Spirit Lake

by Christine DeSmet

  When he unhanded her, Laurel reeled from the raw love for his brother rimming his eyes. She couldn't move. “I'm sorry."

  “The man I worked for had rigged the boat. I'm sure of it. It blew up out in the water. My brother, gone, just like that."

  His hands had turned to ice, and she rubbed them instinctively to warm them. “I'm sorry."

  Stumbling up, he limped away, but stopped only a few feet from her because of the pain. She heard the pain on his sigh, saw it in the way his shoulders rose with several deep breaths.

  Scanning Spirit Lake toward the western horizon, he muttered, “Don't feel sorry for a man who should have saved his brother and who wishes another man dead. Don't allow yourself to—"

  “Become involved. I know.” But looking at his broad shoulders, sagging now, Laurel hurt for him.

  When he weaved on the bad leg, she quickly slid beside him, acting as his crutch, not minding that she fit perfectly under his arm and alongside his firm body. Not minding that he needed her. Even for only the moment. “It could have been an accident. The authorities, they could—"

  “The authorities!” He almost knocked them down. “Mike couldn't trust them and he wasn't ready to trust me yet with whatever it is he found. There's something about this whole mess that calls for a lot more than simple solutions."

  A quick glance showed blood seeping through his thick bandage. She needed to calm him down. “Where's your son?"

  “Tyler's with Mike's wife, or widow now. Karen. And his cousin Tim. They're in hiding. I made sure they moved the same day Mike was killed."

  Quaking, she began gathering up her supplies from the grass, remembering how his lack of good judgment got them in trouble years ago.

  “You should be with your son. Not here."

  Cole turned her around roughly to face his piercing hawk-like eyes. “I didn't have a choice, Laurel. Mike chose this old place, not me. I can only pray for a little time before Rojas finds someone who will tell him about this property, because he'll come here if he has to."

  “And then what? A final shootout? Listen to yourself. Don't you care about anybody? You'll put me in danger, everyone in Dresden and who lives around Spirit Lake? What about your son? The authorities should be the ones taking care of your boss, not you. Go home to your son where you belong!"

  With the first-aid kit, she turned to go, but he grabbed her, tossing the kit aside and whirling her back into his arms. “Don't leave like this."

  Her heartbeat skittered into a higher gear. “Leaving's your habit, not mine. You can verify that habit with your son I bet."

  “Laurel, why are you so bitter? What the hell happened after I left?"

  “You left me with an ... aftertaste,” she said, her stomach churning with the dread of him pressing her for too much. “You left my whole family with a bad taste."

  He caught a fistful of her long hair whipping in the breeze, gentling it back against her face until his knuckles grazed her cheekbone, sending thunderbolts through her. “Listen to me,” he said in a tone gone guttural. “I tried to square things by sending money to your father to pay for what I did to his car."

  “I didn't know that.” The fragrant spring air brought the scent of his heated skin along with her next breath, threatening to buckle her legs.

  “Your father kept returning the envelopes to me unopened."

  “Sounds like him. I'm sorry."

  “Did you go to college?” Letting her hair fall from his fist, he combed it back into place with his fingers.

  She shivered. He didn't seem to notice. “I started out studying plants. They didn't talk back or cause trouble."

  At his chuckle, she flicked her gaze up to meet his. The dark eyes softened, inviting her in.

  “And the animals?” he asked.

  “I switched to environmental studies, and in the field labs I discovered I had a gift for working with animals. They responded to me."

  “As I always have,” he muttered, rubbing a thumb along her jawline, leaving sparks in his wake. “The way we made love then, it was real."

  She sucked in her breath and tried to jerk away, but he held her tight, bringing her back into his shadow. The cardinals and robins chirped from the nearby woodland, almost serenading them.

  His dark eyes narrowed. “Every night riding the rails, freezing my ass off trying to sleep in a cold metal boxcar, I kept thinking about coming here, dreading it, but at the same time remembering how warm it felt lying next to you under the sun, and how hot our skin got, and how we knew how to cool ourselves in the pond, and how much we didn't have a worry in the world."

  Melting under his gaze, she remembered too, but she'd changed. Strength of maturity buoyed her now. “Why, Cole? Why are you telling me these things?"

  The cardinals and robins stopped their cacophony, as if they should listen to the hawk, too.

  “Because there's an emptiness in my gut. It settled in that day Mike died and hasn't left. And I don't know where it's leading me, except that I know there's been an emptiness involving you and me, and yes, our choices were mixed up and we were young, too young, and hell, but it's a mess, and you're right about it being a mess."

  The heat of him mingled with her own charged breathing, filling her lungs with the earthy tang about him, spilling the essence of him into her veins as if he were suddenly her lifeblood. His arms—stronger than anything she'd remembered—drew her even more tightly against him, until her breasts tingled against the vibrations of his heartbeat.

  “Emptiness,” she said, her mouth dry and helpless against the truth, “waits and waits for something to fill it."

  “Something, or someone? I need a friend, Laurel Lee."

  “Only a friend?” Her heartbeat went ragged at the yearning softening his already-velvet eyes.

  “Please,” he murmured, his breath feathering across her cheekbones, sending the same soft tickle through her middle. “I'm scared as hell."

  His head descended, his firm lips parting in their hunger.

  * * * *

  HIS KISS SWEPT her into the clouds, where she rode with the birds, and smelled sweet clover wafting up from the meadow below. Her body grew ticklishly light, her nipples hardening where they brushed against his heaving chest as he carried her higher.

  Then he landed with her. A crash landing.

  Snapping open her eyes, she found him five steps away already, limping toward the nylon heap that looked like it might become a tent.

  Stomping over, kicking aside the tall grass, she demanded, “Don't you dare tell me you didn't feel anything—"

  “Damnit, I'm sorry,” he snapped, without looking up. “I shouldn't have done that.” He gathered tent stakes and crouched down, giving her his back again.

  “Sorry doesn't cut it anymore.” She snatched up a tent stake he was laboring to reach and thrust it at him. “And why are you building this tent? You can sleep in that old mansion over there."

  “Too much dust and crud. Not good for my lungs."

  “Swell. Clean lungs will be appreciated by the killer once he gets here."

  Disgusted at herself for railing at him again, she turned to soak up every soothing, rippling inch of Spirit Lake. When he surprised her by ushering up beside her, cradling her elbow in his rough palm, the unbidden heat hummed along her skin again.

  “What're you doing?” he asked.

  “Finding my control before I head back."

  Their breathing grew shallower while they watched the undulating water, and listened to the occasional duck quaking before taking flight. After a moment, he tugged on her hair. “Not sure I can get used to this sedate you."

  “It's best you don't get used to it."

  Turning back to his flat tent, he gingerly crouched down again. “You're right. I can't botch this for Mike. I've botched a lot of things in my life."

  He left that hanging in the air, but she refused to respond. Finally, after listening to him grunt over one of the stakes, trying to shove it into the ground w
ith no leverage because of his bad leg, she glanced about for a rock. Spotting one, she got it, then handed it down to him. When he frowned up at her, she said, “To help you pound in the stakes. In this soft ground, you're going to need to go deep."

  “I'll keep that in mind,” he replied, his mouth curling up in a sly smile.

  She pursed her lips, refusing to play along.

  He asked, “Now tell me, oh wise Miss Hastings, why do I tend to botch things? Something you seem to have observed."

  “Long ago I concluded you're only capable of concentrating on one thing at a time, to a fault."

  He hiked up one eyebrow at her. “How so?"

  “You liked being with me, until you got in trouble. Then you had to focus on running away from trouble. Then, you had to focus on making a marriage to Stephanie work since ours didn't, but then other things must have impinged on that marriage, too. So you had to leave that in order to focus on something else, such as the racing."

  He slammed the rock down hard on the top of the stake, spiking it cleanly into the earth.

  Flinching, she continued, “You like projects. You concentrate on one adventurous project at a time."

  “You haven't seen or heard from me in fifteen years and you know all this?"

  “I did plenty of reading about men after that summer. There are men who consider women projects. They focus all their energies until they've fixed them to their liking. And then they move on."

  “I wasn't that way.” Plopping back in the grass, he stared up at her slackjawed.

  “You didn't try to remake my wardrobe or anything—"

  “For cryin’ out loud, you hated getting dressed up. You were a tomboy."

  “You never stopped focusing on your little adventures to ask what I liked and didn't like. You saw one side, the side that could be coaxed into doing stupid shenanigans and you focused on that."

  “I didn't care if you wore a dress!” He struggled to his feet, grabbing a tent stake and the rock before heading for another corner of the tent.

  “That's my point. You didn't care enough about all the other sides of me. I finally convinced myself that I was glad I never married you with society's legal paper back then. That reality and a family takes juggling and you can't juggle more than one ball in the air at a time. You're always in a crisis, and as each crisis hits, you forget all else."

  “You're nuts.” He dropped the rock and barely missed his toe.

  “No, not anymore. If a tomboy suffices to feed your little plots to get in trouble, why risk messing up the fun by seeing another side to her, right? It's probably the same reason you wanted me to butcher your leg instead of going to a hospital. I'm at hand and easy to focus on. I'm no trouble and you face no responsibility with me. Even a quick kiss to satisfy your curiosity—hit and run—only proved it to me that you haven't changed a lick over the years."

  “This is the most ridiculous psycho-babble I've ever heard."

  She knew she should just leave, but he had her ire up now. Her pride wouldn't let go. “You asked my opinion but you don't really care what I say, do you? You just go on your merry way. Never mind the feelings of others swirling around you."

  “Laurel, come on. That's not me anymore."

  “It's not?” She scoffed. “You expressed undying love to me, but when trouble came, boom, you're gone. On your merry way. Now years later you drop everything, even your son, to avenge your brother's death."

  “I love my son."

  A stabbing ache hit her heart. “Oh? You're here and he's in hiding. Quaint proof of your love."

  “My life's at stake."

  “And that makes you a hero in your son's eyes? What if you get killed? Where's the responsibility and love in that?"

  He scrambled up, cursing his sore leg to get to her. His eyes simmered with fury when he stabbed the air with a fist. “I didn't plan this misadventure, but I won't get killed. I'm not stupid."

  She plucked the first aid kit from the grass and backed away. “You guaranteed that to your son?"

  “Damn you, I can't guarantee anything."

  “Pity the next woman who falls for you."

  “You'll come back over here again?"

  She turned to go but he caught her arm. Electricity skipped along her skin. “I doctored your leg and that's all you'll get from me. If you'll excuse me I have to check on an owl. At least it's not interested in pecking my heart out."

  Releasing her, he grunted, “You're way too controlled."

  Except for my thudding heartbeat. “Unlike you, I've changed. Now go to the hospital and get that leg looked at. Don't worry about being recognized. If I didn't recognize you at first, I'm sure you can put on an act again and get away with it."

  He grinned defiantly. “That bothers you, doesn't it? I recognized you first, even with your longer hair, how you've filled out nicely—"

  “Save it,” she snapped, turning with the first aid kit to head for her boat.

  His sudden, hearty and free-flowing laughter seemed to settle the ancient, irritating dust that had been stirred up between them. She rescued her nerves with a calming breath. But her heart's yielding toward him still scared her. “Tell them you're Atlas, a homeless man with the world on his shoulders, just for the drama of it. You'll get free treatment and be able to leave my lake tomorrow."

  She couldn't escape to her boat fast enough. But the weeds rustled behind her. “Stop following me."

  “I need a ride to the hospital."

  “Not in my boat. The DNR warden will be here any minute. Hitch with Jim Swenson."

  Feeling his gaze boring into her back, she slipped and slid down the muddy bank and into her boat. He stood high above, truly like some Greek god lording over his dominion. She dared glance up. A mistake. The sun formed a halo around him, throwing his tanned face into coppery, handsome silhouette. It took her three yanks on the cord to start the old motor, embarrassing for her. When she backed the aluminum boat away from shore, he stuck a hand tentatively in the air, then waved. She could even see his white teeth.

  He was smiling, darn him.

  She wished he hadn't done that, because it felt intimate and wondrous. Cheery even. But part of his act. Always, the act. If only he'd given her even the smile and wave fifteen years ago, a simple gesture of good-bye in person. Instead, he'd left her dangling with only hope and dreams for company.

  Out in the middle of the bay, with its sweet water smells and the lapping of the ripples, she allowed herself to tremble. All over. Every inch, every follicle. He had no rights to anything anymore. Not her secrets, her triumphs and what she'd made of her life.

  Or did he?

  One visit to the meadow and beyond and he'd have too many questions.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  FORMING TIGHT fists, he watched her boat bob up and down, navigating the small waves. Her red hair whipped about like nautical flags warning of a storm. A smart sailor heeded such readings and headed in the opposite direction. Cole could not. Maybe he was nothing more than a surly pirate. She'd certainly pointed out a few faults more befitting of a pirate than ... the father—the hero—she insinuated he wasn't for his son.

  He itched to follow after her and prove somehow he wasn't the selfish lout she believed him to be.

  Her small shape soon climbed onto the far dock. With her scarlet hair she could have been one of the cardinals going about its business against the green backdrop of bushes and trees lining the shore. She belonged here. He did not.

  When she disappeared from view, he began tidying up his meager campsite. He doused the fire. What was it she wanted to do with this property once the mansion was razed? He'd forgotten to ask for details. Okay, maybe he was too focused on his own agenda. Wasn't being hunted by a madman enough reason? Not for Laurel. She had changed a lot. Where had all that fiery bluster come from? And her desperate need to control it? She was putting on an act, too.

  To listen to her, he wasn't capable of love. Didn't he and Lisa Shaw have
a good relationship? Lisa owned the dive shop he frequented. She'd been pressing him lately for something more permanent.

  He groaned. Good one, Cole. Tell Laurel you're stringing along a blonde in Miami as proof you're the loving kind. Laurel would laugh her guts out.

  What about his son? This sobered him more quickly than he would have liked.

  He sank to the ground and stretched out the leg. Laurel would never understand that he'd been forced to give up much of the raising of his thirteen-year-old son, Tyler.

  Tyler's welfare now loomed in his mind. After his divorce, Cole had started concentrating on the racing circuit and developing the reputation that would bring the Wescott brothers—and their children—a secure future.

  Cole wanted to make sure Tyler never wanted for anything. Tyler understood that, didn't he? Mike must have helped him understand. Mike had raised Tyler along with his own Timmy. Mike must have explained this all to Tyler. Didn't he?

  Cole hated these self-doubts. He hated thinking too much. Thinking messed up instincts. He needed his instincts to be keen. Tyler's fine, he chided himself.

  But he heard her voice again. You go your merry way.

  Flopping back, he squinted at the clouds. Just what he needed. A sexy, know-it-all woman who could doctor wounds and spout wisdom that bred guilt. She'd become too good to be true over the years. Too good for him.

  A claw of anxiety squeezed his heart.

  Something wasn't right about Laurel. Why was her disdain for him so deeply imbedded after all this time?

  He shook his head. If he allowed himself to solve the puzzle of Laurel's past, he'd drift from his purpose. He vowed to the heavens and to the image of his wailing mother at Mike's funeral that he'd avenge his brother's death and save his family.

  The echo of the footsteps and gun retorts in the railyard haunted him. Rojas wanted blood. Rojas had a lot to lose. What was it?

  How many days did Cole have to find out?