Still exploring, she walked back down the hallway. The door to John’s room stood ajar. She hesitated; then, feeling vaguely naughty, she opened the door and stepped into the room.
Having met John, she should’ve guessed what his bedroom would be like. It was spare and plain, the double bed neatly made, the laundry piled in a wicker basket. A large map of Alaska was thumbtacked to one wall. A lamp, a book, and a clock radio rested on a bedside table. The only other ornament in the room was a small, framed photograph that sat atop the bureau opposite the bed. Walking closer, she saw that it was a picture of a much younger John, grinning as he held a squirming black-haired toddler in his arms. Behind them, Emma could just make out the lower part of a totem pole.
Had the other bedroom been meant for this boy—the boy whose absence she’d felt so strongly?
Who was he? What had become of him? She could ask John. But she sensed that the answer to that question was painful and deeply personal. She would be wise not to mention it.
She’d just left the room when she heard it—a bumping, scraping sound coming from the front of the house. She crept forward, her heart pounding. Something—or someone—was on the front porch, not knocking on the door but bumping against it. As the noise continued, she imagined Boone, piling wood onto the porch, preparing to set it on fire and burn down the house.
Her shaking hand found the pistol and thumbed back the hammer. Could she do it? Could she fling open the door and shoot whoever was on the other side? Maybe. But she’d never fired a gun before. What if she missed, or froze and couldn’t shoot at all? It might be best to keep quiet and wait.
Crouching behind the love seat, she rested the muzzle on the back, aimed the pistol at the front door, and held it steady. In the silent room, she could hear her own heartbeat and taste her own fear.
CHAPTER 4
Still crouched behind the love seat, with the pistol aimed at the door, Emma heard John’s Jeep pull up and stop. Something struck the porch with a sharp thump. She heard shouted curses and a scrambling sound. After a moment that seemed far too long, his key turned in the lock.
She rose, still gripping the gun, as the door opened. John stood on the threshold, a shopping bag slung over his arm. He wasn’t smiling. “Put that pistol down before you blow a hole in me,” he said.
Knees weakening with relief, Emma lowered the gun.
“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping inside.
“Fine! Just scared out of my wits.” She laid the gun on the side table. “What just happened out there?”
“Just a blasted bear on the porch. Probably smelled our bacon from this morning. I threw a chunk of firewood at him, and he took off.”
“A bear?” Emma’s knees gave way. She sank onto the arm of the love seat. “Weren’t you in danger?”
“He was just a half-grown youngster. Probably the first time on his own. But I couldn’t let him stick around. The sooner he learns that people are bad news, the longer he’s likely to survive.” He held out the shopping bag. “Here are your shoes. Half price this week at Tongass Trading Company. Try them on.”
“Thanks.” Emma had already resolved not to tell him what she’d imagined happening on the porch. He’d only think she was being flighty.
She took the bag and opened it. The blue and white running shoes were a quality brand. They looked well-made and comfortable. There were three pairs of good wool socks in the bag as well.
“Here’s your change.” He handed her a thick fold of bills.
“Thanks again.” She glanced at the bills, then slipped them into her hip pocket. She could count them later, but there appeared to be several hundred dollars. “That ring must’ve been real gold,” she said.
“It was.” He walked to the window while Emma tried on the socks and shoes. “I checked around for Boone. There was no sign of him. But the sooner we get the police on his trail, the safer you’ll be. I have one question to ask you.”
Emma had laced up the shoes. Standing, she took a few steps in them. They felt fine. “What kind of question?” she asked.
“At your wedding, what do you remember about the preacher? Do you recall his name?”
Puzzled, Emma searched her memory. “Boone introduced us, but I was too excited to pay much attention. It was Reverend Philpot, or Phillips, or something like that. He was tall and thin, with red hair in a braid down his back, and he was wearing this long black coat with a white collar. He did seem a bit strange, but—what? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because I know that man. He’s an old drinking buddy of Boone’s and he’s no more a reverend than I am. And that isn’t all. This morning I did some checking at the county records office. Emma, there’s no legal evidence of your marriage anywhere. As far as I can tell, you aren’t married. You had a fake wedding with a fake preacher.”
The shock sent Emma staggering backward onto the love seat. She huddled there, her hands pressed to her face as the news sank in—welcome news, to be sure. Her desperate situation had just become simpler. No divorce. No annulment. She was free. But the shame was there, too. She’d been so blind, so hopeful, and so dizzy with love and dreams of the future. But Boone hadn’t even cared enough to give her a real wedding.
* * *
John watched her take the news, surprised at her reaction. He’d expected nothing from her but happy relief—smiles and laughter, maybe even a little dance of joy. Only now, as she lowered her hands to reveal a glimmer of tears, did he realize how deeply invested she’d been in her dream of a happy marriage and a family.
Boone hadn’t just stolen her money and forced her to run for her life. He had made a mockery of everything she held dear. He had humiliated her, destroyed her trust, and shattered her pride.
As he waited by the window, knowing better than to speak, a subtle change came over her. She blinked away her tears, straightened her spine, and lifted her head. When she rose and turned toward him, her expression was one of wounded rage.