by Hope White
She added him to her daily prayer list, hoping he’d meet a wonderful, caring and nurturing woman to be his life partner.
A bell dinged indicating a text message. Her breath caught. Could it be Quinn?
“Silly,” she muttered, grabbing her shoulder bag. It was probably Bree letting her know she was waiting downstairs to give Billie a ride to church. She glanced at her phone. Sure enough, it was Bree.
Yet every time the phone dinged with a text or call, a part of her thought it was Quinn wanting to make things right. Bree tried to get Billie to take the offensive and go after Quinn, but Billie felt he needed to come to the realization on his own that he was, in fact, worthy of her love and that love could heal his scars from the guilt and resentment he carried around on a daily basis.
She locked her apartment and went downstairs to Bree’s car. It was a beautiful, sunny day and Billie’s spirits suddenly lifted.
“Hey, Bree,” she said, getting into the car.
“Good morning, girlfriend.”
They took off for church, Bree chatting away about a group of new guests at the resort and the K9 SAR meeting later that afternoon. When she didn’t mention Quinn, Billie was both relieved and a bit sad.
“You okay?” Bree questioned.
“Yeah, fine. I’m kinda surprised you didn’t start in on me about Quinn again.”
Bree cracked a crooked smile. “I’ve got bigger issues than your love life, Wilhelma.”
“What did you call me?”
Bree chuckled.
“What issues?” Billie pressed.
“Today is the qualifying test for K9 candidates, and I’ve got something special planned.”
“Bree, they’re dogs. Go easy on them.”
“They have to be smart dogs so they can find injured hikers in the mountains. Whichever ones are able to find me today will be the best of the pack.”
“When are you going out?”
“About two. Wanna come? You can hide with me.”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay, but Mom’s having a family dinner later if you want to stop by.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think—just come.”
Bree pulled into the Echo Mountain Church lot and parked.
“I’m surprised you didn’t pick up your mom for church,” Billie said.
“She’s getting a ride with Uncle Chuck.”
They got out of the car and headed for church.
“You mean the family friend who’s also the police chief of Marion Falls?” Billie said.
“That’s the one. I thought they should have private time.”
“Well aren’t you the little matchmaker?” Billie teased.
“You have no idea. I’m working on Aiden next.”
“Good luck with that. He seems pretty focused on work and on search and rescue.”
“Ah, but a life without love is a life half lived, don’t you think?”
Suddenly a man stepped into their path, a tall, handsome man with striking blue eyes. He looked like Quinn, wait...it was Quinn. Billie stopped short.
“Breathe, girlfriend,” Bree said.
Quinn approached them wearing a nervous smile. Billie knew it was the nervous one because she knew all of his expressions and most of his moods.
“Bree,” he greeted.
She smiled. “Quinn. You’ve come an awfully long way for church.”
“How true,” he said, gazing into Billie’s eyes.
“I’ll save us a few seats.” With a knowing smile, Bree left them alone.
Quinn reached out and Billie slipped her hand in his.
“‘Love is patient, love is kind.’” He smiled. “I looked it up.”
“You’re here,” she hushed.
“You made me cookies.”
“I know, but—”
“You know the part that really got to me?”
She shook her head, still stunned that Quinn was standing here holding her hand.
“‘It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres,’” he said. “Just like you. You’re a kind of love I’ve never experienced, Billie. Please forgive me for not recognizing it sooner, for being...” he hesitated and glanced at their hands “...for being scared, I guess.”
“Oh, Quinn, you have my forgiveness and my love.” She threw her arms around his neck and clung tight, letting the tears of joy trickle down her cheeks. He stroked her back in such a calming, tender way.
She broke the embrace and he frowned with worry. “You’re crying.”
“I’m happy, Quinn, so incredibly happy.”
“You haven’t heard the best part.” He dropped to one knee and pulled a black box out of his pocket. “Will you marry me?”
She slapped her hand over her open mouth, so humbled and overjoyed.
“Is that a yes?”
She nodded enthusiastically, unable to speak.
He took the ring out of the box, slipped it onto her finger and stood. It was a beautiful, solitaire diamond in a white-gold setting. Quinn’s proposal was everything she’d ever dreamed of.
No, it was better.
With that playful smile of his, he framed her cheek in his hand, leaned forward and kissed her. He tasted perfect, of love and hope; of infinite possibilities between a husband and wife.
The ringing of church bells sounded behind them. He broke the kiss and smiled. “Shall we?”
“Are you...sure?” she said.
“With all my heart.”
Interlacing his fingers with hers, Quinn led Billie toward the house of God and a wonderful life together.
* * * * *
Look for more books in Hope White’s
Echo Mountain miniseries later this year.
You’ll find them wherever
Love Inspired Suspense books are sold!
Keep reading for an excerpt from DEADLINE by Maggie K. Black.
Dear Reader,
It’s with great pleasure that I present Quinn Donovan and Billie Bronson’s book. Many of you met them in Safe Harbor and have written to me asking when you could read Quinn’s story.
Quinn had the same effect on me when I wrote Alex’s book. As a matter of fact, Quinn was so charismatic, I had a hard time keeping him from elbowing his way onto every page of Safe Harbor.
Quinn’s journey has been a rough one, losing his mother when he was young and being convinced that her death was his fault. But luckily Quinn is surrounded by people who love him and exemplify how the love of God can heal one’s soul.
We’re taught a lot of things during our childhood that follow us throughout our lives. If Quinn Donovan has taught me anything it’s that sometimes we need to do a little personal reflection, perhaps through prayer, to determine if those long-standing beliefs we’ve been carrying around help us or work against us as we take our personal journeys toward grace.
Wishing you peace and inspiration,
Hope White
Questions for Discussion
Did you understand Billie’s need to hike alone into the mountains for closure? Have you ever needed closure and if so, how did you find it?
Could you appreciate Billie’s need to keep Quinn at an emotional distance?
Did you consider Billie’s relocation to Waverly Harbor and then to Echo Mountain as running away, or finding her way through tumultuous times?
It was pretty obvious Quinn cared about Billie from the beginning of the story. What do you think stopped him from p
ursuing a relationship with her?
What do you think inspired Quinn to be a part of the search-and-rescue team?
Did you admire Billie for being able to see through Quinn’s facade, or did you think her unwise?
Have you known people who presented themselves one way, but who you suspected were something else? How did you best communicate with them?
Did you think Billie encouraged Quinn in a nonthreatening way to find God, or was she too enthusiastic?
Did you get the impression Quinn was ready to accept God into his life? If so, what were the signs?
What did you think about Billie’s feelings for Will Rankin? Did you think she should have considered him as a boyfriend instead of Quinn?
Did you think Billie developed strength throughout the course of the book? If so, what examples can you share?
Did you sense something was off when Billie went into the mountains to search for the cabin at the end of the book? If so, what piqued your concern?
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Love Inspired Suspense story.
You enjoy a dash of danger. Love Inspired Suspense stories feature strong heroes and heroines whose faith is central in solving mysteries and saving lives.
Enjoy four new stories from Love Inspired Suspense every month!
Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
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ONE
Deep gray fog rolled over the surface of Lake Huron, slipping through the open door to the ferry deck, and blocking out the afternoon sun. Meg Duff braced her palm against the doorframe and took in a long, cleansing breath. The smell of impending rain filled the air. She stood with her feet just inside the threshold of the crowded passenger lounge. Pale blue eyes stared out into the void. Wind brushed against her face, tossing her dark, chin-length hair. A shiver ran down her spine. The deck was deserted.
Just two more days until the wedding, Meg. All you’ve got to do is hold it together until then. Somewhere on this boat were a young bride and groom headed to Manitoulin Island for their dream wedding. The last thing they needed was to find out their wedding planner was having a panic attack.
She glanced at her cell phone. Twenty minutes until they reached shore. Her palm pressed against her chest. She focused on its rhythmic rise and fall. As the only professional wedding planner on a beautiful and remote island, she’d organized more than her fair share of weddings for big-city couples, who’d parachute into her community just long enough say “I do” and cut the cake. But this wedding had quickly become the most expensive and demanding of her career. The young couple were college students in Toronto, who’d agreed to get married on the island to butter up the bride’s elderly grandmother who lived there, and who was paying the bills. The wedding had been organized solely with the high-strung bride, and almost entirely by phone and email. Within five minutes of joining the wedding party at the mainland ferry docks, the bride had launched into a string of ridiculously detailed questions about decorations at the reception venue, while the imposing best man had made an unwanted romantic advance that left Meg feeling both flustered and insulted.
But that was nothing compared to the panic that had coursed through her when she looked into the young groom’s eyes and was struck by flashbacks of a tragic night so many years ago.
Why hadn’t she realized she was actually planning a wedding for the cousin of someone whose senseless death still haunted her nightmares?
It had been fourteen years since a truck had collided with two teenaged boys on snowmobiles—the groom’s cousin Chris, and Meg’s younger brother, Benji. She’d been seventeen. But the young groom, Wesley, had only been seven at the time. His family had moved off the island shortly afterward. She hadn’t even recognized his name until she’d seen his face. He’d given no sign that he recognized hers. Did the groom and his bride even know how that night also tore her life in two? Should she tell them? Surely if she didn’t, someone else on the island would. But how could she damper the happiest day of their lives by bringing up memories like that?
A bag knocked hard against her back, almost forcing her out into the fog. She glanced over her shoulder, but the culprit had already disappeared into the crowd without so much as an apology. She turned back to the gloom, shoved her phone into her pocket and wrapped her scarf twice around her neck. Crocheted strands tumbled down her slender frame, all the way to her knees, but did little to protect against the damp. Silhouettes of the shoreline swirled into focus for a moment, before being swallowed back up by the never-ending gray. She should really close the door.
“Excuse me, miss?”
There was a man behind her. Tall, with the broad shoulders and the tapered build of an athlete. His brown leather jacket was faded and worn, while his tousled, sun-kissed hair would’ve made her presume he was just another thrill-seeking tourist if it wasn’t for how very intently his dark eyes were now searching her face.
A flush of heat rose to her cheeks. “Can I help you?”
His mouth turned up ever so slightly into a casual, laid-back grin. But the intensity of his gaze never faltered for a second. The warmth spread down her neck and through her shoulders. It looked like the smile of a man who’d seen more than his fair share of danger.
It was the kind of smile that made her feel anything but safe.
“My name is Jack Brooks. I’m a reporter with Torchlight News, Toronto.” Too late she saw the voice recorder in his outstretched hand. He raised the microphone toward her. “Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions?”
Her blood ran cold. A reporter? Was the press actually going to cover this wedding? As if it wasn’t bad enough she’d had to watch those scandal-seeking newshounds trampling all over her lawn as a teenager, while her brother lay in the hospital fighting for his life. They’d kept coming back, every few years, to revisit the story. Now it seemed she had to face them again, just because she hadn’t been quick enough to realize a connection between that tragedy and this groom. Was the shadow of that night going to follow her for the rest of her life?
All this and it was still only Thursday. How was she ever going to make it through this weekend without falling apart?
Jack Brooks could waste all the handsome grins on her that he wanted. She knew the look of a man who was after something. He wasn’t going to get it from her. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t talk to reporters.”
Then before he could say anything more, she pushed through the open doorway and out into the cool, damp air, barely even noticing something clatter behind her. He didn’t follow. A thick blanket of gray enveloped her body. She strode down the deck. The babble of voices faded completely. Then the light of the lounge disappeared in the fog.
There was muffled sound to her right. A rustling, like footsteps shuffling. Hang on, had someone else actually wandered out on deck in this weather?
Meg turned. “Hello?” No one there. Silence filled her ears, except for the thrum of the engines beneath her. A jittery feeling brushed along the back of her neck. She slid her hands onto the railing.
Enough of this. She was stressed. Rattled. Nothing more. She just needed to pray. A deep breath filled her lungs. She let it out slowly. Her eyes closed as the words of her favorite hymn moved through her mind like a prayer, “Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well. It is well with my—”
The full-body blow was hard and without warning as her attacker pushed her into the railing. The air was knocked from her chest. A scream barely escaped from her lungs before a leather-gloved hand clamped over her mouth, forcing her silent.
Ice-cold panic gripped her chest so tightly her body felt paralyzed. The attacke
r’s other hand grabbed the scarf at her throat and twisted it like a noose. Slowly he squeezed the air from her windpipe. The desperate need to breathe burst through her body. She shoved back against her attacker with every ounce of energy she had. Her head thrashed. The gloved hand slipped just enough to let her glance back. But all she could see was the orange hood of a raincoat.
He shoved her forward again, pinning her body against the railing, her small frame no match for his strength. Then he let go of her mouth. She opened her lips, but could barely make a sound as she gasped to fill her lungs with air. He grabbed hold of the bottom ends of her scarf and twisted them around her wrists, tying her hands together. Then he lifted her off the deck. She kicked out hard, her feet desperately searching for grip while she wrenched her bound hands, trying to get them free. But even as she struggled, he forced her over the railing toward the unforgiving water below.
* * *
Jack leaned back against the door and pulled a page of crime pictures from his jacket. His eyes scanned the images: a ransacked college dorm room, a garbage-strewn alley and a trashed apartment. Places where three different young women were killed. The only connection anyone had been able to find was security camera footage and witness statements that described someone in an orange raincoat at each of the crime scenes.
Oh, Lord, why am I the only one who believes this is the work of a serial killer? He was risking his entire professional career on a hunch. Monday afternoon, he’d finally talked his editor at Torchlight News into running the article he’d cobbled together laying out his investigation thus far on the “Raincoat Killer.” The story ran on the front cover of Tuesday’s paper, and on Wednesday morning the chief of police himself had called a press conference to announce the murders were unrelated and that Jack’s article was nothing but the product of an amateur sleuth jumping to ridiculous conclusions. His editor had suggested Jack take the rest of the week off while the publisher figured out whether or not to fire him.
