with her captain was practically impossible because of the roar of the engine. She tried to ask him about the people who lived on the island. Again he said very little, commenting only that everyone there was a close buddy of his.
When a patch of green became recognizable as a shoreline, Winkleman slowed the boat. Sara tucked her wind-whipped hair into what was left of the French braid she’d fashioned that morning. Then she turned her attention to her island.
She thought she’d recognize the tidy little harbor from the brochure and looked for the bright yellow mooring ropes spanning the length of its pier. Instead, she saw a dilapidated wooden platform jutting into the water on precariously tilted posts. Winkleman maneuvered into position beside one of them.
“Is this the main dock?” she asked.
“This is the only dock,” he said.
She climbed onto rickety boards that creaked under her feet. There was none of the usual activity one expected of a quaint village harbor. There were no shops or boats. The entire area consisted of a one-room clapboard bait house with broken windows.
“Oh, dear,” Sara sighed. “I hadn’t expected things to be quite this way.”
Winkleman tossed her bags onto the dock and grinned up at her. “Nice, ain’t it? Some of these islands have begun to look pretty shabby. The fellows that live here keep Thorne up pretty good.”
Her gaze wandered to the clumps of overgrown plants that skirted the shoreline. A narrow, dirt pathway through a thicket of brush and trees led somewhere. “There is a hotel on the island, isn’t there?” she asked.
Winkleman appeared thoughtful. Finally a light dawned in his eyes. “Right. The Cozy Cove. It’s just up that pathway.”
Thank goodness. Sara’s misgivings were replaced with a glimmer of hope. At least the delightful little bed-and-breakfast was real enough. So what if the dock needed some work? She could manage funds for a few minor repairs. She picked up her suitcases, anticipating her first evening on her island.
Winkleman untied his mooring line, took the twenty she offered and pushed away from the dock. “See ya.”
Apprehension suddenly dampened Sara’s enthusiasm. What if there was no phone on the island? In her rush to pack, she’d left her cell phone in Fort Lauderdale. And now her only link to the mainland was about to roar out of her life. “Wait! Mr. Winkleman, how can I reach you?”
He chugged back to her and took a ragged tablet from the console of his boat. “I’ll be back in two days,” he said while scribbling, “but here’s my number if you need to call. Doubt you will, though. The boys take care of things. Ol’ Brody has a cell phone. He’d probably let you use it.”
She set down a suitcase and took the paper before it could blow out of his hand and into the water. Then she shoved it deep into the pocket of her purse. All at once, that phone number and a cell phone belonging to someone named Ol’ Brody seemed absolutely vital to her existence. Winkleman was a hundred yards from the dock when she finally turned and headed up the pathway.
Following two twists in the lane, Sara came to a wood-sided building that appeared as weary as she suddenly felt. She leaned against the weathered picket fence surrounding the property and tried to associate the structure in front of her with the one in the brochure photo.
It was barely recognizable as the Cozy Cove Inn. Only a sign hanging by one rusty nail from a post at the front gate confirmed its identity. The front-porch roof sagged against the peeling white gingerbread molding of its supports.
Sara stepped onto the porch, dropped her bags by her feet and sank into a drooping wicker chair. She might have sat there indefinitely had she not noticed the baskets of blooming spring flowers hanging from the eaves. They were the only sign that someone still cared about the place.
She stood and paced the length of the veranda. Old wood planks groaned under her feet, but fortunately remained intact. With renewed optimism, she turned the knob on the door and entered her Cozy Cove Inn.
She stepped into a wide hallway furnished with only a guest-registration counter, a wall clock that had stopped at eight-twenty-two and a pair of Windsor chairs scarred with what high-priced decorators might call character.
To her left was a large parlor. It was impossible to determine the style or colors of anything in the room. Every piece of furniture had been covered by a sheet except one wing chair and a small table by the fireplace. The walls were adorned with peaceful country prints and shelves of hardback books.
Feeling more like an intruder than a proprietor, Sara slowly backed out of the room. Unease raised the hair on her neck. The inn appeared empty, yet Sara had the distinct sense that she was not alone.
She’d never believed in the supernatural, yet the presence of another soul in this house was as real to her at this moment as was the newel post at the bottom of the thick banister. She curved her fingers around the post and willed herself to go up the stairs.
A center hallway veered to the left and right of the second-floor landing. Doors stretched the length of the hall. All of them were closed except one at the very end. Weak sunlight mixed with an artificial glow poured into the passage. Sara approached cautiously, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Logic told her that she wouldn’t find any of course. Mr. Winkleman would have told her if there was something bizarre about the island. Surely he wouldn’t have left her alone…
The first unnatural sounds of Thorne Island floated from the room to Sara’s ears. It was a light tapping, almost like… Yes, that was it. Sara stood outside the open door listening to the harmless sound of someone pecking a computer keyboard.
She stepped over the threshold and had her first look at the other resident of the Cozy Cove Inn. It was a man and his back was to her. Dark, thick curls covered the collar of his knit shirt.
His hands halted above the keyboard. His back straightened and his voice, low and hoarse, reached her across the room. “If you’re trying to scare me to death, it’ll never work. So if you came to kill me, you’d best use a gun.”
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN THE FULL IMPACT of the man’s statement registered in Sara’s brain, she didn’t know whether to laugh or run from the room. She did neither, but instead spoke to the back of his head. “What a horrible thing to say.”
His ancient office chair squeaked as he turned slowly toward her. “Not to someone creeping around your house, it isn’t.”
Though he faced her, he was still in the shadows. She couldn’t detect any details of his features.
“Of course, I didn’t know at first that you were a woman,” he added.
Sara hated being at a disadvantage. The last amber rays of daylight speared through the louvered shutters at his back. He could see her clearly enough, but his form was nothing but an amorphous gray blob to her. “What difference does it make that I’m a woman?” she said. “I could still kill you.”
He stretched one leg, then settled his ankle on the opposite knee, a casual pose for someone who just a moment before had thought he might be taking his last breath. “Yeah, but you won’t. Women don’t like to murder people after they’ve looked into their eyes.”
“Then
