her forehead, and he had to stop himself from ironing it out. No, they weren’t in high school anymore. They’d moved on. Abbie to her career and him to his. In spite of her situation, she still belonged in a world of light and color. She’d always be his golden girl, but he was the wrong kind of man for a woman like her. He saw that now. She needed someone who could share Echo Falls and the mill and all the responsibilities that went with privilege and position. And he needed to keep showing bullies the error of their ways. Raphael Vanderveer was next up on the slate. “Failure is not an option.”
Not then. Not now.
There was no need to revisit old patterns of emotions they’d both outgrown.
“Four people have already died because of me. Three deputies and my father.”
“And you’re thinking that because of that you should go it alone until the trial?”
She gave a small nod and her voice dipped into a featherlight whisper. “I have to.”
His brave, foolish girl. Her willingness to sacrifice herself for the things she held dear was one of the qualities he’d admired about Abbie. But her sacrifice wasn’t acceptable. Protecting Abbie was his job. Getting her to Seekers was his job. Seeing her make it in one piece to testify was his job. “It’s out of your hands. There’s too much at stake.”
The squish of Sister Bertrice’s soft-soled shoes returned. “Because of the weather, the police can’t come until morning.”
“Then we’d better lock up tight.”
He always got the job done.
“THE CHOCOLATE ORDER SHOULD be in state by tomorrow night,” Pamela announced toward the end of their daily briefing phone call. The faint clanging of a bell buoy pealed in the background and had Rafe cursing Abbie for all she’d stolen from him. “I ran into a bit of trouble, but I have a tracer on it. I know the expected arrival time and destination.”
Rafe went giddy with joy at the prospect of having Abbie back in his sights but kept his voice strictly business. “That is good news indeed.”
“It’s going to be held at customs for a while, though, unless I can get the release numbers I need. It’s because of the Limburger cheese that somehow came with it.”
Stinky cheese. Cops of some sort. Who had tagged on to Abbie? Phil Auclair again? He thought he’d taken care of the determined marshal. Why did Pamela need information from their inside patsy? Talking to that contact too often could compromise his advantage. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday. It’s from a private reserve.”
Private cops? Had Abbie turned to her pathetic childhood pal? He had to nip that in the bud. “Contact our friend and say we need that customs release information. That we can do much to keep this import business thriving if our request is expedited.”
“And if there’s trouble rerouting the cheese?”
No cop—private, public or paid for—was going to get between him and what was his. He had no qualms about ridding the world of one more badge-wearing bull. “We’ll simply make fondue.”
Chapter Four
The need to hurry and get back to Abbie pressed at Gray’s back like a mugger’s knife. He’d left her at the convent guarded by a police officer. MacAllister would keep her busy while taking down her statement. Gray headed toward the patch of woods where the intruder had shot at Abbie. Simms, the chief of police—a scrappy goat of a man as weatherworn as the island—followed at Gray’s heels.
A platinum sky met a stirred-up sea of pewter. The scent of rotting kelp, peaty forest floor and rain-heavy spruce boughs filled the morning air. His suit—what was left of it—and shoes weren’t exactly the best equipment for this task, but his travel bag was stuck in the trunk of his Corvette on the mainland. The plan had been simple—get Abbie and get off the island.
He should’ve known. When it came to Abbie, nothing was simple.
“With the storm last night, we aren’t too likely to find anything,” Simms said when Gray bent closer to the ground for a better look.
“Won’t know unless we try.”
The ground was saturated from the rain, squishing moisture into his shoes with every step. He ignored the discomfort and concentrated on his task. The faster he found the trail, the faster he could get back to Abbie.
Spotting indentations in the ground, he stopped. Boots. Army boots. The real thing or purchased off the shelf? One person. That was a relief.
“Watch your step,” he told the chief. “I’ve got something.” Careful not to displace the track, Gray placed his foot alongside one particularly good boot mark. The print was narrower, smaller than his. The stride was shorter, too, with the toes pointed slightly inward. A short man? A woman?
Using the camera Sister Bertrice had loaned Abbie, Gray snapped a picture of the track and one with his foot placed next to it for comparison. Maybe Kingsley could come up with an identifier. Simms took his turn at photographing the evidence.
Picking his way along the trail, Gray looked for disturbed vegetation, broken twigs and turned-over rocks. Along the top edge of the bluff, near the spruce Abbie had been photographing when he’d found her, he noted light prints. Suddenly the prints moved backward, dragging heel and toe. A retreat when Abbie had clambered up the rocks?
He touched the imprint of Abbie’s shoe running away from him. But he knew the outcome of that trail, so he followed the other. It led to a boulder where the intruder had knelt and used the rock’s flat top to prop his weapon. The knee prints were smaller than he’d expect from a man, less deep. Would someone like Vanderveer entrust such an important job to a woman? That didn’t fit the bully profile. Bullies needed to elevate themselves by putting others down. And for a man like Rafe, a woman would make a prime target.
Yet what better way for Rafe to fool the people charged with watching his every move?
And there was Abbie in a convent full of sisters. Could one of the nuns be toting a weapon in the folds of her skirt? He itched to get back, but to protect Abbie, the professional in him had to learn as much as he could about his adversary.
Now the prints showed the intruder running. His prints chased hers. But in clear daylight he could see what he’d missed in the fog. He spirited the threads of Steeltex caught in the bark into his pocket before the cop could see them. As far as he knew, the project was still classified.
“Looks like your shooter rested here,” the chief said, stroking his close-cropped beard as he studied the scene. His navy windbreaker flapped in the wind.
In her camouflage suit, the shooter had blended well. “I breezed right by her without seeing her.”
“Her?”
“That’s what the trail says.”
The cop shrugged. “Could be a teenager. You said both shots missed.”
“Could be.” But not wearing Steeltex and not zeroing in on Abbie. Vanderveer wasn’t that desperate yet.
Gray climbed down
