The chapter wasn’t cooperating with me. Then again, not much about the book had cooperated. In fact, it had been a struggle since the beginning. My characters had minds of their own and kept taking the story in unexpected directions. I’d never been much of a night person, instead preferring to wake in the wee hours before dawn and crank out words while I sipped my morning coffee and listened to the birds engage in their morning chatter. At least that had been my practice, back home in Virginia, before I came to the Happy Endings Resort for a writing retreat at the advice of agent and editor, who were anxious to have a completed manuscript in their hands.

Since I’d been at Happy Endings, my habits had changed. I found there were so many interesting people to watch that I preferred to spend my days doing that, and wait for the twilight hours to do my writing. It meant precious little sleep, and a deadline that loomed imminently—much to my agent’s worry—but since I’d been here, the uncooperative book had cooperated a little bit more. I knew now that I would make my deadline. I might be tired and bleary-eyed by the time I finally hit the ‘send’ button to get the manuscript to my editor, but it would get done. I was confident of that, and richer, too—just not in a financial sense—because of my time at Happy Endings.

On the night in question—the night where my story begins—I sat on the deck of my cabin, nursing a glass of Chardonnay and munching on sesame sticks while trying to extricate my detective hero, Jackson T. Wallis, from the latest mess he found himself in. That was when I saw her, trudging up the hill in front of my cabin. A brunette beauty clutching the hand of a towheaded young boy. I waved and said hi, but I don’t think she heard me, because she didn’t respond. Either that or she decided I was strange, like almost everyone else at the resort had during the summer. Like I was any weirder than the stripper, the nudist, or the resident stoner? Okay.

I’d polished off the glass of wine and finished the latest chapter when the brunette with the kid passed by again, and this time they stopped at the spot on the left side of my cabin and began to put up a tent. Intrigued, I wandered back inside my cabin and poured myself another glass of wine, content to stand on the porch and watch.

That was the plan, anyway, until I saw the tent almost collapse on top her. Being the chivalrous sort—and okay, I just thought she was hot—I set my glass on the table and rushed down the steps of my cabin to assist.

“Hey, do you need some help?” I thought it was an innocent enough question until I saw her jump two feet backward. “Sorry. I don’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay.” She lifted her head, and I noticed her eyes were brown. “It doesn’t take much these days.”

There had to be a story behind those words. Then again, I saw a story in nearly everything. I couldn’t help it. I was a writer.

“I’m in the cabin right over here,” I said, gesturing backward with my thumb. “I saw you struggling with the tent, and thought I’d lend a hand, if you need it.”

“Oh. You must be the reclusive author that Summer mentioned.”

“The author. Yes. That’s me, although I’m not sure how reclusive I am.” I wondered what else they were saying about me. “My name’s Dak Ryerson,” I said, offering a hand. “I write mysteries and thrillers.”

“Dak. Is that short for Dakota?” Her brown eyes sparkled with curiosity.

I nodded. “Yes, but only my mother still calls me that,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Molly,” she answered, but didn’t give a last name. “And this is Timmy.” She gave a half-smile. “He hates when I call him that.”

I looked down at the boy, who had her brown eyes, even if his hair was much lighter. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” he answered, looking up at me. “Just Tim, please. I am almost seven.”

The kid had good manners, which impressed me right away. “In other words, you’re way too grown up to be Timmy,” I surmised. “What about Timbo? Do you like that?”

He looked at the ground and kicked a pebble. “It’s better than Timmy, I guess.”

“Okay, then. Timbo it shall be,” I said. “Let’s get started on this tent.”

I waited a beat for an objection, but when none came, I reached down for the tent, noticing the seal of the United States Army. “Nice tent,” I said. “Are you in the service?”

“No,” Molly answered.

“It’s my dad’s,” the boy answered.

Right. The dad. The husband. It was a reminder that no matter how pretty this woman might be, she belonged to someone else, meaning I could help, but not flirt. But where was he? Molly and Tim appeared to be alone.

“He’s dead now. He was hit by a bomb, and he went to heaven.”

At the little boy’s words, a lump formed in my throat. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Lame, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“So am I,” Molly answered, not meeting my eyes. “He was killed in Afghanistan almost two years ago. It’s just Tim and me, now.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, although selfishly I wasn’t too sorry. Did that make me a jerk? I mean, I was sorry he lost his life, but I wasn’t sorry that it made Molly potentially available. Still, I had to tread carefully with this one. She might be pretty, but she was wounded, too. I could also almost hear my agent admonishing me that I was here to finish a book, not hit on the first pretty woman that pitched a tent next to me. The truth was, I’d been here all summer, and seen plenty of beautiful women, and I hadn’t hit on any of them. What was so special about this one? I didn’t know, but I wanted to get to know her so I could try to figure it out.

“Yeah. You already said that. If you can just help with the tent, that would be great, but I’m not in the mood for conversation, okay?”

I nodded, and reached for a tent pole. “Got it. No conversation. Maybe tomorrow.” Judging from the look she gave me, I was pushing my luck, so I shut up and concentrated on the tent, which wasn’t all that hard to put together. Score one for the Army.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork. “There. You should be good to go, now.”

Molly nodded and gave me a smile. “Yes, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else you need?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay. ‘Night, then. Perhaps I’ll see you in the morning.” I turned to head back to my cabin when Molly called my name.

“Wait. Dak?”

I turned around. “Yeah?”

“Can you tell me which way the restrooms are, so we can wash up?”

I fought the urge to offer them the use of my bathroom, because that wouldn’t exactly qualify as treading carefully. “Sure thing.” I pointed to my right, in the direction of a trail. “Down that way, about fifty yards or so. You can’t miss it. Everything’s very well lit.”

“Okay. Thanks again. I appreciate it.”

I shrugged, because it really was nothing. “No problem. Hope you’re able to get some sleep,” I said. “You too, Timbo. Good night.” I hoped I would see them tomorrow. In fact, I planned to make a point of it. I might not write much in the pre-dawn hours lately, but tomorrow I’d make sure I was up early and out on my deck. If nothing else, I could pretend to work.