Derry frowned. “You must have been at it all night.”
She made a neutral sound.
“Angie?”
She sighed and put the wooden scraper aside, knowing she couldn’t evade the issue of why she was home rather than out guiding Hawk.
“Yes, I worked all night.”
“You haven’t done that for a long time.”
“Yes.”
“Angie,” Derry said softly, “what’s wrong? Is it because last night was the night of the wreck? Four years . . . ”
Angel hesitated. It would be easier to let Derry believe that she was mourning the past.
Easier, but hardly the whole truth.
“That’s part of it,” Angel said, looking up and meeting Derry’s eyes for the first time. “But most of it is that your Mr. Hawkins and I don’t get along worth a damn.”
Blue eyes widened in surprise.
“What happened?” Then Derry’s eyes narrowed. “He didn’t make a pass at you, did he?”
Derry’s voice was suddenly hard, much older.
Angel’s mouth turned down at one corner, a sardonic echo of the man called Hawk.
“A pass?” she echoed. “Nothing that personal. There isn’t a personal bone in Hawk’s body.”
Angel’s voice carried conviction, for she didn’t feel that she was lying. A pass implied unwanted attentions. Hawk’s touch hadn’t been unwanted, not at first. Nor had there been anything personal between them, not in the deepest sense of the word.
They didn’t know each other well enough to be personal. They had proved it when they had so badly misjudged one another.
Derry relaxed slowly. “Then what happened?”
“We don’t speak the same language,” Angel said succinctly.
Puzzled, Derry waited.
Angel said no more.
“What do you mean?” Derry persisted.
“Does the word misogynist ring any bells?” asked Angel, fiddling absently with the wooden scraper.
“It’s too early in the morning for dictionary games,” retorted Derry.
“Mr. Miles Hawkins is a misogynist. He distrusts and hates women. I am a woman. Therefore, he distrusts and hates me. That,” Angel said quietly, looking up at Derry with dark green eyes, “makes it very uncomfortable for me to be around him. He feels just as unhappy to be around me.”
There was shocked silence for a moment while Derry tried to imagine anyone hating and distrusting the pale, tired woman who stood before him, her eyes haunted by too many sad memories.
“I can’t believe that,” Derry said.
“I can.”
Angel set aside the scraper with a weary gesture.
“Call Carlson on the radio phone,” she said. “When we ran into him at Brown’s Bay, he offered to take Hawk fishing.”
“He did? They must have gotten along great.”
“Why shouldn’t they? Carlson’s all man.”
Angel heard the bitterness in her own voice and fought a short, silent struggle for control of her emotions. She felt tears burning at the back of her eyes, tears filling her throat.
“If not Carlson, some other man,” she said tightly, turning away from Derry.
Then Angel stopped turning so suddenly that her hair lifted, floated, and settled across her face in soft veils. Hawk was standing in the doorway between her studio and her bedroom. She hadn’t heard him come in. He had made no more noise than a raptor soaring on transparent currents of wind.
Hawk’s thick black eyebrows hooded his eyes, concealing them, making his face a pattern of black lines and harsh brown planes unrelieved by any light. He looked hard, tight, tired.
The intensity of Hawk’s look didn’t vary, even when Derry cursed at the realization that his conversation with Angel had been overheard.
“I don’t dislike being around you, Angel,” Hawk said, his voice deep, matter-of-fact.
“Then you must enjoy hating more than I enjoy being hated.”
Derry’s breath came in swiftly.
“Excuse me,” Angel murmured, brushing by Hawk without looking at him again. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
Quietly she shut the connecting door behind Hawk, forcing him into the studio and out of her bedroom. The sound of the door closing seemed unnaturally loud.
Angel leaned against the wall for the space of a long, shaky breath. Tears spilled again but she didn’t care. She had no strength left for caring. She kicked off her moccasins and stretched out face down on the bed.
She was asleep before she took another breath.
When Angel awakened it was afternoon. Clear yellow light filled the room, turning random motes of dust into tiny flashes of gold. She stretched, wincing as her right shoulder blade moved, disturbing the small wounds left by the hook.
The lance of pain reminded Angel of all that had happened. Her lips flattened as the memories returned, slicing her like freshly cut glass. For a moment she lay very still, not fighting her thoughts, letting them lacerate her. She knew from experience that she was most vulnerable when she had just awakened, whether it was in the middle of the night or the afternoon.
When Angel was neither asleep nor yet awake, her emotions ruled her. Fighting them only made it worse.
Mercifully the moment passed, leaving Angel hurting but fully awake and capable of controlling her thoughts again. She pushed aside the summer-weight quilt that was covering her. Her hand paused as she realized that the cover hadn’t been on the bed when she fell asleep. It wasn’t even her quilt. It was from one of the guest rooms.
The thought of Derry struggling up the hallway on his crutches, dragging a quilt to cover her with, made Angel’s mouth soften. Derry had been so careful of her, so gentle with her since the accident. No matter what she said or did, he still supported her.
Derry’s thoughtfulness brought a small center of peace to Angel’s emotions, a stillness that spread outward, giving her strength. A long shower increased her feeling of tranquillity.
She dressed in a soft rose caftan that floated in swirls around her ankles. Tiny silver bells were sewn into the bodice of the dress. Matching pure silver bells were fastened in a gleaming double chain to her right ankle and left wrist, bells shivering sweetly with each movement of her body. Matching earrings murmured and chimed sweetly beneath her hair.
Angel had bought the dress and jewelry two years ago, when the silence of her Seattle home had threatened to overwhelm her. As she brushed her hair, the bells shivered musically, a soothing counterpoint to the whisper of hair shimmering around her face in a silky, sun-streaked mass.
For a moment Angel hesitated, watching herself in the mirror. She was tempted to put on makeup to hide the pallor of her skin, the lavender shadows beneath her eyes, the near-transparency of her lips. Then she shrugged and turned away from the mirror. It didn’t matter. Derry knew her too well to be fooled by makeup.
As for Hawk . . . Hawk was what he was, a man who hated women.
And Angel was what she was, a woman who had loved the wrong man.
One minute at a time. Just one.
Quietly Angel went down the hall, her bare feet making no noise, silver bells singing so softly that only she could hear them. From the guest wing came the deep tones of Hawk, on the phone as usual. Automatically Angel glanced at the clock.
Three. We’ll miss the tide if he didn’t hurry.
Nothing new there. We’ve missed many tides. Every tide. Everything.
Derry was out on the patio, studying a book that was more formulas than words, a book as thick as the cast on his leg. A gentle wind had tousled his blond curls, making him look about seventeen. Frowning, he underlined a section of the book with a bright yellow marker.
Angel moved around the kitchen discreetly, not wanting to disturb Derry. She scrambled eggs and made toast, then poured herself a cup of the lethal-looking coffee that was Derry’s constant companion while he studied. She ate standing at the counter, eating more because of habit than appetite, habit and the knowledge that she would need the strength that food gave her.
This time Hawk’s silent arrival did not take Angel wholly unaware. Though her back was turned to the door, she sensed his presence as clearly as if he had spoken to her. She ate the last bite of egg, turned, and rinsed the plate under the faucet.
Because she wanted very much to avoid Hawk, she turned and faced him. The past had taught her that the more she avoided something, the more she came to fear it. Only when she faced a problem could she begin to accept it, live with it.
“When is Carlson meeting you?” Angel asked, her voice calm and her eyes direct, empty.
“He isn’t.”
Hawk’s fierce, clear eyes searched Angel’s expression. He hadn’t expected this calm stranger looking at him out of Angel’s bleak, blue-green eyes.
“By the time Derry was patched through to the
Black Moon,
Carlson was halfway to Alaska,” Hawk said. “There’s a run on, apparently.”
Angel’s long eyelashes swept down, emphasizing the darkness beneath her eyes.
“That’s too bad,” she said. “You would have enjoyed Carlson. Who did Derry get to guide you?”
“No one.”
Angel lifted her head so suddenly that her silver earrings swayed and chimed, hidden beneath the luxurious fall of her hair.
Hawk’s eyes dilated at the unexpected sound. He leaned toward her. Instantly she stepped back, another sudden motion that set other bells to quivering. His dark eyes searched over her, finding and counting each tiny bell, each bit of silver shivering and sighing with every breath she took.
The sound of Derry’s crutches thumping on the wood deck was almost shocking. Gratefully Angel turned toward the unmusical noise, freed from the dark intensity of Hawk’s eyes.
“You look a lot better,” said Derry. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
The answer sounded too abrupt, too cool to be a decent response to Derry’s concern.
“Thanks for bringing in the quilt,” Angel added quickly.
“Quilt?” said Derry.
Angel looked at Hawk, but he said nothing, did nothing, simply watched her with the intensity of a hungry bird of prey.
“Nothing,” said Angel.
The tiny pool of peace inside her fragmented into sharp confusion.
Apparently Hawk has some human feeling after all. Guilt, perhaps.
God knows he earned it.
“How goes the studying?” Angel asked, pushing aside her memories.
Derry grimaced. “It goes slowly.”
He hesitated. His eyes searched hers, concern and affection apparent in his expression.
“Angie?” he asked tentatively.
Angel braced herself, knowing what was coming.
“Yes?” she whispered.
“Carlson can’t guide Hawk.”
“I know.”
“The other guides have their hands full for at least a week, and even then . . . ”
Angel waited.
Derry said nothing.
And then she knew that he wouldn’t ask her despite the need and hope burning behind his eyes.
She didn’t have to condemn herself to four weeks of Hawk’s contempt. All she had to do was live a lifetime knowing that she hadn’t been strong enough to help Derry gain a foothold on his dream. Derry, who had given her life itself and asked for nothing in return.
Not one thing.
Four weeks of Hawk’s contempt against a lifetime of self-contempt if she refused.
“It’s all right, Derry,” Angel said calmly. “I’ll take care of it.”
Derry couldn’t conceal the relief that made him sag slightly against the crutches. Nor could he hide the concern that came when he saw the pallor of Angel’s face. He swung his powerful body across the room until he was close enough to touch her. He put his hand on her forehead.
“You sure, Angie?” he asked. “You look pale and there’s some kind of flu going around . . . ”
Again Derry didn’t finish. He wouldn’t ask Angel to do something that benefited only him.
For a moment Angel closed her eyes and let her forehead rest on Derry’s large palm, drawing strength from him. When she straightened, her eyes were blue-green and calm.
“I’m sure,” she said simply.
Hawk sensed the currents of concern and affection flowing between Angel and Derry, and was both intrigued and irritated. He wondered what hold the charming Derry had on Angel that could compel her to shut herself up on a boat for four weeks with a man she hated.
Abruptly Hawk decided that he was going to have some answers from Angel. He hadn’t misjudged a woman so badly since he was eighteen. He wanted—
needed
—to know what had gone wrong, how he had been misled. He was no longer enraged, simply very certain that he must have Angel’s truths.
If Derry was the only way to flush Angel out of hiding, then Derry was what Hawk would use.
“You haven’t asked if it’s all right with me,” Hawk pointed out, his voice cool.
Startled, Derry looked away from Angel. “But you said you wouldn’t mind.”
“Angel and I are going to have a talk. At the end of it, either one of us may change our minds.”