Could Cole commit to any woman? Laurel's good sense warned her “no.” But then she remembered his chastisement of her not allowing him room to be her friend. Maybe he was ready to risk love again if only she would let him take that risk.
Was there a place in her heart for Cole, or not? Was it more up to her to answer that question, than up to Cole?
The questions were beginning to crowd her, and she didn't like it.
* * * *
IN TYPICAL Wisconsin weather fashion, morning flipped back to sunshine and a verdant world scrubbed clean by rain. Laurel's garden was flush with rainbows in the mist between the rows.
Cole had risen before her and was out back shoring up posts around the deer pen that had loosened with the rain.
She pushed in tomato stakes that had loosened, taking pleasure in hers and Cole's parallel activities.
Then she glanced across the bay.
The porthole window, which faced west over the fanning lake, was still in shadow. A brooding menace, it reminded her she had only about a month to resolve the ownership issues—and Cole—or she'd lose her grant money for creating the wildlife refuge on that land and for continuing her work here. Without that major influx of cash, she faced the prospect of being forced to dispose of her animals because she wouldn't be able to maintain them. They would go to zoos, maybe university programs or other wildlife rehabilitators in the country—if they had the budgets and room. She'd have to pick up odd jobs to support herself and start all over again writing proposals to wildlife foundations and the government. It exhausted her to think about it.
Later, on the drive to town to begin their investigations, she and Cole spoke of everything but the jewelry. She thought about asking him about the jewelry John mentioned but then decided she shouldn't care. Was it some memento of Lisa Shaw he toted across country for good luck?
Dresden was crowded, eliciting a comment from Cole as she slowed the minivan. “Glad I'm not trying to be quick about this little matter of life and death plaguing me. Looks like there'll be lines everywhere."
His quick laugh lightened the mood as it always served to do. That part of him hadn't changed and she secretly hoped he always retained that sense of levity about him.
Pressing the minivan through the sluggish traffic, she noticed his frown. “Problems?"
“It's such a nice day. Why are all these tourists just shopping? Isn't there anything to do around here?"
“After a storm the campgrounds and golf courses tend to be under some water for the morning. The lakes and streams get a bit murky so you have to wait for them to settle out before you can fish."
He pointed toward a bunch of boys playing tag by dodging in and out of parked cars beside them. “I'd forgotten. The ball diamonds are wet. Recreation for kids kind of ends there, doesn't it?"
A cloud descended over her and she resented his implications.
“Miami must have a lot more happening than this little place. Tyler never has a chance to get bored, does he?"
He only shrugged. “He and Timmy are into trick water-skiing."
“I'm afraid we don't have ski jumps on Spirit Lake. There's a fish ladder over by the dam to help the fish swim from one level in the flowage to the next. I take the high school classes over there. The kids seem to get a kick out of watching that."
“Sounds exciting."
“I'd like to think so."
Silence hung in the air then inside the van. So what did he expect here? Didn't he remember what Dresden was like? Friday night fish fries with neighbors, ball games when the diamond dried out, and bicycle rides through pine-scented back roads? She gripped the steering wheel harder. Darn his hide for doing this to her. One minute she enjoyed his humor, then the next he wiped her nose in their differences.
When Cole dug out the faded photo of the Naval officer, then offered it the tiniest flicker of a smile before putting it away again, she asked, “You found your mystery man?"
“Not sure."
His staring thoughtfully out the window caught her attention then. She kept her hands firmly on the steering wheel, but she felt her ire toward him withering. Instead, curiosity ebbed in. Concern even. He settled back in the seat with a resigned sigh, his hand over the pocket holding the photo, fingers drumming lightly, fidgeting.
Venturing to disturb his thoughts, she offered, “Mike wouldn't have put this photo in the bank box unless this person wasn't important."
“Maybe I'm just confused as to why Mike thought certain people were important to me in a small town I barely know."
“Let's hope Buzz can shed some light on it."
* * * *
SHE PARKED THE minivan at the newspaper office, but it looked quiet. “Buzz is probably at the bait shop collecting first-hand storm damage reports and tips on where to find fallen trees that would make front-page photos."
Finding the office door unlocked, they went in but met up with nothing more than a messy desk with stacks of newspapers.
She surmised, “He could be a while. There are my mother's muffins he's collecting, too."
“The devil.” His chuckle tickled her back.
“Don't encourage him. Please. Your habit of questioning me pales with his. The thought of spending Christmases with him at my mother's already sends icicles down my back."
Cole laughed out loud. And she joined him, sharing the laugh back out onto the sunny street. She could become addicted to this mood. It felt as soft and nice as one of her flannel shirts.
They decided she'd drop Cole off at the sheriff's office while she ran errands. They would wait for Buzz to return to his office so they could talk with him alone.
Outside, Cole asked, “Maybe we could catch lunch together?"
Standing in the shade of the one-story office building, he took her breath away. He'd showered at her cabin and shaved, so the shade brought a granite, chiseled look to his face. A blue polo shirt he'd dug out of his bag did nice things for his chocolate eyes, coppery skin and dark hair brushing his shoulders. Though Laurel had never met his mother, she knew this man had inherited the best genes Chilean people had to offer. How Laurel wished they could start over.
Shocked with herself, she plastered on a smile. “Catch lunch? As in go out and get it with hook, line and sinker? We'd starve."
“Hmm. I take that as a challenge. You might want to take me out there sometime on Spirit Lake, but for now I'm thinking about something quicker and tamer."
“Oh sure. Like a burger at the local tap? Wasn't that last night's folly?"
“Come to think of it, the sheriff didn't even give me bread and water. Never got my steak and eggs from you, either. Hospitality's running thin around here."
“I'm sorry. I forgot an errand. Can you be a good sport and grab a sandwich on your own? Then I'll meet you here in an hour."
He saluted to her in a ridiculous fashion, then sauntered down the sidewalk, his limp giving his backside an interesting personality that brought a hike to her own brows.
Striding in the opposite direction, she marveled at Cole's ability to ride the ups and downs in his life with such humor. In the past few years, she'd insisted on keeping her life on an even keel with no surprises. She'd had laughs, but when had they been this frequent? When had someone tickled her belly with mere words or the crook of an eyebrow? The answer was too unsettling: when she was with Cole. Then and now.
Laurel paced past Gary's Hardware to the grocery.
She found Una checking the mist sprayers above the vegetable displays. Una almost started a cabbage avalanche upon hearing Laurel's update on what had transpired.
Recovering, Una said, “So he stayed overnight at your cabin? You didn't tell him—"
“No. And I never will. My plan—his plan, really—is for me to help get his hide out of here before it becomes Swiss cheese with bullet holes."
Una smirked.
“What does that mean?"
“I've never seen you so alive, so wound up. Are you falling for him again?"
Choking, Laurel stuffed her hands in her pockets, then remembered Cole did that all the time and yanked them out.
Una laughed. “How can I help, you ninny?"
“Be there for me. Keep your ears perked. His brother Mike was here about a month ago for only a few days. Cole thinks Mike had some goods on their boss, Marco Rojas. Cole's sure that Mike hid evidence in Dresden somewhere."
“Wow. A giant treasure hunt."
“Yes, very appropriate, considering his boss owns one of the world's biggest ocean salvage operations. Cole's a diver for him. Or was."
“How romantic."
“Una!"
“Sorry. I'm a slow learner.” Una went back to rearranging broccoli. “What did Mike look like?"
“Probably tall as Cole, dark complexion, but not quite as muscular."
“I don't recall seeing a hunk like that a month ago, but there was a man in here the other day who was dark, very neat. Didn't look much like a tourist, but then it was probably his first day in town. But come to think of it now, he seemed nervous, flighty, kept dropping his cans of flavored coffee."
Cole's boss?
Laurel's hands and forehead perspired. “If you see the man again, call me. Even if he's at your register, excuse yourself to check a price on something and call me."
Chapter 10
UNA'S NEWS ABOUT the man rattled Laurel so that she decided to seek out attorney David Huber. By hiding something in those files pertaining to Cole's property, David could also be in danger.
The office was closed. She peered through the windows for good measure. Then she remembered. He'd gone down to Madison for a university seminar and other business. And she had a key. David had offered her the use his office computers before she'd recently acquired her own.
She looked up and down the narrow cross street. People passed by on Main Street, but nobody glanced her way. Taking a deep breath, she slipped the key in the lock, then rushed inside, locking the door behind her. Since the windows had no shades, she'd have to be alert.
With blood pumping hard through her veins, she raced to the file cabinets. Locked. “Dang,” she muttered.
She rifled through his desk, and finally found a key tucked under a tissue box in one drawer.
“Come on, David, that's not very creative."
The key sprung the cabinet drawers lickety-split. With fingers shaking, she homed in on the “W” files. No Wescotts. Disappointment rattled her until she remembered. “Try Tilden. Flora Tilden."
She found the file immediately. She wanted to whoop with her discovery, but instead crouched on the floor to hide behind the desk, out of view of the window to the street.
After opening the manila file, the first thing she saw was a brief note to David's part-time secretary. “Anne, no charge to W. for this work. Pro bono."
W? As in Wescott? And David was doing it for free? She needed to confront Cole with this.
She glanced around, looking for David's copy machine. It had a note on it: Anne, needs toner. “Can't you men do anything on your own?” But she couldn't find the toner either.
She folded up the note signed “W” and stuffed it in her pocket. With the other notes in the file, she figured David wouldn't miss one.
She thumbed through the remaining file items. Most were facsimiles, sent to David from libraries across the country. Some from the Wisconsin State Historical Society showed the Tilden mansion in its heyday, replete with artwork and grand furnishings. In one, a woman stood on the verandah, blowing a kiss at whoever this photographer was. She was beautiful, tall, with penetrating eyes ... like Cole's. One photo of the woman was marked, “D.C."
Laurel frowned. Cole had acted as if he didn't know where Flora had lived, yet he knew about this file. Or did he?
A frosty chill skittered across her skin. Could Rojas have hired David? But that didn't make sense.
The pieces weren't coming together as neatly as she first thought they would when she saw the file.
Then she forced herself to draw in a deep breath. Here she was again, suspicious, thinking she could find the answers on her own and not ask for Cole's help. Was she becoming as obsessed as Cole? What was right and wrong anymore? What's more, who was right?
Feeling queasy, feeling disappointed and disturbed about her new confusion brought on by Cole's challenges to her, she replaced the file, re-locked the cabinet, returned the key under the tissue box, then let herself out onto the street.
Footsteps startled her. She turned, and a man dashed around the corner to Main Street. Or was she getting carried away?
She hurried toward the other end of the short street, toward the town pier.
“Oh, no,” she muttered, when she spotted the sheriff and Cole with heads together conspiratorially. “Now what are they up to?"
* * * *
ON THE PIER, under sunlight teasing fishermen to load up their boats and set forth on mighty missions, Cole leaned over an engine. “I can do a tune-up for you in no-time,” he told Sheriff Petski, standing next to him, “but if you don't mind, I want to stop by Gary's Hardware for new locks for Laurel's doors and windows and get that taken care of first."
John nodded. “I hope Laurel didn't get too frightened about last night."
“She got upset with me, but we talked. Things seem good now."
“I'm glad."
But the sheriff started walking away, forcing Cole to limp fast to catch up. “I need to ask you a few questions."
“Suit yourself, but I'm in a hurry to file reports for folks and their insurance companies on storm damage."
They headed off along the boardwalk, their booted footsteps echoing under the treated wood planks. More people were filtering down to the piers now, leaving for a day of fishing on Spirit Lake. Cole drank in the carefree atmosphere, wishing he could wear it like a coat whenever he needed a balm.
He glanced at the older man next to him, noticing the worry lines crinkling the eyes and forehead. He felt sorry for John, who wasn't sure about his role in all this. Be mad at Cole? Protect Laurel? Or work with Cole to land a big fish—Rojas? Any choice would cause John ulcers.
Cole ventured, “Does Laurel have a gun?"