The simple life in the painting depicted one he wasn’t leading and Aoife wasn’t leading. Even on his laptop screen, Finian could feel the longing in the painting for something that was out of reach.
That was the effect of Aoife’s work, its union with the viewer.
As he took in the colors and light of the south Irish coast, he could see Sally turning to him from the line at their cottage in the Kerry hills, with their girls’ clothes drying in the summer breeze.
The memory faded, and as he looked at the image, he could hear the sounds of the sea and sheep, as if they were calling to him with the promise of home.
He shut off his laptop. Finian glanced at his breviary on the table next to him. Tonight he would give thanks for the safety of his friends, and he would start again tomorrow, a priest in a small Maine village far from home.
He was where he meant to be and so was Aoife.
* * *
Emma and Colin drove to London on Sunday, conducted their meetings on Monday and were on a flight to Boston later that day. They arrived at the HIT offices in time to meet with Matt Yankowski and Sam Padgett first thing and review the past few days.
“Oliver’s growing on me,” Colin said. “Still wouldn’t call him a friend.”
He noticed Emma smile, even if Yank and Sam didn’t.
Back to work, Colin thought.
By Friday, he and Emma were in Maine. They entered Hurley’s on a beautiful June evening. Colin wasn’t surprised to find Finian Bracken at his favorite table in back, in front of the windows overlooking the harbor.
Finian rose, kissed Emma on the cheek and shook hands with Colin. “More Donovans will be joining us,” Finian said. “I’ve a new Bracken expression for us to try.”
“Excellent,” Emma said, taking a seat.
Colin sat between her and Finian. “Hell of a week, Fin. You and Sam Padgett at loggerheads. My mother getting interviewed by the FBI. Worked out. I think she’s got a crush on Sam. Pop does, too. Gets a kick out of it. She admit anything in confession?”
“Your parents are never bored,” Finian said, neutral.
“Has Mike tried to get you to find out which one of us stole his baseball glove when we were kids? What if I told you it was me?”
“This isn’t a confessional, Colin.”
“Can’t wipe the slate clean?”
“I’m not sensing contrition, regardless.”
“I never said it was me.”
Colin grinned as Finian opened the Bracken Distillers pot-still and splashed some into three glasses. The mystery of the stolen baseball glove would keep for now.
Finian handed Emma and Colin each a glass and then raised his glass to them. “Sláinte.”
They raised their glasses. “Sláinte,” they said in unison.
In another moment, Mike, Andy and Kevin Donovan joined the gathering. Colin slid closer to Emma to make room. He slung his arm over her shoulders, everything right in his world.
* * *
It was late when Emma followed Colin into the small home they now shared above the harbor. They had a quiet weekend planned. Then it was back to Boston on Sunday and to work again on Monday. Matt Yankowski had called a full HIT meeting for ten o’clock.
“We complicate Yank’s life but we get things done,” Colin said. “He’d be the first to say so, but if it stops working—we have a good life, Emma.”
“Yes, we do.”
“A six-pack in the fridge and an apple pie in the freezer.”
“Oliver’s sheepskins on the floor.”
Colin grinned. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“That reminds me. I promised to let him know when we were back in Maine.”
“It’s late in England.”
“Who says he’s in England?”
She grabbed her phone and texted him. Colin and I are home.
His response came within seconds. Excellent. Henrietta and I have garden tips.
Meaning info the FBI could use. Or not. They could, in fact, have gardening tips. Emma typed a quick response. We welcome any and all garden tips.
She hit Send and set her phone on the counter.
Colin didn’t ask about the texts. “Even jet-lagged,” he said, “I bet I can carry you upstairs.”
“I’ve no doubts whatsoever.”
He swept her into his arms in a single, smooth movement. Emma laughed, and he had her up the stairs in no time. He laid her in their bed, and his mouth found hers as he settled on top of her.
“Let the honeymoon continue,” she whispered, a familiar warmth spreading through her.
“I love you, Emma.”
She hooked her fingers into his. “The two of us, Colin. Always and forever.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from COLD RIDGE by Carla Neggers.
Author Note
Sometimes writing and life mix in unexpected ways, and that was the case with Thief’s Mark. We welcomed a baby girl, saw my mother through life-threatening surgery and said goodbye to a beloved uncle, and through it all, I got to dive into Emma and Colin’s world, with a cheeky art thief, a spy with a penchant for gardening, an Irish priest tested by a murderer’s secrets and an octogenarian art detective who doesn’t mind breaking a few rules. I hope Thief’s Mark has been a pleasant diversion for you as much as it was for me.
I’m immensely grateful to my editor, Nicole Brebner, for her patience—let’s just say with all that was going on, this book didn’t come in early—and her “fresh eyes” on the story, and to my agent, Jodi Reamer, for being absolutely the best. A huge thank-you to the entire team at MIRA Books for their creativity and unwavering dedication to readers everywhere.
For help with canon law, whiskey and all things Irish, many thanks, once again, to my good friend John Moriarty. Not only does he answer or find the answers to all my questions, one evening over whiskey he produced a breviary that I was able to flip through, a first for me. Joe and I both are forever grateful that he encouraged us to visit Ardmore and Saint Declan’s monastic ruins. Incredible—and that’s where I had my first strawberry meringue; you can find the recipe on my website!
Joe and I visited Scotland for fun and research. Of course we want to go back, but I’m grateful for the amazing amount of literature I gobbled up there and online on iconic sights and Scottish history. I learned so much just chatting with a woman at the Soldier’s Leap visitor center.
While I’ve always been a gardener (one of my earliest memories is pulling weeds with my Dutch-born father), English cottage gardens are very special. We saw many gorgeous ones while wandering the Cotswolds. Many thanks to my cousin Christine, whose lovely garden in the Netherlands was inspired by her five years living in England and in turn helped me create Aunt Posey’s garden.
Most of all, I want to thank my 82-year-old mother, M. Florine Harrell Neggers, whose strength and grace through a difficult season in her life humbles and amazes me. I love you, Mom.
Now it’s on to the next Sharpe & Donovan adventure. Thank you, and please feel free to get in touch with me anytime. I love to hear from readers.
Take care, and happy reading!
Carla.
CarlaNeggers.com.
“Neggers captures readers’ attention with her usual flair and brilliance and gives us a romance, a mystery and a lesson in history.”
—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on Secrets of the Lost Summer
Looking for incredible stories packed with thrilling, edge-of-your-seat romantic suspense?
Then you won’t want to miss any of the fast-paced twists and turns in the Sharpe & Donovan series from New York Times bestselling author and acclaimed master of romantic suspense Carla Neggers:
Rock Point (novella)
Saint’s Gate
Heron’s Cove
Declan’s Cross
Harbor Island
Keeper’s Reach
Liar’s Key
Thief’s Mark
“A breathtaking visual journey that ingeniously weaves an anticipatory, multi-leveled, fast-paced mystery.”
—RT Book Reviews on Keeper’s Reach
Looking for more from New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers?
Be sure to read the complete Swift River Valley series:
Secrets of the Lost Summer
That Night on Thistle Lane
Cider Brook
Echo Lake
A Knights Bridge Christmas
The Spring at Moss Hill
Red Clover Inn
“No one does romantic suspense better!”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Janet Evanovich
Complete your collection today!
* * *
Did you know that Harlequin My Rewards members earn FREE books and more?
Join
www.HarlequinMyRewards.com
today to start earning your FREE books!
* * *
Connect with us on www.Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
Cold Ridge
by Carla Neggers
Prologue
Carine Winter loaded her day pack with hiking essentials and her new digital camera and headed into the woods, a rolling tract of land northeast of town that had once been dairy farms. She didn’t go up the ridge. It was a bright, clear November day in the valley with little wind and highs in the fifties, but on Cold Ridge, the temperature had dipped below freezing, wind gusts were up to fifty miles an hour and its exposed, knife-edged granite backbone was already covered in snow and ice.
Her parents had hiked Cold Ridge in November and died up there when she was three. Thirty years ago that week, but Carine still remembered.
Gus, her uncle, had been a member of the search party that found his older brother and sister-in-law. He was just twenty himself, not a year home from Vietnam, but he’d taken on the responsibility of raising Carine and her older brother and sister. Antonia was just five at the time, Nate seven.
Yes, Carine thought as she climbed over a stone wall, she remembered so much of those terrible days, although she had been too young to really understand what had happened. Gus had taken her and her brother and sister up the ridge the spring after the tragedy. Cold Ridge loomed over their northern New Hampshire valley and their small hometown of the same name. Gus said they couldn’t be afraid of it. His brother had been a firefighter, his sister-in-law a biology teacher, both avid hikers. They weren’t reckless or inexperienced. People in the valley still talked about their deaths. Never mind that weather reports were now more accurate, hiking clothes and equipment more high-tech—if Cold Ridge could kill Harry and Jill Winter, it could kill anyone.
Carine waited until she was deep into the woods before she took out her digital camera. She wasn’t yet sure she liked it. But she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on any serious photography today. Her mind kept drifting back to fleeting memories, half-formed images of her parents, anything she could grasp.
Gus, who’d become one of the most respected outfitters and guides in the White Mountains, would object to her hiking alone. It was the one risk she allowed herself to take, the one safety rule she allowed herself to break.
She’d climbed all forty-eight peaks in the White Mountains over four thousand feet. Seven were over five thousand feet: Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Monroe, Madison, Lafayette and Lincoln. At 6288 feet, Mt. Washington was the highest, and the most famous, notorious for its extreme conditions, some of the worst in the world. At any time of the year, hikers could find themselves facing hurricane-force winds on its bald granite summit—Carine had herself. Because of the conditions the treeline was lower in the White Mountains than out west, generally at around 4500 feet.
It was said the Abenakis considered the tall peaks sacred and never climbed them. Carine didn’t know if that was true, but she could believe it.
Most of the main Cold Ridge trail was above four thousand feet, exposing hikers to above-treeline conditions for a longer period than if they just went up and down a single peak.
But today, Carine was content with her mixed hardwood forest of former farmland. Gus had warned her to stay away from Bobby Poulet, a survivalist who had a homestead on a few acres on the northeast edge of the woods. He was a legendary crank who’d threatened to shoot anyone who stepped foot on his property.
She took pictures of rocks and burgundy-colored oak leaves, water trickling over rocks in a narrow stream, a hemlock, a fallen, rotting elm and an abandoned hunting shack with a crooked metal chimney. The land was owned by a lumber company that, fortunately, had a laissez-faire attitude toward hikers.
She almost missed the owl.
It was a huge barred owl, as still as a stone sculpture, its neutral coloring blending in with the mostly gray November landscape as it perched on a branch high in a naked beech tree.
Before Carine could raise her camera, the owl swooped off its branch and flapped up over the low ridge above her, out of sight.
She sighed. She’d won awards for her photography of raptors—she’d have loved to have had a good shot of the owl. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure her digital camera was up to the task.
A loud boom shattered the silence of the isolated ravine.
Carine dropped flat to the ground, facedown, before she could absorb what the sound was.
A gunshot.
Her camera had flown out of her hand and landed in the dried leaves two feet above her outstretched arm. Her day pack ground into her back. And her heart was pounding, her throat tight.
Damn, she thought. How close was that?
It had to be hunters. Not responsible hunters. Insane hunters—yahoos who didn’t know what they were doing. Shooting that close to her. What were they thinking? Didn’t they see her? She’d slipped a bright-orange vest over her fleece jacket. She knew it was deer-hunting season, but this was the first time a hunter had fired anywhere near her.
“Hey!” She lifted her head to yell but otherwise remained prone on the damp ground, in the decaying fallen leaves. “Knock it off! There’s someone up here!”
As if in answer, three quick, earsplitting shots cracked over her head, whirring, almost whistling. One hit the oak tree a few yards to her right.
Were these guys total idiots?
She should have hiked in the White Mountain National Forest or one of the state parks where hunting was prohibited.
Just two yards to her left was a six-foot freestanding boulder. If these guys weren’t going to stop shooting, she needed to take cover. Staying low, she picked up her camera then scrambled behind the boulder, ducking down, her back against the jagged granite. The ground was wetter here, and her knees and seat were already damp. Cold, wet conditions killed. More hikers in the White Mountains died of hypothermia than any other cause. It was what had killed her parents thirty years ago. They were caught in unexpected freezing rain and poor visibility. They fell. Injured, unable to move, unable to stay warm—they didn’t stand a chance.
Carine reminded herself she had a change of clothes in her pack. Food. Water. A first-aid kit. A jackknife, flashlight, map, compass, waterproof matches. Her clothes were made of a water-wicking material that would help insulate her even when wet.
Her boulder would protect her from gunshots.
The woods settled into silence. Maybe the shooters had realized their mistake.
For all she knew, they—or he, since there might only be one—were on their way up her side of the ravine to apologize and make sure she was all right. More likely, they were clearing out and hoping she hadn’t seen them.
Three more shots in rapid succession ricocheted off her boulder, ripping off chunks and shards of granite. Carine screamed, startled, frustrated, angry. And scared now.
A rock shard from her boulder struck her in the forehead, and her mouth snapped shut.
Good God, were they aiming at her?
Were they trying to kill her?
She curled up in a ball, knees tucked, arms wrapped around her ankles. Blood dripped from her forehead onto her wrist. She felt no pain from her injury, but her heart raced and her ears hurt from the blasts. She couldn’t think.
Once again, silence followed the rapid burst of shots.
Were they reloading? Coming after her? What?
She tried to control her breathing, hoping the shooters wouldn’t hear her. But what was the point? They had to know now, after she’d screamed, that she was behind the boulder.
They’d known it before they’d shot at it.
She couldn’t stay where she was.
The low ridge crested fifteen feet above her. If she could get up the hill, she could slip down the other side and hide among the trees and boulders, make her way back to her car, call the police.
If the shooters tried to follow her, she’d at least see them up on the ridge.
See them and do what?
She pushed back the thought. She’d figure that out later. Should she stand up and run? Crouch? Or should she crawl? Scoot up the hill on her stomach? No scooting. She’d be like a giant fluorescent worm in her orange vest. Take it off? No—no time.
She’d take her day pack. It might stop or impede a bullet.
Or should she stay put? Hope they hadn’t seen her after all?
Every fiber in her body—every survival instinct she had—told her that she’d be killed if she stayed where she was.
Thief's Mark Page 28
