Spirit Lake

by Christine DeSmet

  “Don't allow pity to be your guide,” she said, coming to stand at the back of the sofa. She rearranged the pillows mindlessly. “I think it was the reason I almost married—"

  Cole whirled around, his angry look scalding her to silence. “You mean you were going to marry a man you never loved? Then why did you plant flowers on his grave the other night?"

  Her insides turned dank and drafty as an ancient cave. “You followed me?"

  “When I saw you leave the cabin so late, I was concerned."

  “Stay out of my life."

  “You ordered me here tonight, remember? House arrest."

  Escaping him to put a bottle of formula in the microwave, she punched hard at the timer buttons. A thunderclap made her shoulders flinch. “You always had to be right. Grow up."

  “Am I right? About Kipp O'Donnell?” he asked, coming into the kitchen.

  She shuddered, not daring to look at him. “Don't, Cole. It's been ten years since he died. Of course I must have loved him."

  “Must have?"

  Thunder rolled torrents of rain against the windows. “Please, Cole. I'm not in the mood. I was supposed to feed my animals at ten or so and now it's past midnight."

  He let go a gusty sigh from behind her. “What have you convinced yourself about me all these years? You could have tried to stay in touch with me, too, but you didn't. Was I ... a trophy boyfriend?"

  Turning to him, the violent need swirling in his hawkish gaze startled her.

  “A trophy?” she mused, but her throat clutched. “Yes. I loved you so much then that I wanted the whole world to see you with me. Maybe it's just a girl thing."

  “Nothing could replace the way it felt back then to have you in my arms. Maybe that's just a guy thing. Trouble is, I've never outgrown the need."

  Old feelings for him welled up inside her. Budding. Hot. Forbidden yet bursting to be free of the cave, to find light.

  Cole's eyes burned into her like liquid fire. Laurel rushed to him, flinging her arms around him and pressing her head to his chest. His heartbeat pounded strong and fast.

  Was she falling in love with him all over again? Her head said “no,” but her heart still had that window open to him.

  Eager to extricate herself from him, she grabbed the bottle from the microwave too fast. It slipped to the floor with a crash, milky formula splashing in a puddle. Before she could stop him, Cole reached down, nicking his thumb.

  His blood pooling in the milk, Cole swore, “Damn Rojas. Both of us with nerves shot because of him."

  The icy knot clawing her stomach agreed. She would not have a life back until Rojas—and Cole—were gone. “I'll get a bandage."

  She rushed from the kitchen, wishing she could run forever. Just like Cole had done to her years ago?

  She focused on finding the bandages. Cuts she could deal with, not heartbreak.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  COLE NEEDED THE short respite alone in the kitchen while she hunted up a bandage. He was worried about her, and his son and Karen and his nephew Tim, but did he need to unload it all on her shoulders tonight? After she was daring enough—kind enough—to spring him from jail and invite him into the cabin?

  It bothered him that he couldn't tell her that John hoped she'd do that very thing. If she got harmed because of this crazy plan of his and John's, a planned hatched with an old drunk....

  He thought about the attic, old days of summer ... making love to erase all else. Love? No. Try sex, man, pure and simple. Feel your reaction to her? Don't you listen? She just got done explaining you were fooled back then. You thought she loved you and it all started from some ambition of hers to have a trophy on her arm. Hmm. Sounds like some of the reasons you dated a few women along the way since Laurel. So why does it frustrate you so much to have the shoe on the other foot?

  Because the attic tryst had been special.

  Making love with her had come naturally, as if they'd never been apart. Obviously it hadn't meant as much to Laurel.

  He'd dreaded returning to Dresden because he was afraid his need for Laurel would ball up inside him again. He had always liked protecting her, feeling part of something worthwhile, and damn but the woman was worthy. Of love. Of a man more together than he! He'd just have to get over it. Focus on his tough side. Keep Laurel out of danger and no more of this chitchat about feelings.

  Blood dripped off his finger and onto the milk-splashed floor. Everything in his life was a mess, right down to Laurel's floor.

  Then Laurel was there, wide-eyed and stoic as ever, blotting his thumb and bandaging it with swift efficiency.

  He muttered, “Be nice if we could put something like that on fifteen years, huh?"

  “A patch? It doesn't work for emotions, buddy,” she said, eyes steady on the task of securing the bandage. When she went to the table to check the syringes and bottles, he felt he'd been set adrift in the Arctic. “So what's your thought about Rojas?” she asked, and he knew it was a diversionary tactic. She hated talking about Rojas.

  “I suppose I've got to come up with something."

  The bottles clinked under her inspection. “What if he just chose to make you run forever? What if that's his cruel plan for you?"

  The acid in his gut threatened to come up. He hadn't thought of that. Life would become focused on one thing—running. He'd never see his son again, never ... see Laurel again, never hear her voice, never feel her passion driving him toward relief, never feel her strong fingers patch his perpetual wounds.

  A raw emptiness swept through him. “I can't run forever. I want to make a life for my son."

  Her answer was to grab a towel to finish daubing milk from the floor, but he swore he spied her eyes grow shimmery instantly. Her long, red hair kept tumbling over her shoulders, threatening to dip into the milk. He walked over and gathered it in his fist. He noted she didn't try to pull away, and that relaxed him a little.

  When she rose, even facing away from him couldn't hide a teardrop escaping the corner of her eye. He let go of her hair reluctantly, his heart pounding for her, wishing she'd not feel sorry for him or his son. He wished he hadn't brought this hurt to a woman so fine. It made him want to carry around a basket full of stones on his back, just to show how much he wanted to keep the burden solely his.

  At the table he helped her pack the bottles and syringes in a basket for a trip to the shed. He admired her silent intensity.

  “You really like doing this, don't you?"

  Her brief smile was all he needed, but she said, “I've worked hard to get this far. It's been my dream to have this clinic."

  “Who gets all this formula?"

  “You're really interested in helping?"

  He didn't care for the doubt clouding her eyes. “Of course. Remember the kittens we found in Johnsrud's barn? I held onto them while the vet put some gunk in their eyes."

  She smiled and shook her head. “I'd forgotten. You'll meet Rusty the fox. He came from Johnsrud. Found him in a trap that didn't quite work. And I've got a new batch of baby bunnies."

  “The fox doesn't see the bunnies as hors d'oerves?"

  Her stricken look melted into another smile. “Never you mind the jokes. And take a couple of aspirin for that goose egg. They're in the cupboard by the sink."

  She always seemed to be one step ahead of him, doctoring him and forgiving him. He admired her clear sense of herself, of knowing her direction and purpose.

  “You think you could ever put up with me if I were healthy?"

  This time, he didn't care for her ruminating scowl. “Not sure. It seems the only thing keeping us together is me doctoring your wounds."

  “So I have a nurse fetish."

  “I don't have that kind of license, so I guess that lets me off the hook."

  Well. She certainly let that roll off her tongue too fast, he thought. Still, she was right. She deserved someone she didn't have to doctor all the time. She was intelligent, gifted really in what she could perform
with animals and children. What could he do? Race a boat, spout drag quotients of waves under wind conditions, or bring old artifacts up from the deep. What did any of it matter when compared with what she did with her life?

  “The bunnies,” she was explaining, while nuking another small bottle in the microwave, “need several feedings because they're so small. And special antibiotics. Rabbits have bacteria in their stomachs not found in other small mammals and it's always essential to check them often when you have sick ones like this to start with."

  “I see.” He didn't at all. “What can I do?"

  “We need a couple of towels and we're set."

  We. That little word sent his blood rushing to already pulsating points in his body. “We” sounded warm on a rainy night.

  He asked, “You have heat in the shed?"

  When she leaned down to retrieve towels from a kitchen drawer, her hair swished about in thick torrents, making him long to race over and bury his face in its richness, to smell its wildflower essence. It always filled him like a breeze. He was hungry for that rush. It scared the hell out of him suddenly to know that a woman in a little cabin in Wisconsin could give him a charge as powerful as any racing boat going full-tilt across an ocean. Had she done this to him that summer? Was she the reason he took up racing with such a vengeance, and diving and anything dangerous? Had he been in search of this feeling of being with her?

  Oh, yes.

  Fortunately she was busy talking, ignoring his silent epiphany. “I've got several heat lamps on. The animals are probably more snug than we'll be.” He heard her intake of breath. “I mean, than I'll be."

  “My tent will do me fine."

  “I have a slicker you can borrow. And blankets."

  “No need. A little rain won't hurt me. Once I'm in my sleeping bag, I'll be snug as a bug in a rug.” It sounded cold, wet and miserable.

  He followed her through the formal dining area, past the viewing scope, which made him smile. Once in the breezeway, she halted and he almost ran into her.

  “What's wrong?"

  Slamming the basket of clinking bottles at him, she raced at the shed entrance door. “No light under the door. It means the heat lamps are out. My new babies!"

  Cole limped after Laurel. Inside the shed, he watched her almost fly about like a distressed bird, flicking on lamps, reaching for animals.

  “I must have forgotten to turn them on before I left,” she shrieked. “I can't believe I did this."

  Cole's stomach turned leaden. He wondered if the sheriff's plan was already working. Was someone tracking him? Lurking about? “Tell me what to do to help."

  “Find Rusty. I've got to adjust these lamps. Oh dear. This one's got a broken bulb, too."

  He peered in a cage. “The fox seems fine."

  “Take a look at Owlsy. He's newer."

  Owlsy sat on a branch with a white bandage wrapped around one wing and half his body. His yellow eyes blinked back at Cole in utter confusion over all the commotion. Cole admitted to confusion, too. Forgetting something as important as these heat lamps wasn't like Laurel. Someone had meant to do harm to Laurel or to Cole through her. A hoary anger crowded his already pounding head.

  He asked, “You want me to start feeding?"

  “No!” She rolled up her sleeves and was reaching in a small box. “You can't feed baby animals until they warm up. They can't digest anything when they're cold."

  Laurel had tears streaming down her face. He'd never seen her like this. He felt as if she'd just plunged a knife in his heart. Reaching out to try and soothe her, she quaked in his arms, like a wounded animal herself.

  “Laurel Lee! I'm sorry. Don't go hysterical on me. Put me to work. Let me help you, damnit!"

  She reached into a box filled with fluffy tissues, and before he could blink, she plunged two small gray creatures inside the open “V” of his shirt. They tickled his chest.

  “Hold them there, against your skin and on your heartbeat."

  He peered down. Two silken baby rabbits, their eyes mere slits and their tails only a notion, snuggled between his palm and chest skin. They felt cool to his touch and fragile. He stood still, awed by his unexpected responsibility.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “It'll take a minute or two for their nest to warm up. I'm going to go outside and check on the coyote pups and the fawn—"

  That's when they both noticed the far door ajar and banging suddenly amid the thunder. Cole didn't like this at all.

  “Get in the house,” he ordered.

  “Why?"

  All of the dread that had followed him for days, even weeks now, whooshed in around him with the force of a Florida hurricane.

  Laurel's face went chalky white. “Someone was in the shed."

  Someone who wanted your animals to die in order to mess with me, Cole thought. Then he had an even uglier thought. “The front door was open. Someone could be in your house right now."

  Her eyes, growing large, beseeched his. “It could be a neighbor. Right? Tell me there is no Rojas."

  His heartbeat gathering against a storm, he held fast to the innocent baby bunnies, regret slashing through him.

  * * * *

  “I DON'T CARE a rat's ass how late it is, Sheriff, we have to find him,” Cole said, limping back and forth in front of the fireplace.

  Laurel wondered how he could ignore the deep wound in his leg.

  She slumped in the rocking chair, wrung out. Before the sheriff even got to her cabin, Cole had scoured the house with Mike's hunting knife in hand. She stayed in the shed, shutting doors and settling the bunnies back in their nestbox. Now, her insides were a volatile cocktail of fear and anger, all of it centered on Cole.

  Sheriff John Petski sat on the edge of a sofa cushion, fresh from his inspection, coat still on and dripping, hiked behind his holster. He held his plastic-covered hat in his hands. “I don't see how he could get here that fast."

  “Hell, the man owns a jet."

  “According to Dade County, Marco Rojas was attending a diplomatic reception only four hours ago. It's possible, but nobody flies in this stuff."

  A measure of relief settled into Laurel, reminding her of the hour and how tired she was. “Maybe I really did forget the lamps."

  Cole scowled at her. “The door, too? No way. I know you. You love those animals more than anything, more than people."

  She flinched at the unsettling and offhanded accusation. “I was in a hurry, and distracted today. The more we talk about this, the sillier it makes me feel. I must have thought I closed the door and turned on the lamps and never did."

  Cole glanced at the sheriff. “You found nothing over at the mansion?"

  Laurel watched the two men exchange an intense gaze. She didn't like the feeling it gave her.

  John said, “Nothin’ there except a leaky roof and creaky wood. You already looked in the duffel and said everything was there. Even the jewelry."

  “Thanks for bringing my stuff over,” Cole said, turning quickly toward the fire, his back to Laurel.

  Jewelry? Laurel would have to ask about it later.

  John stood. “Maybe you two just got spooked talking about Rojas and his rich lady friend from Texas—"

  “Sheriff,” Cole interjected, stepping forward and slapping a hand on John's shoulder, “Laurel and I have done enough talking about Rojas for one night."

  Jewelry? Lady friend? From then on, John avoided her gaze. At the door, he turned to Cole. “Stop by. We have to settle up with the tavern. Wiley'll be sober in a few hours."

  “Sure thing,” Cole said, closing the door against the rain.

  Laurel didn't care for the odd glint in his eyes when he turned around. “What're you two up to?"

  “You need sleep. I'll be fine out here on the couch,” Cole said.

  “Don't treat me like I'm still seventeen. I don't need a guard dog on duty. Rojas isn't here, but you two clearly expected him. He was all you talked about, not an ordinary burglar or
tourist committing a heist."

  “We can talk in the morning."

  “I won't sleep until we talk.” She stomped over to him, grabbed his arm and dragged him to the couch. “You and John know something you don't want me to know. Why not?"

  “I'd like to think I'm protecting you by not wanting to scare you at every turn."

  She threw up her arms. “Like I wasn't scared tonight? Like I wasn't scared the day you arrived here and told me you were going to be killed? Like that didn't bring all the scary feelings back when my father went into a rage—"

  Her body went slack. She's said too much. Her throat tightened. His eyes grew wide, beckoning like the lake, waiting for her.

  He offered, “I don't want to talk about the things your father did back then."

  Licking her lips, she sighed, thankful. “He loved me. He couldn't help what he felt about the situation of you and me. But sometimes I feel I'm like him. Stubborn. Fulfilling his mission to get rid of you."

  She blanched, the truth delivering a tremor down her spine. Was she really doing that? Repeating the past? Trying to justify all the meanness her father showed toward Cole fifteen years ago?

  He patted the cushion next to him. Because of the gravity on his face, she sat down next to him. He put an arm around her, drawing her against the same warm spot on his chest where the bunnies recovered earlier. His heartbeat pounded erratically. The man was afraid!

  “Cole, I'm sorry. I hate being at odds. I hate worrying."

  “I'm nothing but a bastard, just as you called me, if I bring you into this then tell you nothing.” His voice resonated through his chest. Her body rose with his deep breath, settling in.

  “Sheriff Petski got some information off his communiqués tonight that aren't pretty,” he began, sending new tremors through her. “It involves a woman I dated a couple of times, who ended up in the arms of Senator Milo Goetz."

  “What about this woman? And who is Goetz?"

  “Goetz heads the CIA oversight committee. Has for years."

  Shivering, she stared into the dying fire. “Your brother said not to go to Langley. That's CIA. Did Mike know something about Goetz and Rojas?"