Holidays at Crescent Cove

by Shelley Noble

  He’d been pretty depressed himself that day and didn’t really have the energy for someone else’s problems, but the haunted look in that soldier’s eyes . . . David recognized it and knew where it would invariably end up if the man didn’t get help.

  He shuddered from the cold and brushed away the snow that was gathering on his eyebrows.

  A half hour ago he’d been dropped off at the highway exit to Crescent Cove, Connecticut, certain that a beach town would have a bunch of motels to choose from. So far he hadn’t even seen an open gas station.

  He had no idea how much longer it would take him to reach town. Where was sprawling urbanization when you needed food, warmth, a cup of coffee?

  He shifted his backpack on his shoulders, shoved his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his field jacket and trudged ahead.

  Across the road and through the bare trees he saw a dim light. Some happy family sitting toasty in their kitchen with their stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, while his feet were numb with cold. He felt a little envious. But only for a second.

  They’d have a shit fit if he knocked on their door and asked for food, a bed, even a ride to the nearest hotel. But maybe they had a garage or a shed where he could at least get out of the snow and wind.

  He set off across the road and slipped and slid down into a pasture where a few sparse winter stalks rose above the accumulating snow. He was careful not to get too close to the light ahead. He didn’t want to get shot. And wouldn’t that be a kick. To make it for years in hot spots around the world and take a bullet in the suburbs of Connecticut.

  He came to a line of trees, their bare branches dimly lit from the reflective snow. And saw that he hadn’t even reached the suburbs, but a dilapidated two-story farmhouse. But where there was a farmhouse there was bound to be some outbuildings. His night was beginning to look up.

  He carefully skirted the source of the light that appeared to be coming from a kitchen window. He could see a vase of some sort sitting on the sill. And he realized that the snow was beginning to taper off. That was a relief.

  He could also make out the shape of a barn. With any luck there would be clean straw, a horse blanket, or a warm animal. And it was cheaper that the Holiday Inn.

  Keeping to the shadows, David crept up to the barn. He’d be gone before morning. They’d never know. He’d learned the hard way how not to leave a trail. And now that the possibility of rest dangled like a carrot in front of him, David could barely keep on his feet.

  By the time he reached the side door of the wooden barn he was staggering. He pulled at the door. And stepped inside to total dark.

  BRI AND THE girls spent the night on an air mattress in the great room, surrounded by a barricade of pillows and covered with several down comforters. Mimi and Lily had not yet learned to sleep alone. And Bri couldn’t stand to hear their cries the few times she attempted to put them to bed in the small bedroom just a doorway from her own. She knew they would have to learn, but they already had so much to get used to.

  Hell, they couldn’t even articulate their needs, though they had picked up quite a few words of English since Bri had brought them home. They were doing a lot better with English than she was doing with Chinese.

  Nick had called to say they’d checked on the hitchhiker but didn’t find him. “Probably picked up by some generous soul. Hope they didn’t make a big mistake.”

  “Nick, you cynic. It’s Christmas,” Bri said.

  “Fine, but don’t you ever pick up any hitchhikers.”

  “Yes sir, Chief.”

  “Huh. See you tomorrow.”

  Bri lowered herself to the floor and slipped beneath the covers.

  When she awoke at daybreak, she felt the girls’ bodies spooning against hers, and her love for them swelled as if they had been hers from the moment they breathed life. As if they were her own birth children. She lay for just a minute relishing the comfort of knowing they were a family, the sense of quiet trust.

  Then she eased away from them, rolled over and stiffly got to her feet. She brushed her hair and teeth even though she was only going out to feed Hermione, the goat, and the chickens, and put out water for the cats who seemed to multiply from day to day.

  She pulled on quilted snow pants over her pajamas, shrugged into a down jacket that she’d picked up at a consignment shop. Twisted her hair into a knot and tucked it into the hunting hat with earflaps that she wore to do chores. She never put it on without grinning.

  If her friends could see her now . . . Except her real friends—the ones who stuck by her from her meteoric rise in the fashion runway world to her ignoble plunge to depression and despair, her painful climb back to where she was now—those friends saw her all the time in all manner of dress, in good moods and bad. They loved her anyway. The others? To hell with them.

  Making one last check that the girls were still sleeping, Bri let herself out the back door. It had snowed over a foot during the night, but her menagerie would be hungry and she couldn’t wait for the snow plow. She was one of the last stops on his route.

  So she trudged through the knee deep snow, slowly so as not to slip or fall, carving out a path to the barn with each step. She was breathing hard by the time she reached the barn. She walked around to the side door, which was sheltered from the worst of the drifts. She grabbed the handle with both hands and tugged the door open.

  Light was just filtering down from the loft windows, slashes of it seeping through the cracks in the wood. Bri smiled, feeling content and almost happy. She wished she could describe the feeling the dim light gave her. Her friend Margaux could design a dress called Barn at Sunrise, or something even more fanciful to add to her beach-inspired fashion line.

  But Bri didn’t have a way to express what she felt. She took courses, learned how to build a business, fix a leak, change a flat tire. Things she would have scoffed at in her younger years.

  She lifted the metal lid of the storage bin, scooped out Hermione’s morning ration of feed into a feed pail and carried it over to the corner of the barn where Hermione lived during inclement weather.

  Hermione met her with a nasally baa.

  “Morning, Miss Thing.” Bri scrubbed the scruffy fur above her tail, and Hermione wiggled in response. She was old and no longer gave milk, not that Bri would have wanted to milk her. A girl did have her limits. She’d inherited Hermione from the owner when she bought the farm, and Bri felt responsible to make her last years comfortable. Hermione seemed totally willing to accept her new situation and her new mistress.

  Bri hung the pail where the goat could reach it and went back across the barn for the pitchfork. As she reached for it she saw something move in one of the empty stalls. She grabbed the pitchfork in both hands. She’d never be able to outrun a wild animal. But she kept the doors and windows latched. If this was a predator, it was of the human variety.

  She peered into the stall, pitchfork at the ready. Saw the end of what appeared to be a blue nylon sleeping bag and the bulk of someone sleeping inside. A thief? Murderer? Homeless person? Did they have homeless people at the Connecticut shore?

  Whoever it was stirred, rolled over, taking the bag with him. Bri began to back cautiously to the door. But before she could reach it, Hermione tossed her head and knocked the feed pail off the hook. It clattered to the floor, only slightly muffled by the layer of straw.

  It was enough to bring her squatter upright. Her first response was to scream. It looked like one of those Halloween coffins where the skeleton popped up and let out a maniacal laugh. The sound this guy made was more like an elephant grunt. And he looked like a yeti, encased in a dark green jacket. A black knit hat was pulled down over his forehead; the rest of his face was hidden behind an incipient beard.

  “Sorry,” he grunted out in a gravelly voice.

  Bri clutched the pitchfork and tried to think.

&nbs
p; “Sorry,” he repeated. “I’m leaving.” He pulled both arms out of the sleeping bag and lifted them, hands by his ears. “I’m harmless. Just needed a place to sleep.”

  He didn’t sound like a derelict or an ax murderer. His voice, as it recovered from sleep, sounded more human, even friendly. And the thought of him sleeping in her barn all night dug at her sense of compassion. A bad thing. She steeled her heart. Brandished her pitchfork.

  “Then you’d better get going. Or I’ll have to call the police,” she added for good measure.

  The man scrambled to his feet. Then stopped, turned to look at her.

  “I mean it.” She jerked the pitchfork for emphasis. How stupid could she be? Standing here holding a stranger at bay with a pitchfork. It was too much, her mouth curved into a grin. It seemed to frighten her intruder. Well, good.

  He inched away from her. “Actually, maybe that would be a good idea. I’m not dangerous, not a felon. I just couldn’t find a motel between here and the highway. The police might be willing to give me a ride to Crescent Cove. Is it very far?”

  “A couple of miles, but I don’t know if—” She broke off. She’d almost told him that the roads wouldn’t be cleared yet. Which meant she’d be stuck in the barn with this man and totally at his mercy.

  “Or maybe you could just help me with some information. I’m looking for a guy named Nick Prescott. I was told he lived in Crescent Cove.”

  He was looking for Nick? For what?

  “Do you know anybody by that name?”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “You do know him.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Look, I’ve come halfway across the country to find this guy. Can you just tell me if he’s here or not?”

  Bri deliberated. “He’s the chief of police.”

  He expelled a deep breath that created a cloud in front of his face. “Is there another one? This man’s a history professor. Or at least he was. I had his address in Denver. His college said he’d moved to Crescent Cove, but they wouldn’t give me his new address.”

  “Nick was a professor. He’s the interim chief. Why do you want to find him?”

  He scowled beneath his knit hat. “I have a letter for him.”

  “A letter,” she said incredulously. “Why didn’t you just mail it?”

  There was silence, then he said, “It’s not that kind of letter.”

  A dozen things flashed across Bri’s mind. Bill collector? Police business? Something about Connor, Nick’s nephew, whom he and Margaux were in the process of adopting. Should she tell him where to find Nick?

  She shivered and realized she was getting cold. The guy was shivering, too. It was damn cold, even in the barn. She wanted a nice hot cup of coffee. She did not want to be standing in the semidarkness of the barn, verbally fencing with a stranger.

  She gripped the pitchfork, shifted her weight to both feet.

  The stranger sighed. “It’s from his brother.”

  “Ben?”

  “Yes.” He stepped forward.

  Bri brandished the pitchfork but felt a little foolish. This man knew Ben—had known Ben. Ben was dead. Killed in Afghanistan.

  “What’s your name?”

  “David. David Henderson. Do you mind if I put my boots on, my toes are getting numb.”

  Bri glanced down at his feet. Gray socks, a hole in the toe. He’d get a blister for sure if he walked very far with that rubbing his skin.

  “Go ahead.” Bri shifted the pitchfork. She really wanted to put it down and call Nick. The guy knelt down, pulled his gloves off and went about pulling on his boots. He had trouble getting the laces tied. His fingers were probably stiff from sleeping all night in the cold. Could you get frostbite sleeping in a barn in a sleeping bag?

  He finally finished and stumbled to his feet. “Could you make that call? I’m kind of cold and a heated squad car is looking like the Ritz about now.”

  She could make the call, but she’d have to go back to the house to make it, she’d left her cell phone inside. She didn’t exactly need it while she was feeding and watering the animals. And she still had the chickens to do.

  But to do that she had to turn her back on him. Hell, how had this happened? She should put a lock on her barn. And she would first thing tomorrow. But for now . . .

  “Stay right where you are. I have to feed the chickens, then I’ll call.”

  He crossed his arms, she was pretty sure she could hear his teeth chattering.

  “Don’t move.” Keeping him in her sight, she made a crazy sideways walk to the feed box. She needed both hands to open the box and scoop out the chicken feed. She glanced back, making sure he was right where she left him, deliberated for a second, then reluctantly put down the pitchfork.

  Chapter Two

  DAVID WATCHED THE woman move across the barn. She was tall; at first he thought she was a man. Once he got over the pitchfork aimed at him, he realized it was a woman’s face nestled between those earflaps. And a damn good-looking one from what he could see. Of course looks could be deceiving. Which was beside the point.

  She had to turn her back to him to open the feed box, and if he’d been thinking with half a brain, he would have made his escape then. But he wasn’t. His brain was frozen along with the rest of him. He wanted heat, breakfast, a strong cup of coffee, a bathroom. As soon as he delivered this damn letter to Nick Prescott, he’d find a hotel room and sleep until he woke up. Then he’d decide where he was going next.

  She finally relinquished the pitchfork and braced it against a wooden paddock. The barn was large, had several stalls, and must have housed a stable full of horses at one time. Now there only seemed to be a goat and a few chickens that he could here rustling and squawking at the other end of the barn.

  She scooped up a pan of feed and hurried toward the chickens. And that’s when he noticed the slight hitch to her walk. Where was her husband while she was out here doing chores? Sleeping? Working in town? Deployed? Dead? Divorced? Or just plain lazy and waiting for David with a shotgun at the door?

  He shook himself, his mind was wandering, from cold, fatigue, from lack of sleep, from hunger. He shivered violently. “Y-Y-You need help?”

  “No. Just stay there.” Her voice echoed from the shadows. It was deep and throaty. A voice that could make you forget your manners. He wondered what she looked like beneath all that padding.

  He clamped down on that thought. Remember the husband with the shotgun.

  She finished up her chores then started back toward him. Stopped, turned around and grabbed her pitchfork. And he got a flash of American Gothic and decided he probably shouldn’t wait around to see what she was married to.

  But damn, he was cold. And he could barely feel his feet. He could die of exposure waiting here for her to finish her chores.

  “L-Listen,” he said through chattering teeth. Suddenly he was shivering uncontrollably. At least ten hours in subfreezing temperature, sleeping bag or no, had not been good.

  “Jesus, you’re freezing.” She looked concerned but still wary.

  “If you could just call the cops. I could use a warm place to stay even if it’s a cell.” He tried to smile, to reassure her, but he couldn’t make his mouth move.

  “Oh, crap,” she said, her eyebrows frowning beneath her hat. “Can you promise me you’re not crazy or a psychopath or anything?”

  “I promise.”

  “Ridiculous, I know. If you are a psychopath you’d have no compunction about lying.”

  “Wh-Where did you get this f-fascination with psychopaths?” he asked. “There are not as many as television would lead you to believe.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Statistics. But you don’t have to believe me. Just make that call so I can leave you in peace. I’d walk into town but I can’t feel my
feet.”

  “Oh shit.” She walked up to him, her limp less pronounced now, and gestured with that damn pitchfork. “You can wait in the mudroom while I call.” She pushed that pitchfork at him again and he had to resist the temptation to pull it out of her hand. She was afraid and he didn’t want to frighten her more. Maybe there was no husband waiting in the house. Maybe she was alone. She had every right to be afraid. But not of him.

  “Thanks.” He quickly shoved his sleeping bag into his backpack and threw it over one shoulder.

  “Go out the side door.” She motioned with the pitchfork. If he hadn’t been so cold, he would have been offended. He headed toward the side door, pushed it open and stepped out into sun. He blinked against the glare off the snow, then shut his eyes, opening them little by little until he could stand the light.

  And the snow. There had to be two feet of it. His kingdom for a warm bed and a hearty meal that didn’t include yams, goat, or barley water. A gust of wind kicked snow in his face. The house looked a hundred miles away. He could barely make out footprints as the top layer of snow swirled with the wind like a living organism.

  “Head for the side door,” she said.

  He started off toward an SUV parked by the side of the house. She stayed behind him like some dumb cowboy in a old television show. He was beginning to get annoyed. He glanced back.

  She’d fallen behind a bit and was having difficulty getting through the drifts. He considered going back to help but decided not to tempt getting pitchforked. It might rip his field jacket. Or part of him.

  Her head was down. All her attention was focused on making it through the snow.

  He saw it coming and couldn’t do a thing about it. Her foot slipped and after a wild moment of trying to regain her balance, she fell head first into the snow, still holding the pitchfork. Luckily it missed its owner.