Refuge Cove (New Americana 2)

“And then what? Is there somebody you can call? Your parents? A brother or sister, maybe?”

“My parents are gone, and I was their only child. I’m not used to depending on anybody.”

Another reason Boone would’ve chosen her, he thought. No family to come looking for her. Emma had been the perfect victim. Thinking of what he’d have done to her if she hadn’t escaped made John want to crush the bastard with his bare hands.

He checked the rising tide of anger. This woman’s troubles were none of his business. But his conscience wouldn’t condone his leaving her to the mercy of a ruthless bastard like Boone.

“The only way for you to be safe is to leave Ketchikan,” he said. “I could fly you someplace close, like Sitka, and find you a place to stay while you work things out. I know people there who’d take you in.”

She finished the chili and pushed the bowl aside. “Thank you for your offer. You know I’d repay you for your trouble. But when I think about Boone and what he did to me, and how he’d probably do the same thing, or worse, to some other poor woman. . .” Her hand clenched into a fist. “How can I just walk away? How could I sleep at night, knowing he’d hurt somebody else and I hadn’t done anything to stop him?”

John swore silently. This was a complication he hadn’t counted on. “Boone’s a dangerous man,” he said. “You need to get out of his reach and leave him to the law.”

She gave him a steely look, her chin determinedly set. “I know you mean well. But after what that man did to me, I can’t just walk away. I need to see this through.”

John rose and began clearing away the dishes. “You’ve been through a lot, and you’re tired,” he said. “Sleep on it. Tomorrow, with a clear head, you’ll see your way to a sensible choice.”

“All right, for now at least.” She rose wearily. “I’m so tired I can hardly think straight, but that doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind. Thanks for putting up with me tonight. I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can figure out where to go next.”

John was tired of arguing with her. “The room will get cold when the fire goes out,” he said. “The best thing I can offer you for pajamas is a set of thermal underwear. At least it’ll be clean and warm.”

“Thanks.” She yawned. “I don’t suppose you have a spare toothbrush.”

“You’ll find a new one on the shelf above the towel rack. It’s yours. And you can keep the robe for now. I’ll get you the thermals.”

While she brushed her teeth, he put her wet laundry in the dryer and fetched a folded set of gray winter underwear—top and bottom—from his dresser. He handed it to her as she came out of the bathroom. “The bedroom will be warmer if you leave the door open,” he said.

For the space of a breath she froze, her eyes widening. She’d misread him, John realized. Not that he blamed her. After what she’d been through, he wouldn’t blame her if she never trusted a man again.

With a chilly good night, she took the thermals and turned away. John cleaned up in the kitchen and banked the fire for morning. When he stepped into the hall again, he saw that Emma’s door was firmly closed.

CHAPTER 3

Too wired to sleep, John sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and pulled on his jeans. A glance at the bedside clock told him it was after midnight. He could no longer hear the wind, but the rain was falling in a steady drizzle that poured off the eaves of the cabin. He didn’t expect any trouble on a night like this, but as long as he was awake, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

His loaded .44 magnum lay on the bedside table. He usually kept it locked in the Jeep, for easy transfer to the Beaver when he flew. Tonight he’d brought it inside. It didn’t make sense that Boone would drive for hours over rough forest trails on a stormy night, not even to find his runaway bride. But John couldn’t afford to take that chance. His ex-brother-in-law was as unpredictable as he was dangerous.

He had no doubt that Boone had recognized him. True, it had been almost dusk in the forest when he’d rescued Emma. But the red Beaver, with its serial number stenciled on the underside of the wing, would’ve been plainly visible when he’d made those two low passes over the muskeg.

He’d had little to do with Marlena’s family since their divorce fifteen years ago. But they knew his plane, they knew where he lived, and they hated him for giving their daughter a bad marriage and a half-breed son.

Now they could chalk up one more offense against him.

He shoved his feet into sheepskin slippers, picked up the pistol, and stepped out into the hall. Emma’s door was still closed—and probably braced with a chair on the inside. John understood that she didn’t trust him, and he knew better than to take it personally. He was a man—in her eyes, that was enough to make him suspect.

He’d held back the truth about his family connection to Boone because he wanted her to feel secure. But he didn’t like lying, not even for a good reason. When the time was right, he’d come clean.

Unless he could get her out of here first.

Still holding the pistol, he unlocked the front door, stepped out onto the covered porch, and gazed through the curtain of rain that streamed off the roof. He hadn’t expected any cause for alarm, and he didn’t find any. All he could see was more rain dripping off the trees and down the sides of the Jeep where he’d parked it. But at least, if Emma asked, he’d be able to tell her that he’d checked.

Damn the woman. If he’d had a lick of sense, he would have dropped her off at the police station and never looked back. Why did she have to show up now, when he finally felt like he had his life under control?

He’d been cold sober for seven years and still attended his AA meetings. But right now, if someone had thrust a flask of whiskey into his hand, he would have guzzled it dry. Any business involving the Swensons tended to push him toward the edge. He’d battled Marlena and her family for years over the right to see David, losing time after bitter time. Only when he’d given up the fight and backed off had he found a measure of peace.

Now he’d be dealing with Boone, who was the worst of the lot—but not by much.

The night was chilly, and he hadn’t worn his coat. But he wasn’t ready to go back inside. The patter of rain was as soothing as a lullaby. He inhaled the fragrances of evergreen trees and wet ground, letting the sounds and smells of nature calm his troubled spirit. His memory recalled the words of his grandfather, who had built this house and passed away under its sheltering roof.