Sure, maybe she’d managed to stay alive. But somehow, she hadn’t felt as if she was truly living in a long time. Fear and guilt could be a prison of their own.

  “You ready, Mom?”

  She looked over at Connor, her heart squeezing with both love and guilt. “Sure thing.” She dried her hands and then hooked an arm around her son’s neck. “Thanks for helping today. Admit it—you had fun.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d say that.”

  The place had shaped up quickly. Samantha had washed everything, scrubbed the floors and peeled down wallpaper. It didn’t look that bad after all.

  Meanwhile, John had patched the roof, fixed a broken stair on the porch and removed a hornet’s nest from outside. Connor had even gotten into the action. He’d helped with painting and had scrubbed the fridge.

  They’d all worked together—in silence. Samantha was thankful. Talking led to questions, and she didn’t want the questions to lead to lies.

  “We’re going to be okay, Connor,” she assured him.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I changed my mind. Can we stay here for a while? Please? I’m so tired of moving.”

  Her heart squeezed. “I think we can stay awhile.”

  “You think? That means you’re not promising anything.” Not much got past her son, and she wouldn’t lie to him.

  “It’s complicated, Connor.”

  He frowned.

  Samantha leaned down in front of him until they were eye to eye. “I’m doing the best I can. I hope we can stay here for a while, Connor. I really do.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise that I’ll do my best to stay here. I know it’s not exactly what you want to hear. But it’s the most I can give you.”

  “Okay.” He frowned again and reluctantly began walking with Samantha toward John’s house. She should have refused John’s invitation to dinner. But she had no groceries and no time to buy anything. Besides, having dinner with someone wasn’t a promise of anything—not a promise of friendship or trust or anything other than a professional relationship.

  Despite that, Samantha should have probably said no. Her jaw ached. She was tired. And she was scared.

  The fewer people who saw her face here, the better. It was bad enough that the sheriff had already seen her. The last thing she needed was for him to run some kind of background check on her.

  If he did, then she’d be out of a job, behind bars and Connor would have no one. The cops back in Texas still thought she was involved in the scheme her husband and his friends had devised. When Billy—the ringleader—had heard she was going to turn them in, he’d put money into her personal bank account—large sums of money. Money that made her look guilty. He’d planted emails that made it look as though she was the mastermind behind his scheme to scam people out of their investments. He’d lined everything up just right so that, if he fell, then she’d fall with him.

  That’s why it was so important that she remained low-key and not arouse anyone’s suspicions.

  The problem was that she could already see in her boss’s eyes that he was perceptive and intelligent. How long would it take for John to put it together that she was running from both the bad guys and from the law?

  If he discovered that information, would he turn her in?

  The smell of a charcoal grill billowed in the air as they approached. John looked up from an old, park-style grill—one that was cemented into the ground—and grinned.

  “How’s the cabin coming?” he asked.

  “I think it will be fine. I really appreciate your letting us stay here.”

  “I appreciate the help. I was sincere when I said I needed a hand.”

  Samantha paused by the grill, second-guessing herself for a moment. Maybe she should have refused his offer. She’d done such a good job keeping to herself. She couldn’t let herself feel too safe here on the island. “Is there anything I can do to help get dinner ready?”

  “It’s nothing fancy. I’m fine. You can just relax.”

  Relax? She almost wanted to snort. She couldn’t remember the l
ast time she’d relaxed. No, she was always on guard, always alert.

  Despite that, she sat in an old deck chair on the porch of John’s cabin. Connor plopped on the steps and began running a stick over the sand, drawing pictures.

  She looked out in the distance.

  The Chesapeake Bay was blue and pristine. The sun was setting across the water, smearing pink and purple lights together. Wisps of dune grass sprinkled the area. Pelicans flew overhead, and the smell of seawater brought an unusual sense of comfort.

  A false sense of comfort and security, for that matter.

  “So, tell us about Smuggler’s Cove,” Samantha urged.

  “It’s a national treasure, if you ask me.” John flipped the fish and a scrumptious scent filled the air.

  Samantha took a moment to soak him in.

  The man was gorgeous with his broad frame, his head full of dark hair, and his warm brown eyes. No one could deny that.

  But that didn’t matter to Samantha. It was the single life for her, from now until eternity. Every man she’d ever trusted had ultimately let her down. She didn’t see that changing...well, ever. Men were all the same, as far as she was concerned.

  At five, her father had left. Her boyfriend in college had cheated on her. Her husband had swindled people out of thousands of dollars, choosing money over his family.

  She’d never met a man she could trust.

  Which was why she needed to concentrate on something else at the moment.

  “I think the neighborhood where I grew up is bigger than this place,” she said, careful to not reveal too much about herself.

  But her words were true. The whole island could only be maybe fifty acres. It was small enough that Samantha, as she’d traveled from the wharf to John’s yesterday, had seen tombstones in people’s front yards.

  He chuckled. “You could be right. I think there’s only around a thousand residents here. It’s unlike any place I’ve ever been. At high tide, the waters rise and small wooden bridges connect various parts of the island. Only about sixty percent is inhabitable. The rest is marshland.”

  “I hate to see what that means during hurricane season.”