“I like that you worry about me,” Cole whispered, “but I worry about you getting so upset. I've always been truthful about having a job to do here, and it could get uglier."
“Like that goose egg at your hairline?” His mussed hair and a couple of scratches on his chin didn't help his appearance. Or her control. She yearned to cradle him, like some wild animal she could patch up and send on his way.
A smile erupted on his face. “I bet I look like something the sheriff usually drops off at your place."
Sighing at the way he could read her mind, she could only nod.
He gave her a slow grin. “Old Wiley's wicked for his size."
“Wiley Lundeen did this? That's the town drunk over there under that blanket?” Then a worry blanketed her. Leaning closer, she whispered, “His mouth can shoot off. I hope this doesn't make the papers. Your cover could be broken."
“With him?"
“Shh.” Inches from his face, her gaze took in the cuts and bruises. They tied her in knots. “You're not in much shape to ward off a seasoned hit man."
Leading her over to the corner away from Wiley, he fenced her in against the bars, whispering, “He's going to come eventually. So I have to begin planning for it. I don't have much of a choice. These leads Mike left me are going nowhere. If only we'd talked before...” His face took on the darker edge of hidden pain.
Despite her resolve to not get involved, her heart went out to him.
“I can help,” she whispered back, almost shaking from the turnabout from only days ago, but his pain spoke to her. “I saw Mother today and something she said gave me a hunch about Flora and this photo of Mike's."
“What?” He raked a hand over his head and came up wincing.
Nudging the thick hair more gently into place for him, she realized touching him always took her breath away, no matter their circumstances. His neediness wound around her heart. “That's a doozy. You got a headache?"
“You mean I'm not hearing the echo of hammering?"
She smiled at his sense of humor, giving up even more of her resolve to be tough on him. “If this gets any bigger, you're going to look like a walking eggplant."
“That reminds me. Never did finish that burger. Don't happen to have another egg sandwich on you?"
She caught his gaze. The twinkle in his eyes sent shock waves down to her toes. When had being with him become so easy? His firm lips twisted into a silly grin that she had the greatest urge to kiss. She blamed their lovemaking. That's what this “easy” feeling was, just sexual attraction and nothing more. Silliness. She could control this.
“Did Flora live in D.C.?"
“I never asked her,” he grunted. “I don't know, and my parents never said much about that part of the family."
She sank back against the wall in their corner, thinking. “She had a ton of money, and Mike says to look under her skirts, whatever that means. You're sure you don't remember some code you and Mike had as boys? Maybe this is a cryptogram or something."
Cole shrugged. “No secret languages I'm afraid."
“Doesn't it seem odd she'd move here just after World War II? If she was a society lady, something had to make her want to hide out here. But what?"
A snort from the cot behind them caused Cole to lean in closer, his gaze locking with hers. He tucked a finger under her chin, starting an electrical storm skipping across her, putting every folicle on alert. “I ask that about you all the time. Why, Laurel, do you choose the existence you do?"
Her temperature sizzled. “We're not discussing me."
He had her cornered. “But we are discussing a woman who could have been just like you. Maybe there's a clue here, if we consider the psychology. You're good at psychology I've found."
“You should have been a salesman."
An eyebrow arched, sending tremors rippling through her again. “Why would my great-aunt Flora hide out from the world? What would she hide under those skirts?"
His body pressed close. Laurel swallowed hard. “Maybe she had a lover she lost and it took all her courage to start over again. Maybe she didn't want other people to see what she'd become. Maybe she was embarrassed to have loved so foolishly."
His eyes darkened to black coals. “Embarrassed?"
She trembled under his gaze. “A woman has pride. To have lost herself in someone else's heart and soul, and then to have him taken away by his own deeds, leaves her empty. All the world can point at her as if she were an abandoned house, and simply pass by. They pity her. It's too much to bear, so she goes into seclusion at first."
“We are talking about Aunt Flora?"
“Of course.” But the fluttering in her stomach wouldn't quit.
“Could a woman like that take other lovers?"
She could see every whisker, every scratch, the fine lines in his firm lips only inches away. “Yes, but a woman like that would demand a lot of a man. She would take her time finding the right man, and she would die if the next man she loved with all her heart left her."
His eyes shimmered. They took on the reflective look of the porthole window. “Now I understand Aunt Flora a lot better."
Then he backed away and she could breathe again.
Shaken, she fought to calm herself. “How much longer do you think it'll be before Rojas finds out about your property here, and about Mike coming here in May?"
“Not much. He could have people skulking around already. There are ways to find people. Tax records. Any credit cards Mike might have used to buy a ticket might leave a trail for a good detective, though it appears Mike covered himself with great care on this one."
She registered the profound sadness that overwhelmed him when he talked about Mike. His face wrinkled, with the light in his eyes dimming. Cole was a man without a home, a man on a lonely journey. She could identify with lonely journeys. She'd survived one.
She offered, “My plan isn't fleshed out much, but I know if you stay here overnight you'll get front page in the local weekly. Editor Buzz Vandermeer loves to list names. He's always telling my mother that a weekly is built on names. You'll be a sitting duck for Rojas."
Shuffling wearily to the cot, Cole eased down. “I'll be fine. Seems I owe for a few chairs, not to mention mailboxes. John said because of the witnesses it might be prudent for me to spend the night, since I don't have cash on me."
She scoffed. “John Petski's honesty gets me down sometimes. That man is perpetually running for office."
“He's a good egg."
“We'll see about that.” Whipping around, she called out, “John? I'm ready."
The sheriff entered the room and unlocked the cell door, but Laurel didn't step out. John frowned. “Are you coming out or not?"
She swallowed hard against her rapid heart rate. Could she do this? “Would you place Cole under house arrest? At my house?"
* * * *
FOG ROLLED IN behind them when Laurel led Cole up her front stoop to the door. Her fingers shook on the doorknob.
He noticed. “You're nervous? How long has it been since you asked a man to share your bed?"
She turned to him in the darkness, knowing she'd find a grin pasted on his face. She matched it with a warning frown. “For someone who could have shared a cell with Wiley Lundeen, you're sounding rather boorish."
“Just being honest. It's what you want from me, isn't it?” He reached over her shoulder and pushed open the door. “I'd also like to know why you don't lock your house."
Where his arm grazed hers, a firestorm started that swept across her body. Walking inside, she said, “I'll take you home in my boat after we have a chance to finish our discussion. I never meant for you to stay here overnight."
“You lied to the sheriff?"
Guilt peppered her, but she held fast to her resolve. “He'll forgive me. I want to know what you're up to."
But he wasn't about to divulge anything, darn his ability to stay focused and in control.
They both removed their jackets, and she hung them on the hooks by the door. When she turned around, he'd already wandered into the living area toward the sofa by the fireplace that still glowed. His muscular silhouette engendered hot memories of being consumed by him in the attic tryst. His eyes were soft coals, patient tinder.
Shivering, she offered, “Should I fix us something?"
“No need."
Her mind reeled. She shouldn't have brought him here. She walked around to the other side of the sofa and flung open the glass doors of the fireplace to poke at a dying ember. The fire provided the only light.
“It's just as I imagined it,” he said, his voice gutteral, his gaze appraising the cabin's interior. “A perfect, cozy nest for a mother bird."
Mother bird
. He'd made the same reference in the bait shop.
“That leg must be throbbing pretty good after tonight's workout with Wiley,” she said, thinking how warm it could be in Cole's arms.
Settling into the sofa, he smirked, “You don't have a plan, do you?"
His eyes reflected the ember's growing intensity, with the firelight highlighting chiseled good looks. The room grew close. She reminded herself she had wanted him here. To settle things. Not to stir them up.
She poked at the fire. Sparks spit at her, then full flames danced, illuminating the room.
She planted the iron poker on the hearth. “You could really use a shave and a fat steak on that goose egg."
“I'd rather eat the fat steak."
Shaking her head, Laurel crossed in front of the sofa and headed for the kitchen area, where she turned on the soft light above the sink. “I'm afraid you'll have to wait. I've got animals out back that need a nighttime feeding and medicines worse than you, believe it or not."
“I'll help."
“Maybe you could. I've got to make sure all the heat lamps are on. It's raw out, and it's going to rain so the temperature's not going to rise too quickly."
“Ah, Wisconsin.” He leaned against the kitchen door frame. “I do remember huddling under blankets in my bed at great-aunt Flora's. And cuddling under a blanket with you in the car when we went to the dump to watch for bears."
She stuffed her flushed face in the refrigerator to look for formula. “You like how I finished off the cabin?"
“It's great. I like the open floor plan."
She wished for walls and doors to shut out the gaze that followed her every move. He watched her get the formula out, then the syringes and droppers from the cupboards.
Finally, when she drew another glass bottle from the refrigerator, she looked him square in the eyes. “You're like having one of those cheap velvet religious paintings in the kitchen."
He laughed. “The ones with Elvis's eyes following you everywhere you go?"
“Yes."
“May I turn on more light?” he asked.
“I like it this way."
“You never used to."
A feeling scuttled through her that she didn't care for. He was probing again and she didn't like it. She yanked at a bottle on the refrigerator shelf, but a loud crack outside startled her and the bottle slipped from her fingers in a punctuating crash. The wind kicked in then, rattling the windows.
After flicking on the light switch, Cole admonished, “Don't. You'll cut yourself. Let me help."
“I'll have it picked up in a jiffy. Just sit somewhere."
He hovered over her instead, his shoes inches from her hand and the glass. “Can't you allow your friends to help you?"
“What's that supposed to mean?"
“It means give me a little credit for wanting to help you.” He pointed to a chair at the kitchen table. “Sit."
“I'm not some puppy you can train."
Before she could yelp, he swept her up in his arms and plunked her in the chair by the kitchen table. “You have to start thinking about your own welfare for a change, instead of saving the rest of us from harm's way without a thought.” Corralling her with outstretched arms, he said, “Now stay."
She sat, but her thumping fingers rattled the table with a force that rivaled the brewing storm outside. “I can see why Wiley hauled off at you."
A churlishness clouded his face. “Where's the broom and dust pan?"
She pointed to the slim closet, then watched him sweep. She realized she'd never seen him do anything domestic. It begged for questions about his lifestyle now. Did he cook? Did his dive-shop friend Lisa cook for him? Or ex-wife Stephanie? She held her tongue. Why should she care?
He stood before Laurel with the pan full of glass. “Where do you want this?"
“I'll get you a bag."
“Sit. Where are they?"
She pointed to a cupboard and he dispatched the glass in a bag, then put the bag next to the front door. Back at the table, he asked, “What do you drink at this hour of the night? It used to be smuggled beer on the cliff, but dare I say it's a tad wet out there for such a foray?"
“Herbal tea,” she sniped, heated by the memory he'd induced.
“Should have known."
“Now what does that mean?"
Already he was filling the pot with water at the sink. He plunked it on the stove and turned on the burner. “You have it all down."
“Have what down?"
“The act."
“You're always the one with the act.” But his turning the tables on her intrigued her. “What act?"
He leaned back against the sink. “Living in the woods, liking the dark, caring for wounded animals. You haven't cut your hair for years. Then of course there's that carefully-practiced scorn for associating with men. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was in a family movie replete with fuzzy animals and you were bucking for an Oscar. And the theme of your movie is, how to hide out from life."
“It's my life and I happen to like it fine.” Anger welled in her. “So I don't live a fast-paced, glamorous life like you. At least I don't have someone chasing me down. At least I don't have a living, breathing son who's lost to me anyway because of my choices.” She sucked in at the hurt slapping across his face.
Pivoting to the kitchen sink, he stared at the rain sprinkling the dark window. “You're almost too right. I keep in touch with Tyler through the sheriff, and tonight I found out my son ran away already."
She wanted to die inside. She went to him, her heart rallying to him, her hands shaking as she lay them on the wall of his back. “I'm sorry."