Turning back to his flat tent, he gingerly crouched down again. “You're right. I can't botch this for Mike. I've botched a lot of things in my life."
He left that hanging in the air, but she refused to respond. Finally, after listening to him grunt over one of the stakes, trying to shove it into the ground with no leverage because of his bad leg, she glanced about for a rock. Spotting one, she got it, then handed it down to him. When he frowned up at her, she said, “To help you pound in the stakes. In this soft ground, you're going to need to go deep."
“I'll keep that in mind,” he replied, his mouth curling up in a sly smile.
She pursed her lips, refusing to play along.
He asked, “Now tell me, oh wise Miss Hastings, why do I tend to botch things? Something you seem to have observed."
“Long ago I concluded you're only capable of concentrating on one thing at a time, to a fault."
He hiked up one eyebrow at her. “How so?"
“You liked being with me, until you got in trouble. Then you had to focus on running away from trouble. Then, you had to focus on making a marriage to Stephanie work since ours didn't, but then other things must have impinged on that marriage, too. So you had to leave that in order to focus on something else, such as the racing."
He slammed the rock down hard on the top of the stake, spiking it cleanly into the earth.
Flinching, she continued, “You like projects. You concentrate on one adventurous project at a time."
“You haven't seen or heard from me in fifteen years and you know all this?"
“I did plenty of reading about men after that summer. There are men who consider women projects. They focus all their energies until they've fixed them to their liking. And then they move on."
“I wasn't that way.” Plopping back in the grass, he stared up at her slackjawed.
“You didn't try to remake my wardrobe or anything—"
“For cryin’ out loud, you hated getting dressed up. You were a tomboy."
“You never stopped focusing on your little adventures to ask what I liked and didn't like. You saw one side, the side that could be coaxed into doing stupid shenanigans and you focused on that."
“I didn't care if you wore a dress!” He struggled to his feet, grabbing a tent stake and the rock before heading for another corner of the tent.
“That's my point. You didn't care enough about all the other sides of me. I finally convinced myself that I was glad I never married you with society's legal paper back then. That reality and a family takes juggling and you can't juggle more than one ball in the air at a time. You're always in a crisis, and as each crisis hits, you forget all else."
“You're nuts.” He dropped the rock and barely missed his toe.
“No, not anymore. If a tomboy suffices to feed your little plots to get in trouble, why risk messing up the fun by seeing another side to her, right? It's probably the same reason you wanted me to butcher your leg instead of going to a hospital. I'm at hand and easy to focus on. I'm no trouble and you face no responsibility with me. Even a quick kiss to satisfy your curiosity—hit and run—only proved it to me that you haven't changed a lick over the years."
“This is the most ridiculous psycho-babble I've ever heard."
She knew she should just leave, but he had her ire up now. Her pride wouldn't let go. “You asked my opinion but you don't really care what I say, do you? You just go on your merry way. Never mind the feelings of others swirling around you."
“Laurel, come on. That's not me anymore."
“It's not?” She scoffed. “You expressed undying love to me, but when trouble came, boom, you're gone. On your merry way. Now years later you drop everything, even your son, to avenge your brother's death."
“I love my son."
A stabbing ache hit her heart. “Oh? You're here and he's in hiding. Quaint proof of your love."
“My life's at stake."
“And that makes you a hero in your son's eyes? What if you get killed? Where's the responsibility and love in that?"
He scrambled up, cursing his sore leg to get to her. His eyes simmered with fury when he stabbed the air with a fist. “I didn't plan this misadventure, but I won't get killed. I'm not stupid."
She plucked the first aid kit from the grass and backed away. “You guaranteed that to your son?"
“Damn you, I can't guarantee anything."
“Pity the next woman who falls for you."
“You'll come back over here again?"
She turned to go but he caught her arm. Electricity skipped along her skin. “I doctored your leg and that's all you'll get from me. If you'll excuse me I have to check on an owl. At least it's not interested in pecking my heart out."
Releasing her, he grunted, “You're way too controlled."
Except for my thudding heartbeat
. “Unlike you, I've changed. Now go to the hospital and get that leg looked at. Don't worry about being recognized. If I didn't recognize you at first, I'm sure you can put on an act again and get away with it."
He grinned defiantly. “That bothers you, doesn't it? I recognized you first, even with your longer hair, how you've filled out nicely—"
“Save it,” she snapped, turning with the first aid kit to head for her boat.
His sudden, hearty and free-flowing laughter seemed to settle the ancient, irritating dust that had been stirred up between them. She rescued her nerves with a calming breath. But her heart's yielding toward him still scared her. “Tell them you're Atlas, a homeless man with the world on his shoulders, just for the drama of it. You'll get free treatment and be able to leave my lake tomorrow."
She couldn't escape to her boat fast enough. But the weeds rustled behind her. “Stop following me."
“I need a ride to the hospital."
“Not in my boat. The DNR warden will be here any minute. Hitch with Jim Swenson."
Feeling his gaze boring into her back, she slipped and slid down the muddy bank and into her boat. He stood high above, truly like some Greek god lording over his dominion. She dared glance up. A mistake. The sun formed a halo around him, throwing his tanned face into coppery, handsome silhouette. It took her three yanks on the cord to start the old motor, embarrassing for her. When she backed the aluminum boat away from shore, he stuck a hand tentatively in the air, then waved. She could even see his white teeth.
He was smiling, darn him.
She wished he hadn't done that, because it felt intimate and wondrous. Cheery even. But part of his act. Always, the act. If only he'd given her even the smile and wave fifteen years ago, a simple gesture of good-bye in person. Instead, he'd left her dangling with only hope and dreams for company.
Out in the middle of the bay, with its sweet water smells and the lapping of the ripples, she allowed herself to tremble. All over. Every inch, every follicle. He had no rights to anything anymore. Not her secrets, her triumphs and what she'd made of her life.
Or did he?
One visit to the meadow and beyond and he'd have too many questions.
Chapter 5
FORMING TIGHT fists, he watched her boat bob up and down, navigating the small waves. Her red hair whipped about like nautical flags warning of a storm. A smart sailor heeded such readings and headed in the opposite direction. Cole could not. Maybe he was nothing more than a surly pirate. She'd certainly pointed out a few faults more befitting of a pirate than ... the father—the hero—she insinuated he wasn't for his son.
He itched to follow after her and prove somehow he wasn't the selfish lout she believed him to be.
Her small shape soon climbed onto the far dock. With her scarlet hair she could have been one of the cardinals going about its business against the green backdrop of bushes and trees lining the shore. She belonged here. He did not.
When she disappeared from view, he began tidying up his meager campsite. He doused the fire. What was it she wanted to do with this property once the mansion was razed? He'd forgotten to ask for details. Okay, maybe he was too focused on his own agenda. Wasn't being hunted by a madman enough reason? Not for Laurel. She had changed a lot. Where had all that fiery bluster come from? And her desperate need to control it? She was putting on an act, too.
To listen to her, he wasn't capable of love. Didn't he and Lisa Shaw have a good relationship? Lisa owned the dive shop he frequented. She'd been pressing him lately for something more permanent.
He groaned. Good one, Cole. Tell Laurel you're stringing along a blonde in Miami as proof you're the loving kind. Laurel would laugh her guts out.
What about his son? This sobered him more quickly than he would have liked.
He sank to the ground and stretched out the leg. Laurel would never understand that he'd been forced to give up much of the raising of his thirteen-year-old son, Tyler.
Tyler's welfare now loomed in his mind. After his divorce, Cole had started concentrating on the racing circuit and developing the reputation that would bring the Wescott brothers—and their children—a secure future.
Cole wanted to make sure Tyler never wanted for anything. Tyler understood that, didn't he? Mike must have helped him understand. Mike had raised Tyler along with his own Timmy. Mike must have explained this all to Tyler. Didn't he?
Cole hated these self-doubts. He hated thinking too much. Thinking messed up instincts. He needed his instincts to be keen. Tyler's fine, he chided himself.
But he heard her voice again.
You go your merry way.
Flopping back, he squinted at the clouds. Just what he needed. A sexy, know-it-all woman who could doctor wounds and spout wisdom that bred guilt. She'd become too good to be true over the years. Too good for him.
A claw of anxiety squeezed his heart.
Something wasn't right about Laurel. Why was her disdain for him so deeply imbedded after all this time?
He shook his head. If he allowed himself to solve the puzzle of Laurel's past, he'd drift from his purpose. He vowed to the heavens and to the image of his wailing mother at Mike's funeral that he'd avenge his brother's death and save his family.
The echo of the footsteps and gun retorts in the railyard haunted him. Rojas wanted blood. Rojas had a lot to lose. What was it?
How many days did Cole have to find out?
The three-story, square mansion loomed as a menacing challenge. It hid the key to a murderous mystery. With its rotting floors, boarded windows and falling-down ceilings, the old house held its own brand of danger.
He paused to gently knead his pulsating leg.
The fragrance of new green growth and pines swaying in the breeze soothed his nostrils and lungs. The place lulled him back to a time when he and a seventeen-year-old powderkeg rolled in sweet timothy grass not too far from here. By the pond behind the mansion, in the meadow, he'd stolen a kiss to the muted buzzing of honeybees dipping into the dandelions next to them. As he'd dipped his mouth toward hers, tasting—
He bolted up in a sweat, not caring how much his leg hurt. His eyes darted back to the bay.
A dot of scarlet, she strutted along the same path they used to take, hand in hand.
Anticipating? What was theirs for the taking in the meadow?
The path hugged the curve of the bay, then followed up the tiny stream feeding the bay and Spirit Lake. It led into the woods and to magical places. The glen. The downed tree trunk among the bed of ferns. The high ridge and the scenic lookout. The little church. Their church.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Disgusted with himself, he grabbed his backpack and unzipped it. Work beckoned. He rummaged around, pushing aside books and maps, the outdated deed, the box from his dresser, odds and ends of plastic containers and packets of dried food. Finally, he found the plastic bag with Mike's bank box contents. He plucked the photo out.
The photo showed an unknown officer wearing a circa World War II uniform. On the back, Mike had written, “Aunt Flora has the key to everything about M.R. Look under her skirts, but don't tell Langley, V."
Flora was long dead, so Cole had no idea what to do about finding her “skirts” unless the old house possessed a hidden closet. He hoped it would be that simple.
Cole knew “M.R.” stood for Marco Rojas. He glanced again at the unknown, handsome fellow in the photo. What was the connection between him and Rojas? An official red stamp smudged one corner. Langley, Virginia, was CIA headquarters. Mike had been deathly afraid of even the CIA getting its hands on the mysterious evidence. Why? Why hide it here? In addition, what would Cole do once he found anything, or this man?
“If only I hadn't been so involved in my life and had paid attention to yours, dear brother. You might be alive and our Mister Rojas would be behind bars."
You just go your merry way.
A new kind of sweat broke out on his upper lip. It was the residue of remorse, sorrow and guilt, the deep love for a brother, the condemning voice of a woman he had no business connecting with now. It all bombarded his head and gut with a hurricane force. He understood the pressure would only dissipate one way: bring down Rojas. Put him away for good, or be six feet under himself.
He set off across the weedy yard toward the mansion.
* * * *
LAUREL HURRIED back down the path for her cabin, swiping at her face and the anger pressing hot all over her. A good brisk walk helped relieve the tension of being with Cole. Was she afraid of him? Yes. He had the power to unravel her way of life she had so carefully carved over the years.
She tore through the cabin's front door, ducked into the kitchen to splash cold water on her face. She imagined Cole swirling down the drain and out of her life.
She needed to also change every stitch of clothing to rid herself of any trace of him. Once in her bedroom, she sucked in her breath. His blood stained her bluejeans.
Pushing them off in a flurry, she kicked them across the room, then bounced down on the bed. She'd kissed him like a teenage ninny. And he threatened to stomp around in that house—and her heart—chilling her to the bone if she allowed it.
She slipped on fresh jeans and a bright yellow flannel blouse. She bought the cheery blouses by the gross, her mother liked to say with great sarcasm. But Laurel found flannel something injured animals liked to snuggle up to. When a shirt wore out, it retained its soft nap, perfect for lining nesting boxes for baby birds fallen from nests or baby rabbits washed from burrows in summer downpours.