“Something you and Mike shared when kids?"
He shook his head.
“But Mike kept it for you,” she said.
“He's the detail man."
Every nerve ending in her body itched to solve the mystery. “I can't stand it. Show me."
Like the boy with the frog, he stepped over, dropped the object in her lap gingerly, then stepped back, waiting.
Laurel didn't expect the weight of it. Her eyes opened wider in awe.
The locket was the size of a quarter, its gold lid glinting in the splash of firelight which showed off a ring of roses and a garden gate artfully carved into the face. It had no chain.
Cole said, “It was Great-aunt Flora's. She loved her flowers. She never told me where she got the locket. She just said it was time to pass it along where it might do some good."
When had the fire ever thrown so much heat? Laurel licked her dry lips and peered up at Cole. “I can't accept this. It's a family heirloom."
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Cole shifted his weight and looked decidedly uncomfortable. “There's a problem with that. You see, I can't really give it to anybody else, and I know it's time for me to move on, and well, loose ends have to be tied up—"
“Cole, you're blathering. Why do you want me to have this?” It rested almost too-perfectly in her palm.
Taking his hands out of his pockets, Cole reached down, and in slow motion, twisted the ancient clasp. The face sprung open.
“Oh my,” she said, amused. “You and Mike?” They were two urchins locked forever in time in a yellowed photo the size of her thumbnail.
Cole nodded. “I suppose you have one of these lockets laying around already."
“No. I don't.” Her own words sounded vacant, lonely. Shouldn't all mothers have a locket?
“Maybe you could find a photo of your baby, and—"
Her eyes misted over.
“What a clod I am,” he said. “I'm sorry."
Her heart weighed so heavy it seemed to fall into her stomach before pounding double-speed. “No, Cole, that's so thoughtful, but really, I can't accept this."
She pressed it toward him, eager to be rid of the emotions swirling inside her.
His hands closed over hers and the locket.
Then he took it out of her hands. Holding it out to her, he said, “You know how kids are. Some exchange rings. Earrings these days, according to Tyler. When Aunt Flora gave me this, I did something really dumb."
Turning the locket over, he placed it back in her palm. When he whispered the inscription, “To Laurel, from Cole,” she swallowed hard.
So simple and timeless.
All breath left her. “You were going to give this to me then?"
“About a thousand times. I had it engraved at Higgins Jewelry Store."
“Old Higgins must have loved that. Did he tease you?” Laurel could not deny the jets of heat coursing through her veins.
“Mercilessly. It's probably why I kept putting off giving it to you. You were always so on the go, so sure of yourself, not sitting around and into frilly things that I was finally convinced it didn't seem to fit you."
You were scared of the commitment. “Where did it end up?"
“Mike and I had a secret board in the attic. When I left in a hurry that summer, I left it there. Mike kept it, or maybe he only found it himself back here in May. Secret boards are too easy to find and he probably didn't want Rojas pilfering it."
Rojas. It sullied the atmosphere of the room. The fire didn't smell as sweet. The glow ruptured into violent flames.
When she got up to tend the fire, her gaze caught a flicker off to the side—a visage in the window.
The locket clattered to the wood floor. “Cole,” she whispered, “someone's here. Someone's sneaking around and spying on us."
* * * *
HE LEAPED toward the front door. “Call 911."
After doing so with shaking fingers, Laurel raced for the back door that led through the breezeway to the animal shed.
Flicking on the overhead lights, she saw that the heat lamps were undisturbed, and most of the animals blinked up at her from their nocturnal activities ranging from sleep to feeding. Rusty sat up, questioning the intrusion. Laurel reached into a coffee can for a dog treat and gave it to the fox.
She checked the far door. The new locks held it securely, to her relief.
Back in the house, she hurried to all the windows, letting her fingers rework all the locks and seals. She shut the window in her bedroom she'd only opened when she and Cole arrived home about an hour ago. Ready to leave the room, her gaze caught an oddity, stopping her in her tracks next to her dresser.
The photos of her family had been laid face down. Had she done that the other night? Or, had someone broken in?
A tremor rolled through her.
Racing to her closet, she tore the clothes aside, frantic in her search. Her hands found an empty wall behind her clothes. Where was her father's rifle?
Panic climbed into her chest. Someone had stolen the rifle. Someone had been in her house and her bedroom.
Her feet flew out of the bedroom. “Cole?"
She remembered his knife. She headed for the kitchen counter, but was stopped by a ruckus outside.
“Cole?"
The front door banged open against the interior wall. Laurel sucked her body back, fear tumbling over her.
Cole thrashed in, tossing a man in a heap in the middle of the livingroom. The man rolled and landed up against the back of the sofa. He was an unrecognizable pile of coat, fedora and tan gloves. Cole charged at him.
“Cole!” Laurel screamed, backing off, “you got him? Rojas?"
“No,” he growled, grabbing at the heap on the floor, “but I got one of his henchmen spies. Stay back, Laurel.” Then to the heap, “Get up, you foul-smelling—"
The heap on the floor groaned.
A new bluster blew through the open front door and in hustled Buzz, camera in hand. “Let me at him. I want a clear picture. I saw it all."
“Buzz?” Laurel gasped, amid flashbulbs snapping, blinding her.
The editor almost knocked her down in his hurry to capture the scene. Instead, he shoved Cole down onto the struggling heap.
From the tussle on the floor, Cole shouted, “Get out of the house, Laurel, before you get hurt! Run!"
She groped through the dizzying lights, finding the open door and outside air. Racing off her stoop, more lights assaulted her and for a flicker of a moment she recognized the red and blue bubble lights behind the headlight beams. Sheriff John Petski trotted her way, gun drawn.
“Hurry, John! Cole's got a man in there!"
“Get down, Laurel!” he yelled. “Get down!"
Reeling from the protective shove he gave her, Laurel fell between the tomato rows in her garden near the front door.
Then a gunshot split the night.
* * * *
BREATHING HARD, the man from the restaurant clambered into the small aluminum boat anchored a few yards below Laurel's cabin and out of sight of her dock. He wiped his brow. That had been too close for comfort. Where had all those people come from? And who was that guy throwing on a disguise just before the sheriff arrived? Sure made no sense. Didn't matter. He'd gotten a good enough look at Laurel Hastings through her window.
Oaring fast, he considered the cage stretching from his feet to the other end of the boat. She'd fit in there, he was sure.
Paddling off in the dark, he turned his attention to the task at hand. Getting rid of the Texas woman's body, now hidden under an abandoned dock up the way, floating inside the other cage he'd bought from Madelyn Hasting's bait shop.
* * *
Chapter 13
LAUREL SAT TRYING to brush mud off her face when Cole's long fingers gripped her arms, heaving her out of the tomato rows.
Sheriff Petski poked his head around Cole's shoulder. “You all right?"
“Thanks, John. No scratches. What happened?"
“Gotta go. There's another call and I have to drop off my handcuffed human baggage first."
He trotted off, then the squad car rolled out of her driveway, its back tires spitting up gravel. Laurel stared after it, then back to Cole, dumbfounded.
“Who is that man you found looking in my window?"
Briskly swiping the last bits of leaves, dirt and tomato leaves out of her hair, Cole said, “Don't have bad dreams about this. John knows what he's doing."
Indignation reared inside her. “What happened in there?"
Buzz stepped out of the cabin then, interrupting them. “That's what I want to know. Never did get a good look at the character.” He twitched a pencil over a pad of paper. “Now what was the guy's name?"
Cole's eyebrows twitched in minor frustration, but he turned to Buzz. “We're not sure. Just report him as the alleged right-hand man of Marco Rojas."
“Alleged,” Buzz said, scribbling, “yes, that's good. My biggest story ever. Gotta get it on the wire services."
Then he took off down the driveway.
Shaky, Laurel frowned after the man toddling down her driveway. “Where's he going? Where's his car?"
“I don't know. Maybe he left it out on the road when he saw John's squad parked here."
“But he was here before the sheriff."
Cole slipped an arm around her shoulder too quickly, she thought. “Who can figure out former English teachers. They talk in riddles and love mysteries."
Laurel didn't buy it. “What's going on?"
“Looks rainy. I'll fix the hole in your ceiling."
He ducked indoors way too quickly, she concluded. She followed him.
Her shoulders sank at the sight. Her home—her sanctuary—was a disaster. The arm was broken off the rocker.
“That was my father's favorite chair,” she muttered, smarting from knowing it'd never be the same.
Her breathing labored. She could get angry, or resign herself to ... what? Cole?
There was a slash in the back of the sofa, plaster dust everywhere, and a gaping hole in the old plaster ceiling.
Anger began to win out. “Someone could have been killed here."
He began righting chairs, kicking plaster into a pile here and there. “Nobody got hurt. It was a warning shot."
“Don't touch my things. Stop it.” A tremblor began deep inside her. It roiled, a bomb wanting to explode.
“Look, Laurel. I'm sorry this had to happen, but if this man spills his guts, my business here is done."
Staring at him, she realized that's what this was for him—business as usual. It sickened her. How could a man make love to her so tenderly, then take joy in creating havoc?
“Another one of your damn adventures."
“No, it's not."
“Get out,” she ordered, throwing a sofa pillow at him. “Somebody could have been killed tonight and I don't find it entertaining."
She picked up another pillow from the floor and tossed it at him, then stopped, remembering the locket must be on the floor somewhere. Delicate, the inscription—her name and his—might have been crushed under foot. Sinking to her hands and knees, she started searching, sick at heart. Feeling foolish. Angry. No, mad.
A freneticism overtook her. How dare these men come in here and crush the life out of her things.
Cole could come in and shoot up her house—and prove he didn't love her, but she wanted the locket after all. She cared about delicate things, helpless things. Things lost.
With her head pounding, and her breathing growing sharp and shallow, she thrust her arms under the sofa, then began lifting up the cushions, searching.
“Laurel, what's the matter?"
“The locket. It's gone."
Gripping her wrist, Cole stayed her search. “I'll ask the sheriff to frisk Rojas's weasel we caught. He could have it."
“Lifted it in the middle of your fight?"
He forced her to sit on the sofa. “I'll get it for you from John. I promise."
Then she looked into his dark eyes, and saw a sadness, a pain she didn't recognize. She realized he must be thinking her nuts to worry over the locket she'd given back to him only minutes ago. They had been saying good-bye. How cruel of her to hint to him that she cared for the locket too much. But no man took a family heirloom and engraved your name on it unless he meant something by it. Did he? But that was long ago. And here she was balled up inside ready to blame him again.
“No, don't bring it back,” she relented, allowing her weariness to drip out. “I got caught up in ... nostalgia,” she said, a bit too tartly, she knew. But looking around her cabin ... it looked like her insides felt.
After looking at her long and hard, Cole got up and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “I'll ask the sheriff. It won't take anything for me to stop tomorrow."
She panicked. “No. It's Friday. I need to prepare for the weekend. They always get busy."
“I'll come by to help you clean up this mess."
“Please don't.” They had to sever their ties. They always came to ruin.
He leaned against the door. “I'll be over at the mansion a few more days. Working things out with the sheriff."
“Like the last time you left Dresden."
“This time, with the guy we just caught, we might be close to nabbing Rojas."
“Gee,” she snapped, “congrat's. Mount his head and we'll put it on the wall at Big Al's for you to brag about."
“This isn't a game.” He said it so quietly it gave her the shakes.
But he slammed the door. In his wake, plaster dust spewed down in front of her. Her insides now felt the same way. Dry dust.
A deadly silence descended on the destruction. Laurel stood there, alone, her heart feeling as splintered as the rocker. This was not how she envisioned their last night together.
* * * *
COLE SAT NEXT to his tent until the moon moved from one side of the mansion to the other, watching Laurel's cabin across the bay. Her lights had gone out long ago, but he knew she wouldn't sleep much tonight. Neither would he.
He never came to Dresden to hurt her, but everything he did seemed to go haywire. Even giving her the locket turned into a disaster. The fake shootout hadn't been planned for tonight, and Cole had lobbied for it happening anywhere but Laurel's place, but the sheriff suggested they'd have to leap at the first chance Buzz gave them. They had kept Buzz innocent of their plan because they knew the editor would never fake a story knowingly.
What Cole and the sheriff wanted was simple. They wanted to draw out Rojas or any of his men he might have hired to come after Cole. At Wiley's insistence, Wiley would be in disguise, and then he'd stalk Cole and get captured by the sheriff when they knew Buzz would be around. From there, the sheriff would verify for Buzz that they had captured a Rojas henchman and Buzz would send it out on the national news services. It was all a plan to put heat on Rojas and end the mess.
But something about tonight bothered Cole. Laurel was right. Buzz showed up before the sheriff. Had the editor been the man in the window? Buzz was snoopy, but it didn't seem his style.
It couldn't have been Wiley in the windows. He was too much of a klutz not to have been heard beforehand. Cole found him at the side of the house. Wiley said he'd been dropped off by the sheriff. They'd quickly gone into action, pretending Wiley was a spy for Rojas. But if Wiley had just arrived—presumably with the sheriff—who had shown his face in the window of Laurel's cabin?
His gut told him there was someone dangerous out and about. Someone they hadn't counted on. He could smell it on the fog, taste it in the tinny fear flaking inside his mouth, feel it in the mounting dread fueling the rapid beat in his heart.
Cole wished like hell he was standing guard in Laurel's cabin tonight, but then Rojas wanted him, not her. Better to stay away from her, especially now. Just keep watch. Be her watchdog. The hair rose on the nape of his neck.
Cole's eyes scanned the fog-blanketed land around him, the murky bay,
the opposite shore. Private piers jutted from out of the patchy fog. All was quiet.
Too quiet. From Laurel he'd learned to listen for the nighthawks cry overhead, the frogs bellowing from the lowland, the occasional owl. He heard none of that. It meant there was movement somewhere nearby. Out on the water?
Then he turned around and considered the old mansion, its attic window catching the moonlight. Was someone watching him from up there, from his and Mike's pirate ship? Was someone keeping watch over Laurel's cabin?
Cole started off through the tall grass, his leg paining him badly all of a sudden. He'd much rather be curled up with Laurel in his arms in a warm bed.
Pushing on through the cold, damp grass, he took courage from the object in his pocket. When had he begun to feel he was doing all of this for Laurel? Hadn't he come here to avenge Mike's death? Now, he wanted it over with, just to bring peace back to Laurel's life.
He cared too much for her. He knew that. Was it love? He shuddered. Love would mess up everything. To love her openly would put her in danger. Rojas meant to kill him. Rojas would feed on any distraction, any weakness.
Love brought complications to a man's life, and a man had to be ready to shoulder the responsibility. He knew that more than anyone. He knew it because Laurel demanded that love mean accepting responsibilities. But he felt responsible for everyone and everything. Where did he start?
And did any of these challenges matter when he needed to erase the quiet sadness in her eyes? He accepted that responsibility automatically because it spoke to his soul, where a part of him said he still loved her, even if he didn't see a way to a future for them.
Shoving on toward the old mansion, he realized he had no weapon on him except maybe the flashlight.
In the side pocket of his jeans, where normally he carried the knife, his hand clutched the locket. His best weapon was his conviction. Nothing could harm Laurel. He wouldn't allow it.
* * * *
DOUSING THE flashlight, he held his breath to listen. He hadn't really expected to encounter anyone in the old mansion, but now he stood in the dark halfway up the final stairsteps to the third-floor attic, wondering who was in the pirate ship.
Soft shufflings emanated from the pirate ship, then scraping noises. Someone was moving the old boxes or discarded kitchen chairs around. Cole clenched his teeth, but sour fear trickled down his throat. Had he found Rojas's henchman at last? The window spy? Was it the bastard himself—Rojas?
Spirit Lake Page 19
