Refuge Cove (New Americana 2)

Clive helped Emma ease John onto the double bed and get him out of his boots, socks, shirt, and trousers, leaving on his long, insulating underwear to help keep him warm while he rested.

“Hey, I’m not a patient,” John protested as they finished undressing him and tucked him into bed with pillows to prop him into a semi-reclining position. “I can do this by myself.”

“But will you do it, or will you get up and be off on some cockeyed errand? Knowing you, I’d advise Emma, here, to hide your clothes.” Clive laid John’s holstered pistol on the bedside table. “You heard the doctor. Warmth and bed rest, at least until tomorrow. And with that concussion, no sleeping too long at one time.”

“Are you hungry?” Emma asked John. “I can warm up some chowder in the kitchen.”

“They fed me in Sitka. I’m fine.”

“My wife and kids will be wondering what became of me.” Clive gave Emma a card he’d taken from his wallet. “Here’s my cell number. If he gets too rambunctious, give me a call. I’ll come over and set him straight.”

Emma seized his hand at the door. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she said.

“Think nothing of it. John would’ve done the same for me. Maybe someday he will. Meanwhile, take good care of him. He said some nice things about you. I can see they’re all true.” Before Emma could thank him again, he was gone.

When she turned back to look at John, he was sitting up in the bed, a tired smile on his face. “Lock the door,” he said. “All three locks.”

Emma did as she was told. “Anything else?” she asked, not knowing quite what to expect.

“Yes. Take off that godawful outfit, get into something comfortable, and come keep me company. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Yes, we do.” She untied her apron, lifted the little Kel-Tec pistol out of her pocket, and laid it next to his big .44.

Her fingers hesitated on the top button of her uniform. “Don’t look,” she said.

He turned his head away, “Good Lord, Emma, haven’t you ever undressed in front of a man?”

“Sorry, I was raised by my grandma, with her old-fashioned rules. They sank in deep.” She let the baggy pink uniform dress fall around her ankles, shed her bra, and reached for the top half of the thermal set she’d been using for pajamas.

“I suppose you could change in the bathroom.”

“Yes, I know . . . but that seems almost . . . cowardly. Besides, it’s cold in there.” She kicked off her sneakers and pulled on the thermal bottoms. “All right, you can look,” she said.

He was laughing, which was probably hurting his cracked rib. “Emma Hunter, you’re one in a million,” he said. “Damn it, I love you.”

Her hand shook as she tightened the drawstring around her waist. “I love you, too,” she said, the confession wrung from her by profound relief. “I would have stopped living if you hadn’t come back. Not that it makes anything less complicated.”

He shifted against the pillows to make room for her, resting an arm along the top. “Come here,” he said.

She did, snuggling up alongside him, her head nesting in the hollow of his shoulder. Nothing in her life had ever felt more right. They had so many things to say to each other, and all night to say them. The only question was where to begin.

She raised her face. He bent his head and gave her a lopsided kiss that lingered long enough to send warm tingles through her body. “Tell me about the accident,” she said. So he told her the story—the storm, the crash landing, the damage to the plane, and having to wait more than twenty-four hours in the damp cold before hearing the sound of an approaching Beaver. “By then I had the fire ready—a pile of junk from the plane, including one of the seats, even my coat. I poured gasoline over everything, tossed a match, and prayed that whoever was up there would see the smoke.”

“And Clive found you. What about the plane?”

“It’s still there. I’ll have to pay somebody with a boat to get to it and fix it or tow it out. It won’t be easy or cheap, but that plane is like an old friend. I can’t leave it there to rust.” His arm tightened around her. “Now, how about you? I was glad to see you were packing that pistol.”

“Boone knows I’m here,” she said, and felt his body tense against her. “When Philpot came by and recognized me, I knew it would only be a matter of time before he told Boone. Then, during the storm, I was in the bar. Boone walked up to the window and just stood there. He was wearing a hoodie, and when he pulled it back, I saw the

burns. I’ve stayed inside and carried that pistol ever since.”

“Don’t take any chances, Emma.” His voice had taken on a serious tone. “Boone could be more dangerous than you know. Remember when you were speculating that he might have done to other women what he did to you?”

“Yes, I made a sick joke about bodies buried out behind that trailer.” She looked up at him and read his expression. “Oh, no . . .” she murmured.

“A lot of things have happened since we last had time to talk,” he said. “Philpot told me he’d performed an earlier fake wedding for Boone last spring. He saw it as a prank—a way for Boone to get reluctant women into his bed.”

“So what happened to the woman? Does anybody know?”