Bright red hair winked in the sunlight as she stepped clear of the shadows of the forest.
Jock sat there, still and silent, watching as she made her way around the edge of the water, closer and closer toward him.
He’d heard of God answering prayers, but really? What were the chances this was
her
? He shook his head. The woman enjoying her walk had red hair, but that didn’t mean it was the woman from the charity function about to marry some asshole who wasn’t worthy of her.
He leaned back, content to just watch her.
She wore jeans, the wide bottoms trimmed in something, he couldn’t tell what. Jeans made her seem younger, probably too young for him. Most of the women he knew and had dated did not wear jeans. Pity, he rather liked a woman’s ass in jeans.
That red hair though. God, it was something.
As she got closer, he could see her better. He could see she was curvy, in all the right places. Sort of reminded him of Marilyn Monroe. He’d met Monroe a few times at different charity functions. Was even at the party when she sang to Kennedy.
Great, fascinating woman.
And this one coming toward him?
Well, time would tell, wouldn’t it?
She kept stopping though, wrapping her sweater tighter around her, as though she were cold. Of course she might be. The breeze bit through the already changing leaves, promising the coming of winter. That light scent of decaying leaves, mud, and the ever-watery scent of the lake all mixed together on the wind.
Finally, she was close enough he could see her face.
My God, she’s beautiful
. Just as beautiful as before.
Months ago.
In Baltimore.
It was her. It couldn’t be her. Was it her?
He watched as she picked up a stone and skipped it as far as his own had danced earlier.
She sighed and shook her head, muttering something.
He should probably let her know he was here. It was rude to basically hide from someone who didn’t realize they were being watched.
But his hidden position to her left allowed him to study her in profile. She was even beautiful when she frowned.
“My day just got better,” he said, getting to his feet.
She gasped and whirled, her hand flying to her throat as she backed up.
He held up his hand. “Sorry, didn’t meant to frighten you,” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Though someone clearly had. A bruise darkened her cheekbone. Pale, slightly freckled skin, so light he could see the veins in her neck, was dark and marred perfection.
He took a deep breath. The doctor was definitely a bastard. “Again, sorry. I’m—”
“Kinncaid.” She licked her lips and took a deep breath. “I-I remember.”
He smiled. “It’s actually Jock Kinncaid. I’ve got a cabin up the way a bit.”
Still she just looked at him, then back at the way she’d come.
He didn’t like bruises on women period and liked seeing them on her even less. He jerked his chin up. “Who put the bruise on you?” he asked her softly.
Big, round green eyes stared at him. He watched the long column of her neck as she swallowed, then her mouth as she licked her lips again.
She didn’t say anything and the silence stretched.
“Okay, we don’t have to talk. We can just skip rocks,” he told her, leaning down and picking one up, feeling the smooth surface. He flicked his wrist and watched it skip one, two, three, four times. “Beat that.”
One corner of her mouth tilted up. She took a deep breath and shrugged, glanced around. She tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned over and chose her own rock.
Then she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “I can do better.”
He smiled, then laughed as she let her own stone go and they watched it skip . . . four, five, six times.
“So you can.”
She shrugged, and beneath the large cream sweater he saw her shirt was green, much lighter than her eyes. The ribbon holding her hair back was also green, her red hair long and straight and looking silky soft. He wondered if it really was.
He chose another stone and then let it skip again. They settled into a silent bout of rock skipping, broken only by her soft laughter. He watched her relax bit by bit as they finally sat on the large boulders beside the lake and went from skipping rocks to tossing them into the edge of the lake.
“I wish it wasn’t so cold. I’d love to go swimming.”
He simply watched her, leaning back on his elbows. “You like swimming? Are you as good at swimming as you are at skipping rocks?”
“Much, much better,” she said, smiling at him. He wanted to see her smile, loved the way her dimple pitted her cheek, the way her eyes lit up when she let herself relax.
Jock remained relaxed and finally said, “Pray tell, fair Katherine, what are you doing here?”
“It’s Kaitlyn,” she said, climbing off the boulder to toss another rock in. “Not Katherine.”
Kaitlyn . . . Better than Katherine, but she was Kaitie in his mind. Had been from the moment he’d heard the doc call her Katherine.
“Apologies, I thought it was Katherine.”
She shook her head. “Nope. That’s what he wanted it to be. Kaitlyn sounded too . . . something for him.”
He opened his mouth to ask if the doc was the one who left the bruises on her, but he didn’t want to press her. “Kaitlyn’s a beautiful name, for a lovely nymph. Though you look more like a Kaitie.”
She arched a brow. “Nymph? I’d never have taken you for a poet, Kinncaid.”
He reached over and picked up the book he’d had earlier and wiggled it. “I’m more than I seem.”
“Yeats?” she asked. “Really? ‘There are no strangers, only friends you have not yet met.’” She reached for the slim volume but then stilled her outstretched hand.
Jock saw the bruise on her wrist as well. He bit down and took a deep breath. “Yes, I like him, and Keats. Don’t get a lot of time to read though.”
He handed her the book when she started to withdraw her hand. He wanted to reach for her but didn’t want to scare her. She seemed on the verge of something and he liked her relaxed and smiling.
“Why’s that, then?” she asked.
He caught the slight lilt in her words again. Ireland? Scotland? He wasn’t sure, and it was so light he might not have caught it at all.
“I’m a busy man.”
“Hmmm.” She flipped through his worn book and ran her finger down one poem, then another. “My father liked Yeats, Keats, Joyce, Poe, any poet.”
“Wise man.”
She smiled and nodded. “He was, yes.”
“Was?”
“My parents died in an auto accident years ago.” She smiled a bit, then shut the book.
“I’m sorry. Mine did too, along with my younger twin siblings. My sisters.”
“You never stop missing them, do you? Even when we’re busy building our lives.”
He reached out and touched her arm, mindful to keep his touch light. “No, we never stop missing them.”
She looked at his hand on her arm, and he felt her muscles tense beneath his fingers. Watching her, he patted the boulder beside him. “Want to sit?”
She took a deep breath and shrugged, then sat beside him, setting his book between them.
Always easy with women, always knowing how to charm or talk to them, Jock found himself wondering how to keep her at ease with him.
“So, Kaitie, what do you do?”
“I told you my name is Kaitlyn. What is it with men and wanting to change my name?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “I have a habit of nicknames.”
“Odd habit, that one.”
He grinned. “We all have them. Makes life interesting. What’s a habit you have?”
She looked out over the water. “I don’t know anymore.”
“Why?”
She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “Well, I used to love to study every night.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s not how you play this game.”
“What do you mean?”
“A habit. I have a habit of coming up with nicknames for people. What’s a habit you have?”
“Well, there is this one . . .”
“And?”
“I do it every single day.”
“Really.” He leaned closer so their shoulders touched. “Tell me more.”
She grinned at him. “Are you sure you want to know?”
He really liked her grin; that single dimple called to him.
“Yes.”
“All right, but I warned you then.”
“Tell me.”
“I get dressed.”
He sat there. “And?”
“I also get undressed,” she said, her voice lowering. “Every. Single. Day. By definition, that’s a habit.”
He narrowed his eyes at her and smiled. “You can be sassy too.”
She took a deep breath. “Used to be a lot sassier. Used to be a lot of things.”
They lapsed into silence, tossing pebbles into the water. The wind picked up, making the air chillier.
“You hungry?” he asked her.
Her eyes widened. “Um, not really.”
“You already had lunch?”
She shrugged. “I haven’t really been hungry lately.”
He shook his head, hopped off the rock and held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go into town. I’ll give you a ride in my car.”
“My grandmother always said I shouldn’t get into cars with men I don’t know.”
“You know me, I’m Jock Kinncaid.”
She took his hand and he helped her down, but he didn’t let her go. If she pulled away from him, he would, but she didn’t. He held her hand as they walked up the shore. Boats out on the lake motored by their bay a few times, but for the most part it seemed like they were the only people around.
He was okay with that. He wanted more time with her.
The damp ground muffled their footsteps back to his cabin. As they broke through the trees, she stopped.
“This is where you’re staying? I thought you said you had a cabin.”
He looked at the small house. It was a house. “It’s in the woods, on a lake. It’s a cabin.”
“No, my one-room place is a cabin. Wood, sagging porch. Cabin. That’s”—she waved toward the house—“a house most families would dream to have.”
He smiled down at her and shrugged. “I like it.”
She nodded. “Why wouldn’t you like it.”
He walked her to his car and dug his keys out. “Where do you want to eat?”
“I’ve no preference.”
“A woman that easy to please?”
“I’m not that complicated,” she said as he opened her door and held it for her. He shut it and then hurried around and climbed in.
As he started the car, he said, “All women are complicated. It’s part of the fun.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not. I’m rather simple if truth be known.”
As they pulled down the drive, he shifted and looked at her. “There’s very little simple about you, Kaitie.”
She sighed.
He grinned. “Kaitlyn.”
“You’re learning.”
• • •
He waited until they were seated and had ordered at the local restaurant. “So,” he asked her as they looked out over the lake, “what’s the story?”
“Story?”
He motioned to her. “The doctor. Notice you’re not wearing the ring.”
She looked down and rubbed her finger. “It’s back at the cabin. He wouldn’t accept it back.”
“He wouldn’t?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I learned very quickly not to ask him to take it back.” This time she carefully rubbed a bruise left from a finger on her wrist.
Jock reached out and took her hand in his, softly touching the dark mark. “He put this mark on you?” She didn’t answer. He looked from the mark to her eyes, but they were downcast.
“Kaitie?”
Her green eyes jerked to his. They weren’t smiling, weren’t just shadowed but hurt.
“He doesn’t like it when I don’t do what I’m told,” she whispered. “I’ve tried to get rid of him, to break it off with him, but he just doesn’t . . . He won’t . . .” She swallowed and shook her head. “I just want to go home.”
Jock took a deep breath, careful to keep his voice soft. “Where’s home?”
“Ireland. Grammy’s. I just want to go home.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Money. I’m paying off nursing school right now.” She shrugged again. “I want to be a doctor, but—” She broke off.
“But what?” he asked her.
“Women . . . that is . . .” She shook her head and jerked her hand away. “When I came here for nursing school a few years ago, I had this idea that I’d be a nurse, then go to medical school and become a doctor.”
“So what’s changed?”
She looked at him. “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” She looked around. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” she whispered. “I’ve seen women . . . women like me. I’ve told them to get away, to go, move.” She smiled, but it held little humor. “Part of me says to hell with him, he’s an ass and a jerk, but—”