instead on the physical attributes of a stranger? Why else was she slumped on a chunk of driftwood, with no place to stay that night and no clue as to what her next move should be?
Already the sun was sliding down on the horizon, allowing a hint of pre-autumn chill to permeate the air. She was hungry and travel-worn and disconcerted. She needed a comfortable hotel room, a hot bath, a good dinner, and an even better night’s sleep to fortify her for the battle ahead. But she knew from her earlier exploration that she’d find none of those things in Trillium Cove. The only inn in town had displayed a discreet No Vacancy sign and from what she’d seen, there weren’t any restaurants.
“Stop wallowing in self-pity!” she ordered herself. “It’s as unattractive as it’s unproductive. Get up off your behind and do something because you’re accomplishing nothing with this attitude!”
But her normal resilience had hit an all-time low. The accrued worry and frustration of the last few weeks had finally caught up with her and no amount of self-reproach could chase it away. Discouraged, dejected, she rested her chin on her folded arms and stared blankly at the empty horizon.
Damn her anyway! How long was she going to sit there like a lost mermaid waiting for the tide to sweep her back out to sea?
Irritated as much with himself as with her, Mac leaned back in the wicker recliner, propped his feet on the deck railing and took a healthy swig of his bourbon. Usually, topping off the day with an ounce of Jack Daniel’s and a perfect sunset was all he needed to give him a sense of well-being beyond anything money could buy.
Usually.
Usually, though, he didn’t have a desperate woman spoiling the view. He didn’t have a woman at all, except by choice, and even then only occasionally. And he made sure whoever she was didn’t come loaded down with expectations he had no intention of meeting.
Raising his glass, he squinted at the prisms of late-afternoon sunlight spearing the amber liquid. Fine stuff, Jack Daniel’s! Drink enough of it, and a guy could sink into a hazy stupor which nothing could penetrate. Trouble was, he’d learned long ago that when the effects of too much booze wore off, all he had left was a thundering headache and the same old problem he’d tried to elude to begin with. Which brought him back full circle to the woman on the—on his—beach.
Thoroughly ticked off, he slapped the glass down on the table at his side, lunged to his feet, and glared at her. She hadn’t moved a muscle in the last half hour. Head bent, shoulders bowed, she sat sunk in palpable misery. But what irked him beyond measure was that despite there being no law which said he had to make her problems his, the sight of her remained superimposed on the forefront of his mind regardless, and his thoughts kept turning to the problem she was trying to resolve.
If it had been an errant husband she was chasing after, or someone who’d taken her for a whack of money, he’d have been able to dismiss her without a second thought. But a child…a helpless baby gone missing? A man had to have traveled a long way down the road of indifference to turn his back on that.
He had the wherewithal to help her: contacts in high places, should he need them; knowledge and experience by the bushel right at his fingertips. But he’d laid down a set of rules by which he’d sworn to live. Rules which spared him having to call on any such resources.
It was fear, not rules, which held him back now, though. Fear that all he could do at this stage was discover she’d left it too late. Fear that, at the end of it all, the only thing she’d be taking back to her sister was a miniature white casket holding a baby’s remains.
He couldn’t go through that a second time.
Restlessly he paced the length of the deck and back, then turned for one last glance down at the beach. It lay deserted, not just directly below the house, but as far as the eye could see to either side. Not a living soul marred the two-mile expanse of sand he called his backyard.
She’d given up. Gone back to wherever she’d come from, or else in search of someone else’s help. He could eat dinner with a clear conscience. Praise the Lord!
His kitchen faced southeast, with a patio beyond the sliding glass door which caught the morning sun. He kept his barbecue out there, a gas-powered luxury model designed for year-round use regardless of the weather, but especially suited for an evening such as this.
He’d pulled a steak from the freezer and was in the process of searching the refrigerator for salad fixings when the bronze knocker on his front door struck the solid plank of oak. Not loudly or confidently or imperatively, the way he’d have approached it, but with a timid little pflunk!
The sixth sense which had served him so long and so well during his years on the force clicked into gear. Muttering a few choice words not fit to be heard in decent company, he strode through the living area to the hall, already resigned to what he knew he’d find waiting outside.
“Please,” was all she said when he opened the door, and he was lost. Lost in the bruised shade of her eyes, more blue than green in the descending twilight. And lost in that simple entreaty which spoke more poignantly than a flood of more urgent and articulate pleas.
“I should have realized you couldn’t disappear into thin air quite that fast,” he said, gesturing her inside.
She was shivering, pale, and just about ready to drop in her tracks. He grasped her upper arm and was shocked at how chilled her skin felt—far more than the cooling outside temperature merited. Shocked, too, by her air of frailty. “When did you last eat?” he inquired sharply.
She thought about it for a second, then said, “I stopped for coffee this morning.”
“I’m talking about a square meal.”
“I don’t know.” She lifted her shoulders indifferently. “Last night, I guess.”
Mac swore again, and propelled her to the leather couch in front of the fireplace. “Sit!” he ordered, and after she responded to the command like a well-trained member of the dog squad, he grabbed the knitted afghan his mother had sent him and flung it around her shoulders.
She curved herself into its warmth and blinked. She had the longest damned eyelashes he’d ever seen. Indulging in a few more choice obscenities—old police habits died hard—he knelt to put a match to the wood and kindling already laid in the fire grate then, while the flames took hold, returned to the kitchen and heated water to make a mug of his special hot rum toddy.
“Here,” he said, marching back to the living room some five minutes later. But she was already zonked out. Head cushioned against the arm of the couch, feet tucked under her, she slept like a baby.
Parking the rum toddy on the edge of the hearth, he piled a couple more logs on the fire, then leaned against the mantel shelf and rolled his eyes in disgust. He’d grown accustomed to his comfort zone, in which he was responsible only for himself; accountable only to himself. Still, he retained just enough humanity to be touched by her troubles.
A child had gone missing, for God’s sake, and even he—especially he!—knew the burden that cast on a person’s shoulders. And he was afraid. Afraid of his response to a woman so full of need that someone had to step in on her behalf, because she couldn’t do it alone. Afraid because, of all the people she could have turned to, she’d chosen him.
He’d looked into her eyes and remembered them not for their clarity of color or symmetry of shape, but for the faith he’d seen in them, and for the grief. And he was afraid
