Not ready to leave Barefoot Bay? Here’s a BONUS short story! Years ago, a hurricane blew through this island, and from the debris rose Casa Blanca Resort & Spa. On the night of Hurricane Damien, across the island…another adventure was unfolding during the storm. A woman on the run, a determined Navy SEAL, both caught in the…WHIRLWIND. Enjoy!
Whirlwind
A Barefoot Bay Short Story
by Roxanne St. Claire
Billie waited until the last possible moment to delay the inevitable. With the wind rocking the rusted corrugated metal of the trailer and fat drops splattering like a thousand hammers against the roof, she watched a soundless, ancient television set. Over the past two hours, the hurricane’s path had changed dramatically, shifting east over the Gulf of Mexico. Instead of passing by as a rainy, windy night, the storm was bearing down on Florida’s West Coast barrier islands, ready to do some major damage to the vulnerable shores of Barefoot Bay.
Clutching Nutmeg, Billie soothed the nervous little terrier with loving strokes, sharing sips of bottled water with her four-legged companion to buy every extra second before evacuating.
Billie Jo Taylor was scared, but she wasn’t stupid enough to try and ride out a hurricane in a two-room mobile home. She had to go to the school shelter, where they’d probably demand an ID she didn’t want to show them, and all the Mimosa Key locals would stare at her, wondering who the hell was the crazy blonde lady with the ratty looking dog. Everybody knew everybody on this island…except nobody knew her. And that was how she’d planned to keep it until this damn storm blew in.
Still, the longer Billie waited, the easier it would be to slip into the shelter and hide in the bathroom, possibly undetected until morning.
The lights flickered, drenching her in darkness, making Nutmeg bark and quiver in fear. But the power came back after a second, something which probably wouldn’t happen the next time. An outage was inevitable, and the least of what she’d have to endure if she stayed.
“It’s time, Nutsie.” She settled the dog on the bed next to the overnight bag that held most everything that mattered in the world—including the package that had landed in her PO Box yesterday. She hadn’t had time to get to the library computer and log on to her eBay account to post auctions, and with the storm, who knew if there’d even be a library tomorrow?
She pulled out the soft leather box just to look at the contents one more time, touching the large military watch that made her pulse jump when she’d found it online. The seller had been a fool, taking only twelve hundred dollars. Billie’s years of owning an antique store had given her a flawless eye, and a Laco in this condition was worth almost five times that much.
This watch was her ticket to her next destination…wherever that may be. She’d been on this island, hiding in the rented trailer for almost four months, slipping in and out of town for what she needed in a beat-up old truck she’d bought for next to nothing. Four months was enough time for Frank Perlow to use his considerable resources to find her. It was time to move on, except now she had to go to the damn shelter and risk exposure.
A gust of wind whistled through the cracks of the drafty windows, startling Nutmeg.
“Shhh.” She petted the dog’s head with one hand, but fingered the timepiece with the other. This would get her enough money to run, hide, and survive another four months. Maybe by then Frank Perlow would be dead. It was her only hope.
She turned the watch over and read the inscription she’d already memorized.
I am what you will be. I was what you are. R.M.S.
“Back in the old days,” she whispered to Nutmeg. “I would have created a whole World War II display around this. I’d have one of my historian friends write up a story about this RMS person. Robert Martin Smith, a hero who died in action. Or Raymond Michael Simmons, a seasoned vet.” Whoever bought this would truly appreciate a fine piece like this and the deep history behind it. “Back in the old days, this would have been a showpiece in my store.”
But the old days disappeared the night she accidentally walked into her apartment and saw something she never should have seen. Everything, including her precious antique shop and well-ordered life, fell apart as she ran. And hid. And prayed he didn’t find her.
With a sigh, she stuffed the box back in her duffel bag, refusing to think of how much being in the wrong place at the wrong time had cost her.
“All right, baby. We’ll go now and…” She stopped talking, a distant sound humming louder than the wind. Was that a car engine? All the way up here in the deserted, forested tip of Barefoot Bay? Nutmeg heard it, too, lifting her furry little head and cocking her ear.
The rumble grew louder, more distinct, then bright beams of headlights streamed in through the corners of the blinds she kept pulled tight. Instinctively, she dropped to her knees.
Who could it be?
A neighbor from the more populated end of Barefoot Bay coming to warn her to leave? Was it that lady and her teenaged daughter who lived in that beat up old house on the beach being a Good Samaritan in a storm? Or maybe the Mimosa Key sheriff had to alert every resident to evacuate.
Or maybe…Frank had found her.
“I bet it’s the sheriff,” she said softly, more to reassure herself than her terrified dog. Still, she reached under the bed for the last item she’d been planning to take, even if it would spend the night under the front seat of her truck because they’d never let her bring it in the shelter.
The Winchester Model 12 might be over a hundred years old and therefore a bona fide antique, but the rifle could shoot, and it had been locked and loaded since the day Billie had moved into this tin box.
A car door slammed. Nutmeg jumped up and barked sharply.
“Shhh, quiet.” Chill bumps crawled up her arms, despite the sickening summer heat in the trailer. Nutmeg obeyed the order, but dipped her head to launch a low, slow growl that could easily escalate into a loud bark.
Holding the rifle, Billie stayed down and inched to the window to sneak a peek at a compact car. The door opened with the headlights still on, blinding her to whoever got out of the driver’s side. But as the figure emerged into the light and walked toward the door of the trailer, she hissed a breath of horror.
“Son of a bitch. He sent someone to kill me.”
Someone who obviously could do the job. The man must have been six two and damn near two hundred pounds of rock solid muscle covered in a rain-soaked T-shirt and worn camos. His hair was shorn to highlight sharp features, an angular jaw, and a mean slash of black brow.
But it was his hands that stole her breath. Hands the size of a small country, with long fingers and wide palms. Hands designed to do two things: make a woman scream in pleasure or squeeze the life out of another human.
Billie had no doubt which one this beast had come to do.
Nutmeg’s growl grew louder and Billie shook her head furiously. “Hush, Nutsie, please!”
As if she understood her owner’s fear, Nutmeg obliged, sinking back into the pillow. But it wouldn’t last; the second Conan the Barbarian reached the door—the only door in or out of this damn place—nothing could keep that dog quiet.
Think, Billie Jo, think. Just as she turned to grab the dog, the man pounded on the metal door, the sound reverberating back to the bedroom where Billie stayed.
“Anybody home?”
As expected, Nutmeg vaulted from the bed, staccato barks echoing as she ran into the trailer’s only other room.
A hit man who knocked?
Still, Billie directed the barrel of her rifle toward the door that led to the living room, while she considered her options. If Frank had hired him, this man wouldn’t leave with her alive. She’d have to escape somehow. There was only one way out—through the front door that she couldn’t even see from where she stood in the bedroom. If he got in here, she’d have to somehow get past him to the door.
Without Nutmeg? It was unthinkable.
But, then, so was dying. So she’d shoot the guy. The callousness of that thought made her swallow. Okay, maybe not a mortal wound but enough to immobilize him, say a shot in both legs. Then he’d be stuck here and maybe the hurricane would…do what hurricanes do.
Would that be murder? Not…technically. All she needed to do was escape.
She snapped her fingers three times, usually enough to get Nutmeg to come, but the dog didn’t hear or respond, and Billie didn’t want to give herself away by calling out.
“Hey!” the man called again, a bellowing baritone louder than the wind and rain and far more terrifying. “Is anybody in there?”
Would a trained killer ask to come in first? Maybe this was a concerned neighbor or—
He rattled the door, shaking hard enough that the whole trailer moved.
A looter? Some creep looking to make a quick buck in places evacuated for the storm? On instinct, she scooped up the bag and threw it into the bathroom. Maybe she wouldn’t have to shoot him if she convinced him she had nothing of value. Maybe she could—
The shatter of wood splintering and metal tearing echoed from the living room, drawing a tiny shriek of shock from her lips. He’d kicked the door open! A heavy footstep landed in the living room and she braced her legs, ready to fire, lowering her rifle so she’d hit his legs and not his heart.
“Hey, pooch, you get left behind?”
She blinked in surprise at the sudden change in the intruder’s voice. Who was he? Whoever, he knew how to subdue dogs, because Nutmeg instantly quieted to a breathy pant.
“What the hell kind of dickhead evacuates and leaves their dog behind?”
Oh, a looter with opinions. Resentment sparked through her and she had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from responding. Nutmeg whined, the happy sound she made when someone picked her up. Damn it. I really should have gotten a Rottweiler.
Another footstep, bringing him that much closer to the only other room in the trailer. Billie squared her shoulders, curled her finger around the trigger, and took a deep, calming breath just as her bedroom doorway filled with the silhouette of a man holding her dog.
When he stepped into the light, their gazes locked instantly. Surprise widened his steely blue eyes and unlocked a square, whisker-shaded jaw. And disgust rolled off him as he angled broad shoulders and tightened his hold on Nutmeg.
“Don’t shoot the dog.”
She almost choked. “Get the hell out of my trailer or I’ll kill you,” she said through gritted teeth, hoping she sounded tougher than she suddenly felt.
“I’m not leaving till I get what I want, ma’am.” The threat was quick and easy, scary and sure, accompanied by a few steps and punctuated by a sputter of lights as the electricity flickered, failed, and died, leaving them in total darkness.
Nutmeg barked.
Billie gasped.
And the man’s footsteps kept coming toward her.
She tightened on the trigger, squeezed her eyes shut, and—the whole rifle went flying out of her hand, the force of the blow making her teeth crack together. Before it hit the floor, a shot echoed through the trailer, making Nutmeg yowl as the man cornered Billie against the wall.
He peered down at her, still holding her dog, close enough that even in the darkness she could see the ice in his eyes. They were shockingly blue, fringed with black lashes, somehow threatening and inviting at the same time.
“Look, lady, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt this cute little dog. I don’t even want to be here. But someone named William Josephs, who rents this hellhole of a house, has a Laco B-Uhr Type Two pilot watch. I’m not leaving until it’s in my hands. Is that clear?”
Holy hell. He wanted the watch.
* * *
The tiniest glimmer of recognition flickered in the hazel eyes that peered up at Rick, wiped away so fast that a lesser trained man would never have noticed. But Lieutenant Rick Stone was trained by the U.S. Navy, and SEALs didn’t miss a tell. Annie Oakley in her double-wide with an old-school rifle had just given herself away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her jaw still tight in a mix of fear and fury.
“The watch that was delivered to a PO Box owned by William Josephs, who rents this fine piece of property. Know him?”
“No.”
Squeezed between them, the ratty little terrier whimpered softly. It probably knew she was lying, too.
“Is he your husband?”
“If you hurt my dog, I’ll kill you.”
He’d already disarmed her with one fairly light touch, so he doubted she could manage to carry off that threat. Still, he knew she had the watch and he had no reason to piss her off even more.
Very slowly, he inched back and eased the dog to the floor. A noisy gust of wind rattled the whole place, hard enough to make the cheap, raised floor rock underneath them and terrify the dog, who took off to the front of the trailer, barking insanely.
“Nutmeg!” the woman called, jerking away, but Rick slammed his hands on narrow shoulders to hold her in place.
“The watch.”
She looked up at him, searching his face, her expression well guarded. Her hair was wild, fried by a bad home bleach job, and she didn’t wear a speck of makeup. Still, for trailer trash, she wasn’t bad looking. Pretty, even, but for the raw terror on her face. Maybe thirty, with wide-set eyes and Southern belle skin. She looked like Hollywood had miscast a starlet for the role of a redneck.
“What’s it worth to you?” she demanded.
Everything. “Double whatever you’re asking.”
Another flicker of response. “How do you know I have it?”
“I know.”
This time there was definite interest in her look. Interest in money, not him.
“Are you seriously offering…” Suddenly, she frowned, jerking away, her attention shifting. “Where’s Nutmeg?”
The dog had stopped barking.
She pushed him with far more force than he expected, wresting out of his grip and running into the darkness of the trailer. “She got out!”
He followed, jolted by the unexpected crack in her voice, and reached the other room in four long strides, his night vision already making the layout of the place visible. Not that it was that complicated.
He found her at the front door he’d bashed open, the rain falling hard and steady, silhouetted by the headlights he’d left on to help navigate his way.
“Nutmeg!” she screamed into the storm, then turned to him, fire in her eyes. “God damn you, she’s all I have in the whole world! She’ll never survive this!”
Something inside him squeezed tight in his chest. The same pressure he’d felt when he’d gotten the word that Granddad had passed. A punch of helpless guilt, a kick of loss. And he’d been ten thousand miles away from home on a trawler taking down Somalian pirates and couldn’t do a damn thing except kill pirates. Which he did, a lot.
She took a bold step into the downpour to call for the dog again, just as a furious gust ripped a branch off a tree twenty feet away, the wood splintering, the branch blowing inches from her face.
“She can’t be far,” he said, putting two hands on her shoulders, not as a threat this time, but to ease her back into the shelter of the trailer. “I’ll get her. What’s her name? Nutcase?”
She almost smiled, but tears filled her eyes. “Nutmeg. Please. Please find her.”
So blondie could disappear with his watch?
No, scratch that. He’d just offered to double the price, and he’d go four times higher than that if he had to.
She gripped his arms in a death squeeze, her fingers strong, warm, desperate. “Oh my God, I’ll die without her.” Wind buffeted the trailer, making her momentarily lose her balance and tumble into him, the pressure of her body surprisingly pleasant before she jerked away as if he’d burned her.
“Where does she usually walk?” he asked.
“She doesn’t. I mean, she never goes outside without a leash, and I just take her out back a couple times a day. She doesn’t know her way around here. She’ll be lost in minutes.”
“Get back inside.” He nudged her further out of the rain and stepped down into the mud. “I’ll find her.”
“I should go with you. She might come if she hears my voice.”
“Then stand here and call.” He took a few steps away, peering into the downpour and wind. The outer bands of this hurricane had made landfall and another tree branch could snap at any time. “I have a flashlight. Just wait here and stay under the roof. If it gets too bad, get in the bathroom, away from any windows.”
Without waiting for her response, he jogged to the car, opened the passenger side, and dug into the bag he’d brought for his brief mission. Which, except for a dumb dog, could be accomplished now.
“Nutmeg!” The woman had come back outside, the rain flattening that mess of her hair and soaking the thin T-shirt she wore. The headlights beamed right on her wet body, pulling his attention to feminine curves that, like the pretty face, seemed completely out of place in this trailer hiding in the woods.
Or maybe the trailer wasn’t hiding…maybe she was.
“Go back in,” he hollered over the wind. “I’ll find her.”
But would he get what he came for, or would this little enigma keep pretending she didn’t have it? “And you’ll give me my grandfather’s watch when I come back,” he added, as insurance.
Her eyes flashed wide open and she swiped water out of her eyes. “If you find my dog.”
He flipped on the flashlight to scan the scrub and brush. Nutmeg. Damn it, he’d find her if it killed him.
“Wait!” she called out, making him turn to look at her soaked silhouette again. “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Richard M. Stone, United States Navy SEAL, ma’am.”
She practically buckled with something that could only be called relief. “Oh. That’s…good.”
Usually, it was. “And you?”
“I’m…Billie Jo.”
Billie Jo. As in William Josephs, owner of the PO Box where Rick’s watch had just been shipped. “I’ll be back, Billie Jo,” he promised. “And I’ll have your dog.”
She disappeared in the house, hopefully to retrieve his watch. He couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t make any promises, though.
* * *
Inside, Billie took just one minute to catch her breath and count her blessings. He wasn’t hired by Frank, that would be her first blessing. He wanted that watch badly enough to pay good money, and that was another blessing because she could leave right away without waiting for a sale online. And if Nutmeg had to run away in a storm, who better to rescue her than a big, burly, Navy SEAL? The third blessing was the most intriguing, no doubt about it.
She headed back into the bedroom, her eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to avoid slippery pools of muddy water left by her soaking wet clothes and the pounding rain that blew in the open door. Another gust made the cheap aluminum roof scream as it fought to stay on, reminding her that nothing was safe in this trailer, but she couldn’t leave now. She couldn’t leave Nutmeg or the Navy SEAL who was risking his life to save her dog.
Slipping into the bathroom, she dug through the duffel bag and pulled out the watch. The piece was in its original box, too, which added to the value. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she snapped the box open and took the watch off soft satin casing, turning it.
I am what you will be. I was what you are. R.M.S.
His voice echoed in her heart.
Richard M. Stone, United States Navy SEAL, ma’am.
An inexplicable thrill danced through her, making her crackle like a live wire had touched her wet skin. Of course, she needed the money, but what she wanted most was to see Richard M. Stone’s raw-boned face soften, because she just knew it would.
RMS…this belonged to him.
Footsteps pounded hard enough to wobble the whole trailer. She jumped, and the box fell off her lap, but she ran toward the front, stuffing the watch into her pocket because the minute he handed her Nutmeg, she’d hand him his treasure. Not for money, but because…he owned this.
And because he was a good man. A Navy SEAL, a hero, no doubt related to the original RMS. He was a man unlike—
“I knew you were too stupid to evacuate during a hurricane.”
Frank Perlow.
She didn’t even think, she just launched herself right past him, so fast she was practically airborne on her way out the door. He spun, but she heard him thud to the floor and swear, sliding in the puddles on the linoleum floor.
Billie didn’t bother to look back, she just tore off as fast as she could go, directly into the storm, directly into the brush that scraped and tore at her skin and clothes. Nothing mattered but to run as far and as fast as she could. It was the only way to stay alive.
* * *
Nutmeg was a squirmy thing, but Rick held tight to his captive and muscled his way through the blinding rain toward the little trailer. It hadn’t taken that long to find the freaked out little pup, hidden under a thicket of mangroves, crying like a banshee. But in the time he’d searched, the next, more serious band of the storm had moved in. The flying leaves and small branches were blinding and dangerous.
He’d have to get both Billie and Nutmeg out of there, and fast, before the next gust took the place apart.
He powered on, waiting to get closer so she’d hear his victorious hoot. She’d be happy. Why that mattered to him, he had no clue. All he wanted was the watch that had been on his father’s wrist when he died.
Well, not all he wanted, he admitted to himself. In the last half hour, he’d wanted something else, too. He wanted to get to know Nutmeg’s owner a little better. Something about her intrigued him. What was she doing in the middle of nowhere, hiding in a rusty trailer?
“Let’s go see your pretty mistress, Nutcase. She’s got something I want.” As he came around the last grouping of thick scrub and oak, he slowed his step, frowning at the door he’d kicked open. Why was it open again?
Shaking off as much water as he could, he stepped inside. “Billie Jo?”
Nutmeg practically launched out of his hands with excitement, but there was no other response.
“Billie?” He closed the front door before putting the dog down and heading to the back. She must be hiding in the bathroom, maybe in the tub with a mattress over her head, which would be smart.
The wind was screaming now, loud as a freight train, and compounded by the noisy drumbeat of the downpour on the roof. This place wouldn’t last another hour, that was for sure.
“Billie!” he called one more time as he walked into the bedroom. Nutmeg barked loud and furious, so she must have known he’d rescued the dog. So where…
His gaze landed on the box on the floor next to the bed. Reaching down, he picked up the familiar case, the leather as soft and worn as he remembered, the inside still creamy satin. And empty.
Damn it, Rick. How could you be so naïve?
For a moment, he just stared at the box, memories pouring over him like the rain on this tin trailer, flooding his senses. He’d held this case as a child, when his father first showed him the watch and promised if he went into the Navy, the watch would be handed down to him someday. He’d held the case when he sat with Granddad, after Dad had been shot down and Rick became next in line for the watch. He’d held the case when he left for BUD/S training, asking Granddad to keep the watch for him.
Then Granddad died while Rick was in Somalia, and his shit-for-brains cousin Dan sold everything he could get his hands on. For the past six months, Rick had a friend up in Boston tracking this thing, and it finally showed up on eBay, shipped here.
To William Josephs…or Billie Jo, the scam artist who had no last name, who had taken his watch and ran.
Despite the roar of the wind and the smack of a good size branch against the mobile home, he stood there for a moment, frowning. What was wrong with this picture? She’d left on foot? The poor excuse for a truck was still parked in the back; he’d just seen it on his way in with the dog. So, unless someone came and picked her up, she was out there on her own.
Looking for the dog? Hiding the watch? Running…from him? Hadn’t he proved he was legit?
The shatter of glass and crunch of metal spurred him into action, the sound of a tree smashing that junky truck. Holding the box, he snagged the dog and took off. This place was about to get eaten by Hurricane Damien.
He tossed the ball of fur onto his passenger seat before he climbed in to drive away. Just as he did, a powerful gust buffeted the car, so strong he swore the vehicle lifted up on two tires for a second, and so massive that the whole roof of the trailer ripped away and curled like the top of a sardine can.
If she’d hidden the watch inside somewhere, then he’d never find it when this storm was over. If she’d run off with it…well, she might not make it until morning. At which point, he’d deal with the coroner or law enforcement.
Billie Jo With No Last Name wasn’t his fucking problem.
Nutcase barked.
“Neither are you,” Rick muttered, turning the ignition on. “But you’re stuck with me now.”
* * *
Billie could barely drag her legs forward, her feet were so stuck in mud and her body was so soaked through to the bone. Still, she forced herself deeper into the mangroves and pepper trees that formed the forest of scrub.
She thought about running to the beach, but, for one thing, she couldn’t fight the wind. For another, the beach would be too out in the open. The nearest house was way down on the bay, but that’s where Frank would look for her. She couldn’t bring that lady and her teenage daughter into this if they were still there, riding out the storm. Frank would kill them, too.
A burst of body-flattening wind exploded through the scrub, ripping leaves and branches and throwing Billie backwards on her rear end. She cried out, but that just got her a mouthful of dirty, sandy water. She spit it out, peering into the blackness, laying on the bramble, not sure which death was scarier: the one inflicted by Frank or the one from Mother Nature.
Either way, she wasn’t going to make it through the night.
And what about Nutmeg? Another wave of misery, as strong as the wind, blew over her. Even if the Navy SEAL had rescued her, Frank would kill him and Nutmeg when they got back.
Maybe not. Maybe he’d kill Frank.
A flicker of hope sparked in her chest, enough to push her up, despite the impossible wind trying to grind her back down. A tree next to her cracked and sailed into the air, a whirlwind of leaves whipping wildly around her head. She sank again, using her arms to cover her face, rolling into a ball, sliding along the mud.
She didn’t even react to the thump on her back, so many stones and branches had hit her.
But she saw stars when a man’s hand snagged her wet hair and snapped her head backwards. And through the rain and swirling leaves, she saw the face of Frank Perlow.
“You little bitch,” he spat at her. “You thought you could hide?”
She jerked to the side, just wet enough to slip out of his hand, scrambling away. He caught up in two strides, the wind at his back, propelling him toward her.
“Leave me alone!” she managed to scream.
“I have been, Billie.”
He was so close now she could smell him. Despite the musky scent of wet earth and salt water in the air, every breath full of the filthy, foul stench of a murderer. She managed a few more steps, just out of his reach.
“I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity,” he said, his words caught in the wind. “Now I can kill you and this storm will wipe away every bit of evidence.”
Of course. That’s what he was good at—killing without leaving a trace. Except that one time she had been the trace. She was the witness.
He lunged toward her, a knife flashing wet from the rain. She rolled further away, branches slicing her face, making her cry out in pain.
“This is gonna hurt more, Billie.” He brandished the knife, momentarily frozen by a gust of wind circling the other way. She used the delay to cling to a tree trunk to keep from blowing right into him and his knife.
He smiled. “I’m going to slide this blade across your throat.”
She tried to swallow, just imagining the horror and knowing he could and would make good on the threat.
He leaped forward, grabbing her shoulder and tearing her from the tree, tossing her to the ground. In an instant, he was above her, his knee jammed into her chest.
She fought wildly, turning so she could scream, kicking, pushing, opening her mouth to chomp on his wrist but getting nothing but a downpour that choked her.
He was stronger and had the wind at his back now, leaning over her, lifting the knife, his steely gray eyes full of hate and the determination to silence the witness to his heinous crime.
The next gust pushed him closer, her punches useless against his much more substantive size.
“You’ll never tell anyone what you saw!” Once more, he lifted the knife, aimed directly at her throat. She twisted, moaned, and tried to jerk so he’d miss her. The knife came down and so did he, his weight landing hard on her while an echo of something sharp and loud and deafening rang in her ears.
A gunshot? Had she just heard a—
The pressure of his body suddenly disappeared as he was lifted by…the wind?
No, by a hero who held Frank’s bloodied body in one hand and a pistol in the other.
“Did he hurt you?” Rick dropped to his knees next to Billie, tossing Frank aside and reaching for her with hands so gentle and strong it was impossible to believe he’d fired the bullet that went into Frank’s head.
Impossible, but…amazing.
“No,” she managed to whisper, finally able to see him as he leaned over her protectively. “You killed him.”
“I saved you. Big difference.”
“You killed him,” she repeated, still unable to grasp the simple fact that was about to change her life back to normal.
“If that’s a big problem for you—”
She yanked his head closer, kissing him with all the fire and joy and relief and gratitude that rocked her with more force than the hurricane winds. And he kissed her back, opening his mouth, transferring the same tsunami of emotions, the same amount of need.
“I’ve been hiding from him for months,” she whimpered into his kiss. “I saw him murder a man in cold blood and he wanted…he was going to kill me, too.”
He eased her up, so close that she could see cuts on his face, evidence of what he’d just battled to save her. “I knew it,” he said softly.
“You knew I was hiding from him?”
“I knew you wouldn’t run with my watch.”
She smiled. “It’s in my pocket. Where’s my dog?”
“In my car.” He pulled her up. “C’mon.”
She clung to him as they fought the wind so powerful it could uproot trees, bare branches, and, quite possibly, blow dead bodies out to sea.
* * *
Standing in the sunshine surrounded by the remnants of what was once her personal jail, Billie held Nutmeg to her chest and stroked the dog’s hair. The trailer was virtually gone, nothing but bits of metal, a refrigerator, and her upside down truck remaining.
“We don’t have to hide anymore, Nutsie,” she whispered, tears of happiness burning her eyes. “We’re free. We can go back to Charleston, we can open a business, we can—”
“Found it!” Rick burst out from behind a truck, his arm raised in victory, his handsome face flush with success. In his hand, the leather box that the watch had arrived in.
“Awesome,” she called, letting squirmy little Nutmeg down to scamper over to him. Billie didn’t blame the dog. She wanted to get close to Rick, too.
They’d spent the night safely in the school shelter, where they’d found a quiet corner in the boys’ locker room. There, two people who’d met under the most extraordinary circumstances finally had an ordinary conversation.
Not that there was anything ordinary about Lieutenant Rick Stone.
“This box is all I want from this place,” he said as he reached her. “How about you?”
“There’s nothing here I want.” She glanced around at the rubble, but her gaze settled on him. “Except I kind of like the guy who saved me.”
He grinned, reaching to tunnel his hand under her hair and guide her face up to him. “And I thought you were Annie Oakley trailer trash.”
“I don’t even have blonde hair,” she said with a laugh.
“Good. I like brunettes. And this is one crappy bleach job, by the way.”
“I’ll have it grown out in six months.”
He didn’t answer, his beautiful blue eyes searching her face, the way he had all night when they told each other their stories. When she’d told him of witnessing the murder, he’d held her in his arms and let her cry with relief now that it was over. And when he’d told her about the loss of his father in the first Gulf War and how it had wrecked the life of a seven year old hero worshiper, she’d held him, too.
“Six months?” He pulled her closer, eliminating the space between her body and his. “I’ll be home in six months.”
“I’ll be in Charleston, opening up a new antique shop.”
“Can I visit?” he asked with a smile.
“You better.”
“Can I stay overnight?”
It was her turn to smile. “If Nutmeg lets you.”
He looked down at the dog. “Nutcase loves me.”
And, in that single suspended moment of time, Billie had one simple thought: so could I. “Then you’ll be welcome in my home, in my shop, and in my…” Bed.
“I’ll be there.” Rick grinned, a crazy thing of beauty that squeezed air out of Billie’s lungs and common sense out of her head.
He lowered his head and kissed her gently, the first time they’d kissed since the furious exchange in the brush. This was softer, sweeter, full of promise and hope and warmth.
They were still holding hands as he navigated his car over the rough roads and fallen trees of Barefoot Bay, heading back to the south end of the island. As they reached the most picturesque part of the inlet, he slowed the car so they could see through the bare trees to the beach.
There, a woman and a lanky young girl slowly walked over rubble and debris of what had to have been one of the first houses built on the island. The girl looked to be sobbing, but the woman was talking animatedly, strawberry blonde hair blowing as she moved with purpose and something that looked…well, hopeful if not happy.
Rick lowered the window to call out, “You need help, ma’am?”
The woman lifted her hand and beamed a smile that seemed completely out of place. “We’re great. Never been better.”
Rick threw a look at Billie. “Is that sarcasm or has she lost her marbles?”
“I haven’t gotten to know her.” But she could, now. She no longer had to hide or avoid her neighbors. She was free. For the thousandth time in the last ten hours, she looked at Rick Stone with gratitude dampening her eyes.
“Are you sure?” he called again. “Do you need a phone? Water?”
“Honestly, we’re great.” She gave her daughter a squeeze. “Mother Nature is doling out second chances!”
Billie laughed softly, absently stroking Nutmeg’s head where it rested on her lap. “You can say that again.”
“Mother Nature is doling out second chances,” he repeated, turning to give Billie another kiss. “And I think we should take her up on it.”
Nutmeg barked in complete agreement while they kissed like the lifelong lovers Billie had a feeling they were going to be.
The End