died before their time.
And former childhood infatuations became grim-faced loners.
The dishwasher loaded, she made a decision. This morning, she would knock on his door. Whether or not he welcomed the intrusion, she needed to change his bedsheets. Her guest rooms never went a day without clean bedding and a thorough sanitizing, but she had respected his privacy for two days because of the sign, because his motorcycle hadn’t moved out of the carport.
However, the time to freshen up the cabin was at hand. Yes, he’d signed on for three months, but that didn’t mean she would disregard her business. Sign or not, she’d give the place a scrubbing.
As she tidied her own house and worked in her office, she prepared herself mentally.
He’s not the same as he was twenty years ago.
Neither are you, Kat.
At ten o’clock, she gathered sheets, towels, wash-cloths and two new soap bars from the storage room into a laundry basket. Slipping into her tall, green farm boots, she took a deep breath and stepped out onto the deck.
The air smelled of wet earth and rotted leaves. Gray clouds flecked the sky, though a mellow sun crept among the barren branches. Somewhere, a squirrel chattered and higher up the slope a crow cawed.
The cabin looked lifeless.
She strode up its stone path.
At the porch steps, she faltered. What had occupied him for two days, in four hundred square feet of floor space?
Not your concern. Pressing her lips together, she knocked on the door. And waited. Fifteen seconds, thirty. Another knock, louder this time. Fifteen more seconds.
She was about to lift her hand a third time when the door cracked open. Shadowed in the dim interior and the porch roof, he appeared grimmer than he had getting drenched on his Harley.
“Good morning,” Kat said with forced cheer. Mercy. The man’s potency hit like a hammer. The way he stood there, dressed in all black…sweatshirt, cargo pants, socks…
Tongue-tied, she nudged the basket higher.
His gaze dipped. “Thanks, but I do my own housekeeping.”
“The rental price includes housekeeping.” When he didn’t slam the door shut, she took heart. “I’ll be no more than ten minutes, and I won’t be in your way.” When he continued to block her access, she drew a long breath. “Look—why don’t I leave these with you? When you’re done, leave the dirty laundry in the basket on the porch and I’ll pick it up later. And, oh,” she nodded to the round flowered tin atop the clean linens, “the cookies are fresh and a bonus.”
A glance, then his eyes lifted to her. An electric jolt hit Kat’s abdomen. Smarten up, she told herself. You’re not a teenager anymore and neither is he.
With gloved hands, he reached for the bundle in her arms. “Thanks.”
Kat frowned. Gloves inside the house? “Is the heater not working?” Darn it, she did not need an added expense this time of year. “If there’s a problem with it—”
“The heater’s fine. Thanks for the linens and the cookies.”
He moved to close the door.
“Is there anything you need me to—”
“No.” The doorway narrowed to a slit. “You’ve done enough, Ms. O’Brien.” And then she was alone again.
Kat shook her head. What an odd sort he’d become.
Several seconds passed. No sound came from within. Even the forest had gone silent. She went down the path to her house.
He wore gloves. And black clothes.
A chill skittered across her skin. Was he into drugs? Was he a thief, a mobster on the run? Why wasn’t he staying with his parents on the other side of the island? Or at his sister’s apartment in the village?
Dozens of possibilities rushed through Kat’s mind—and none felt right. Behind that severe Clive Owen facade, Dane Rainhart exuded a soul-deep sadness. His eyes spoke of it whenever he thought she wasn’t paying attention.
At her own door, Kat paused. Through the trees, the cabin appeared the cozy getaway she’d always envisioned. Today, the structure resembled isolation and loneliness, two impressions she recognized better than any since Shaun’s death.
She went inside to continue her day, but her thoughts journeyed a thousand times to the cabin in the woods.
What made Dane Rainhart so unhappy? And why did she care?
And then there were the hot twinges deep in her core—those she didn’t understand at all.
Not when she still dreamed of her late husband.
The following Tuesday morning, the privacy sign no longer hung on the cabin’s doorknob. Did that mean he wasn’t home? Or was it a message for her to visit?
Twice in the past week, she had exchanged his soiled bedding for a laundered stack, hoping at the same time to catch a glimpse of him. So far, nada.
Emboldened by the sign’s absence, she tugged on a ratty blue cardigan hanging at the back door, and headed out.
Purple crocuses, daffodils and a medley of tulips—characteristic of Puget Sound’s mild winters—colored the dark, damp flowerbeds bordering her tiny backyard. On a whim, Kat hurried back into the mudroom and grabbed a pair of pruning shears she kept handy.
She cut a handful of waxy-leafed flowers before slipping the shears into the cardigan’s deep pocket and walking to the cabin. The day had dawned bright and clear, the temperature hovering around fifty-eight. March was entering like a lamb.
She knocked twice.
The door remained closed.
Her face warmed. What was she doing, bringing a man flowers, for God’s sake? Maybe he had allergies. Or hated flowers.
Before she could change her mind, she tried the knob. The door fell open several inches.
“Hello?” she called softly. “It’s me…Kat. I’ve brought you something…” No answer. “Dane?”
She nudged the door with a fingertip. The cabin lay empty. Crossing the threshold, she paused on the welcome mat to scan the great room/kitchenette.
Her guest was a neatnik. No shirt or jacket draped the jungle-green loveseat or the pair of big-cushioned chairs. No socks hid under the round coffee table in front of the river-rock fireplace. Beside her on the mat, footwear marched in military sync: the harness boots he’d worn on the bike, a pair of loafers and a pair of worn gray slippers.
Intrigued, she stepped out of her rubber boots. Didn’t bikers leave cigarette butts and beer cans, girlie magazines and hunting brochures all over? Shouldn’t clothes be strewn haphazardly across the furniture?
Why, Kat? Because Shaun used
