Charging off the chair, he hugged Laurel, filling her lungs with the earthy, lakewater smell still clinging to his damp hair. Picking her up, he twirled her about the room, knocking over a waste basket, kissing her fiercely in front of Buzz until her lips went numb. “We did it,” he bellowed, “we did it!"
Elation thrummed through her, but all she could think to say was, “Your leg's going to hurt again.” Worry and tend.
“Who cares!” Cole said, setting her down. “The proof! What a thing to find right before my flight home!"
He twirled her around again and again, crashing into Buzz's messy desk, dumping stacks of papers in his jubilation. Buzz didn't seem to mind. He just kept going through the disk.
But for Laurel, the world shut down. For some reason, her misguided heart thought that once he discovered Mike's treasure, there'd be a reason to stay. He could relax. He would be assured of Rojas staying in prison. Instead, Laurel realized this discovery was propelling Cole even faster toward new considerations. To home, he called it. How foolish she felt. Silly even. Of course he had to go home.
When Sheriff Petski, Wiley Lundeen and attorney David Huber answered Buzz's phone call and rushed over, conversation swirled, with the men slapping Cole on the back, congratulating him.
Far off against the roar of her disappointment, she heard Cole hooting, “This confirms the second set of books. Wait until I shove them under Rojas's nose."
Her vision blurred. She swiped at her face before Cole could notice. This was not the time for selfish emotions.
She could make out David Huber nodding. “Copy these disks, Buzz, and I'll get the information sent off to the U.S. Department of Justice. The Attorney General will be mighty grateful."
She sat down in a stiff chair, resigned to an odd sense of relief. The adventure was finally over. John was saying, “Those FBI boys are going to be impressed finally."
Wiley nodded toward the screen. “There's enough stolen treasure in here to fuel a war."
Cole's coppery skin paled.
Even Laurel blinked. “War?” Such a word made bones weary.
John nodded. “Try terrorism. According to the FBI, they think Marco Rojas might have been using his U.S. license for exclusive diving rights to the wrecks to fuel terrorist acts here in the States. They just didn't have the proof. Until now. The big boys'll need you in D.C. to testify on this one, Cole."
Raking a hand through his hair, Cole settled a blank gaze on Laurel. It was as if he'd wiped himself clean of emotions, like ... a chalkboard ready for duty.
Her stomach coiled to hardness. He'd said this could take years. Why hadn't she believed him? “Congratulations, Cole. I guess this is the big time for you."
Buzz whistled. “You bet big time! With irony. We journalists love irony. Our government looks the other way while Rojas makes money to buy bombs to use against us.” He banged finger pads over the keys. “What's his motive? I need that for graph one."
Cole's brow furrowed over brackish eyes. “Greed. Power. Control. He was the kind of man you never questioned. When I first met him, I thought it was just ego, a man driven to take risks."
Wiley nodded. “Hell, you admired the guy. We all admire guys that have it all."
“But power's a gruesome taskmaster,” Cole said with a flickering glance her way. “It makes you go your merry way."
The look—her words spouted back—unsettled her. Was he feeling guilt? Filled with blame? He said that's why he was leaving. Or had he just realized how much he liked his other world of control, powerful boats and fame, things he could share now without worry with his living son? The room spun. She discreetly sought a bookcase to steady herself and escape his gaze.
“Great headline,” Buzz declared while copying the disks, handing them one by one to David Huber.
But Laurel puzzled over the tableau before her. “Why would Cole's brother bring this information here and hide it? Why go to these lengths? Why drag us all through this? Why involve Dresden?” Why involve me? she wanted to ask.
“The lady who always questions everything,” Cole commented. “And they're very good questions."
His bold, public assessment sent heat sizzling up the back of her neck.
Wiley harumphed. “Good thing I'm thinkin’ clearly lately, now I'm off the sauce. You folks don't get it. Mike did. He was smart. Do you believe anything coming out of Washington these days?"
Buzz hopped on that bandwagon. “Nope. And if a little town in rural northern Wisconsin breaks the story, that's going to be big news that will echo around the world. They'll believe us. We're honest. We don't like harboring secrets."
Cole's gaze collided with Laurel's again. A draft whisked through her chest. She felt herself desperately trying to shut the windows of her heart to keep the chill out. And that scared her. That shutting down scared her. She was retreating again, like that china doll to her safe shelf. But she had to. Oh the confusion. She'd told him she loved him days ago. He'd never responded to that, yet he complimented her now on something that had always frustrated him. Her questioning him. Always.
When John escorted Cole out of the newspaper office for the trip to the airport, she offered to go along. Begged actually. Right in front of a curious crowd of tourists shoving in to shake Cole's hand. But the sheriff told her they would be riding back with an FBI agent who would be conducting a confidential debriefing of Cole.
When he kissed her good-bye, his lips struck and left with the swiftness of a hawk who needed to escape a trap.
After climbing into the squad car, the man who always spun her life into new directions was gone.
He'd just challenged her yet again to get on with life. To be even stronger again.
But already, she missed the mysterious hum between them.
* * *
Chapter 18
AS THE JULY lushness around Spirit Lake turned to the full bloom of late clover in the meadow, and then gave in to an August dry spell of heat and more tourists, Laurel escaped too much thinking about the past.
With the mansion razed, there were no hoary shadows looking down on her. Though loneliness tugged at her now and then, she focused on embracing her freedom from the past.
It helped that she'd become an unexpected hero overnight. By virtue of being the local person who found the key to bringing down an international terrorist, she received a lot of new attention. It kept her busy giving speeches. And Buzz couldn't quote her enough, right next to the ads about “Lucky Chicken Fryers On Sale.” Not a misspelled word in sight.
“Mom, warn me,” she said in the bait shop one day, “if you hear about anyone wanting to erect a fountain in my name."
Her mother screwed up her face at her daughter. “A fountain? What the bejabbers you talkin’ about?"
Laurel smiled. “Never mind, Mother."
Because this time of year brought a lull in animals injured—fewer rabbits born and weeks before hunting and trapping season—she even found herself with time to start a children's book.
The vision of Cole cradling a tiny brown bunny to his chest lingered, inspiring her to create a character called Radical Rabbit. He was the little guy who left the nest early without his mother's permission to race across the lake on the backs of willing, mischievous ducks, causing all kinds of trouble. Buzz had already put her in contact with an old English teacher friend of his who knew an agent. It looked promising, exciting. Scary.
She liked it.
She was proud of herself.
But it was lonely not having Cole to share it with. Oh, he'd called a few times, and she'd called him, but a phone conversation lacked the detail of a relationship. Where they had shared things, she now did them alone.
She tended to the beautiful churchyard in the country. As autumn crept in, with September painting the trees as pretty as Cole's old box of crayons, she raked leaves about the gravestones, planted yellow fall mums in heavy bloom, and apologized to nobody about not dating on Saturday nights.
Frost was in
the air on the night in late September when she hauled a basket of tulip bulbs with her down the path. Pausing, she glimpsed toward the open space where the mansion had once been. Five deer fed there—two doe with three fawns between them. One of the does stepped over to lick lovingly at her progeny's ears. The fawn's spots were fading, and in their place came the grayish tone that would camouflage them among winter tree trunks and branches.
Laurel smiled, with a warmth listing into her belly at the sight. The freedom to breathe and to be strong had allowed her to appreciate the raw, emotional beauty of nature in a way that had never been possible. Before Cole. Because he'd come back, because they'd dared to try loving again, she had been set free to think in new ways. Yes, she missed him. Always would. But missing him was altogether more sublime than blaming him, being angry, and mired in self-pity. Because he'd left again, she'd been tested to move on. And she had.
She continued on down the path in the best moonlight she could remember in a long time. In addition to the tulip bulbs, she carried a small animal cage with Owlsy, whom she planned to set free at the cliff after tending to the graves.
Owlsy had experienced a relapse the minute Cole had left. Laurel had taken it as a warning not to do the same. And so she'd stayed strong and focused on babying the tiny owl back to health. Focus. She'd faulted Cole for focusing only on one thing at a time, but she had learned its value. Owlsy thrived because of it. The sense of determination Cole had impressed upon her would serve her well forever, no doubt.
She was digging about in the loamy, cool earth next to Jonathon's headstone when something felt odd about the air. It stirred, then fell still. No birds settling down for the night. No branches clacking in the crisp air.
She shivered. Grew alert. “Roxy? Roger?” The raccoons often followed her down the path. But she heard nothing.
She punched her trowel deep into the earth.
A thick voice captured her—"He'll like them."
Lightning showers burst heat in her stomach. She dared not look up. Her heart pounded.
She reached into the basket, her fingers fumbling, mindlessly taking a bulb and pushing it into the wedge of earth next to the trowel.
“Tulip bulbs?” the voice asked, gutteral as a wolf's growl.
The blood in her veins pulsated wildly, the grip on the trowel loosening. “They take much less work than annuals in early spring."
“The geraniums were always pretty and hardy. Sort of like you."
The pines murmured with the lowing of her heart. Maybe she'd only imagined his voice.
She said, “I ... It's good to get out of old habits of the past."
“But I bet they're yellow tulips. Yellow, your favorite color I recall."
She couldn't look up. She was frozen. Looking down at the ground. “I'm going to plant several more perennials come spring. I wouldn't have to come out here so often if I planted more perennials.” Her forehead scalded at the sound of that. “I mean, I'll always come out here—"
A big hand stole in and its long fingers began packing down the dirt for her over the bulb. The gutteral voice said, “No apologies. I understand."
The hand grabbed another bulb from the basket, and the teardrop-shaped bud of life looked particularly delicate against his thick fingers. Her heart tripped.
She looked up. She barely recognized him.
The moonlight glinted off Cole's freshly-shaven jawline. He'd trimmed his dark hair to short and sleek and wore a sweatshirt with a snarling animal sports team logo on it. His scent was brisk, pure man and muscle, like someone who'd cleaned up after chores and was now ready for the evening. His black eyes soaked up the blue moonlight, but his gaze flickered, nervous-like, and he escaped to helping her plant another tulip bulb.
Trembling with heat in her middle, she pushed the trowel in, pulled it back in the earth.
He dropped in the bulb. “Lovely night. Cold though."
She knew he disliked the cold weather. “Want my coat?” It was automatic.
“No thanks. You need it."
“Nice sweatshirt. Lions?"
“Wildcats. Tyler's soccer team."
Why was he back? Had she made a mistake in razing the mansion so quickly? Had they missed an important treasure? Her hands perspired. Could he see? Why had she forgotten garden gloves tonight? “Is something wrong?"
“Wrong?” He patted the earth down expertly with the trowel, then flipped it in his hand, delivering the handle end toward her.
She accepted it in shaky hands. She remembered he was good with tools. He'd fixed her boat in a breath, tore apart a mansion with saws and crowbars despite his injury. But he hadn't fixed her heart completely. She wouldn't feel so breathless and expectant now if he had. When had she finally succombed to wanting to risk adventure with him?
“I mean,” she said, realizing she'd questioned him again, “that I wonder why you've come back without phoning ahead. You know I'm busy."
Glancing at her, he grinned. “I read Buzz's articles. I like his new Website. Pretty good for a small town guy to be putting Dresden on the map like that. All at his own cost."
“He's been helpful to me as well."
“Buzz and you?” The next tulip bulb slithered from his fingers and into the cavity in the ground. “You'll have all the guys jealous if the word gets out."
She had to smile. She even punched lightly at his upper arm. “He's helping me find an agent for my book."
“So you are writing that book. That's great. I'm glad."
He flashed her a toothy smile that caught the moonlight and tickled her tummy. How dare he do this to her. “So why did you come back?"
“Wanted to say thanks properly, for one thing."
A fissure of heat wended up her spine. “Thanks?"
Grabbing the trowel from her, he dug several new holes in an arc next to the gravestone. “You could have chosen never to tell me about our son. But you did, you explained it all. And I'm richer knowing about Jonathon and for knowing what you went through. It broke an old pattern inside me, maybe my damn ego, and released something else, maybe my compassion. I never had much of it or much time for it before coming back to you. So, that's why I have to thank you for telling me about him, and letting me inside your heart. That took all your courage. But I think you saved my life by it. Just wanted you to know."
If there was a fence still between them, a thread as thin as gossamer lace from a spider's web just wafted over the fence and between them, niggling for them each to take an end of the thread. But dare she believe it? Could they overcome the elemental conflict between them—the regrets, the blame, the guilt even?
In the dark of night, she watched him, waiting.
Scooping several bulbs out of the basket, he dropped them in the holes, then with his palms smoothed the soil gently over the several spots that now cradled tulips. The bulbs would rest and nurture themselves for new life in spring.
But the way he patted the soil firmly held a finality that unnerved her.
She couldn't take it anymore and stayed his hand. Electricity skipped up her arm under the flannel shirt and jacket. “Why are you here?"
They were crouched on their knees, face to face. The bare tree limbs of the woodlands rattled behind them.
With his broad shoulders pinned against the sky by the stars, he said, “I discovered a loose end I had to take care of. Some business."
“Ah.” Her heartbeat dulled. “What kind of business?"
His eyes darkened to match the night's shadows. “Depends."
Frowning with impatience, she began wiping off the trowel and packing the basket next to the owl's cage. “Wiley didn't find out anything else about the deed if that's troubling you? I still can't believe he was the ‘W’ file in David's office. Wiley, of all people, researching that mansion and your great-aunt."
“But his search did take him to a ledger kept at a local church. He found a notation about a donation Flora Tilden made. It seems my great-aunt had a sense of humor. She dona
ted those sequined gowns she used to entertain her male friends to nuns living in St. Paul. It seems she only wanted to entertain a certain Naval officer."
“Wiley and your great-aunt? An item? Lovers?” Her stomach flip-flopped toward a laugh.
Getting up, Cole reached for the basket. “Let's just say Wiley thinks about those ballgowns and he smiles about getting under skirts. Lots of treasure under skirts."
Her heart racheted into a faster beat.
When he reached out a hand to help her up, she took it, a bittersweet twinge encircling her heart. “What might you remember here? What will make you smile like Wiley?"
“I've been thinking about how much I'll miss helping you with those baby rabbits."
“You could come back next summer."
“Or look you up at a book signing for your first Radical Rabbit book? Buzz tells me they might rush the first printing for next spring."
Pleasure ebbed through her at the notion he'd been asking around about her. “You'll have to stand in line behind all the kids in school. They pester me to death about when my first book will be out."
“They show good taste.” He let go of her hand and moved stiffly around the headstone, putting it between them. Like that fence.
“Something is wrong.” She knew the furrow in that brow.
“We never finished our conversation."
“Which one?"
“About fragile china dolls on shelves."
A chill galloped along her bones. Rubbing her hands up and down the arms of her jacket, she said, “I'm sorry about that conversation. It was unfair to try pity on you again. And that's what it was. I apologize. Old habits is all. No more."
“That's not my point.” He shook his head, and began meandering toward the church, carrying the basket. “I had to come back and talk about fragile things, and fences."
“Fences?"
“Keeping fences up around me hurt my son. And I have to do everything in my power to make it up to him."
Flashing surprise at him, she couldn't hold up against the lightning bolts in his eyes. Did he expect her to congratulate him on making a decision he should have made the minute his son was born?
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