Refuge Cove by Janet Dailey (2)

CHAPTER 2

John climbed out of the Beaver and left Emma in the cockpit while he secured the plane to the dock and lifted out the mail pouch for delivery to the post office in nearby Ward Cove. His ten-year-old Jeep Wrangler was on the far side of the graveled parking lot. He started it up, parked near the end of the floating dock, and walked back down to help Emma out of the plane.

“Hello, John Wolf,” she said as he opened the passenger door. “Since you didn’t introduce yourself, I did some snooping. I found your name on the plane’s registration.”

“You could’ve asked.” He held out his hand.

“When?” She let him guide her onto the float and support her step to the dock. “Should I have asked you while we were ducking bullets, or maybe while you had me slung over your back like a sack of coal?”

“Well, since you know it now, I guess that doesn’t matter. That’s my Jeep next to the dock. You can thank me for sparing your feet from the parking lot.”

“Thanks.” She fell silent beside him, taking careful steps on the damp surface.

What now? John asked himself. He hadn’t invited this helpless woman into his life, and he had no obligation to keep her. Common sense dictated that he drive her into Ketchikan, drop her off at the police station, and forget he ever saw her. No complications, just an interesting memory.

But she was cold, muddy, barefoot, and probably still scared half to death. Unless there was something in the pocket of her jeans, she appeared to have no money and no identification. Dumping her at the police station would be like leaving a storm-soaked kitten on the front step of the animal pound.

Besides, against his better judgment, he’d become curious. She’d mentioned a husband, and he’d noticed that she was wearing a gold wedding band. What was her story? What kind of bastard would chase his wife into the forest with dogs and a rifle?

Or maybe the question should be what kind of woman would drive her husband to that kind of rage in the first place?

* * *

The engine was already running in the Jeep, the heater roaring full blast. Emma sank into the leather seat, savoring the heavenly warmth.

“I don’t believe I thanked you,” she said. “You literally saved my life.”

“I did what anybody would do.” He seemed uncomfortable with her gratitude.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he shifted into reverse and backed the Jeep away from the dock.

“Up to you,” he said. “After I drop off the mail, I can leave you at the police station in Ketchikan, or you can come home with me for the night.”

She looked slightly startled. “Would that be all right with your wife?”

“No wife. Just me. But I’ve got a spare room, a shower, and a washer and dryer for your clothes. You can talk to the police in the morning. Your choice. I’m not trying to talk you into anything.”

Emma studied his clean-chiseled profile in the faint light. Could she trust him? Maybe she was being too cautious. After all, the man had saved her life. But given what had happened the last time she’d trusted a man, she had every right to be suspicious.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Not that you’re familiar with the area, but my cabin’s a couple of miles off Revilla Road, past Talbot Lake, on an old logging road. If you’re not comfortable with that, I can leave you at a hotel in town. Think it over.”

Emma weighed her new reality. She wasn’t ready to talk to the police, especially since Boone had bragged about being friends with some of the officers. She didn’t have money for a hotel. She didn’t even have shoes or a change of clothes. She was filthy, exhausted, and scared that Boone would still come after her. Whether she liked the idea or not, this wasn’t a good time to be on her own. And this taciturn stranger was the only refuge she had.

“I’ll take you up on your offer,” she said. “Thanks—and I’ll try not to be any trouble.”

“Fine. For what it’s worth, you’re already trouble. I’ve had a few house guests over the years, but never a runaway wife.”

A knot tightened in Emma’s stomach. He had thrown down the challenge, and she owed him the truth. It was time to come clean.

“You said it was a long story,” he prompted her. “I’m listening.”

“I’m not sure where to begin.”

“For starters, you can tell me the name of your husband. Maybe I know him.”

She stared down at her hands. “His name is Boone Swenson.”

“Good God!”

The Jeep swerved slightly before he corrected his jerk of the wheel. “You’re married to Boone Swenson?”

“I take it you know him.”

He touched the brake as a deer bounded into the headlights and disappeared on the far side of the road. The release of his breath was slow and controlled. “I do know him,” he said. “And if you don’t mind saving your story until I’ve dropped off the mail, I’ll listen to every word.”

* * *

John checked in the mail pouch. Then, leaving Ward Cove, he turned onto Revilla Road and headed the Jeep toward home. He kept his eyes on the road as she began. She was brutally honest, sparing herself nothing.

A lonely, naïve woman, past thirty, desperately wanting love and a family, she’d gone to a singles dance at her church in Salt Lake City. There she’d met a man who’d swept her off her feet—tall, blond, rugged—a bearded Viking warrior in a Pendleton shirt.

“I thought he was the answer to my prayers,” she said. “He showed me photos of this beautiful log house and told me he needed a wife and children to make it a home. But he didn’t have time for a long courtship because he had to fly back to get his house and boat ready for winter. He could meet me in Ketchikan, he said, and we’d be married there before we left for his home in the bush.”

She fell silent as John made a left turn onto the road that led through the forest to his cabin. He could imagine the rest of the story. Boone was a natural-born con artist. He’d hooked this innocent woman and reeled her in like a fish on a line.

But that didn’t mean he should start feeling sorry for her, John reminded himself. There was no way he’d want to get involved in this mess. He was putting her up for the night. That was all. Tomorrow her problems would be just that—her problems.

“Within two weeks, I’d quit my job as a first grade teacher,” she said, continuing her story. “I moved out of my apartment, bought a ticket on Alaska Airlines, and cashed out the seventeen thousand dollars in my savings account. Boone said I should bring cash, because there weren’t any banks where we were going.” She shook her head. “Like the fool I was, I took him at his word.”

“We’re here.” John pulled up to the log cabin he’d inherited from his grandfather. It was a solid home, not large but comfortable. The old man had built it two generations ago, when his family was young. John had added a garage for storing his Jeep and snowmobile and the freezer for his winter meat supply. He’d also paid for a top-of-the-line power generator. A high water tank had a line to the kitchen and bath area.

He parked and went around the Jeep to open the door for Emma. She slid off the seat, easing her weight onto her lacerated feet. He offered an arm to help her onto the porch. The hand that gripped his sleeve was small and cold.

“The rest of the story can wait till you’re warmed up,” he said. “Come on.”

Clouds had rolled in across the darkening sky. The wind had freshened, smelling of rain. John could hear Emma’s shallow, rapid breathing as he opened the door. She sounded scared, but he could understand that. The woman had been through hell. But that didn’t make him her knight in shining armor. He would keep her for one night. Tomorrow he would drop her off someplace where she could get help.

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “You’ll be safe here. Come on in.”

* * *

Inside the dark cabin, Emma waited while John stepped away to turn on a lamp. What she saw was a long room with log walls and open rafters. At one end was a rudimentary kitchen with shelves above a counter and an ancient-looking fridge and gas stove. At the other end was a tall river stone fireplace faced by a well-worn overstuffed love seat with a woolen blanket in a colorful Native American pattern hung over the back. A stack of books rested on a side table, next to a reading lamp. There was no TV.

A hallway led off one side of the living room to what must’ve been an added wing. Old photographs, in handmade wooden frames, hung on the walls.

Rustic and cozy were words that came to mind. But the room was also chilly. Shivering, Emma pulled the sheepskin flight jacket around her. John moved to the fireplace, where he opened a box of matches, and lit the logs and kindling that were already laid for a fire.

Now that he’d turned away from her, in the light, Emma saw that his straight ebony hair was pulled back into a leather-wrapped braid that hung down to the space between his shoulders. He was Native American, she realized. How could she have missed that earlier?

As the flames caught, he disappeared down the hallway and came back with a faded plaid flannel bathrobe. “You’ll want a shower. Toss your wet clothes into the hall. I’ll put them in the wash. Soap and towels are in the bathroom. The spare bedroom is the door on the right.”

John Wolf was a man of few words, Emma reflected as she returned his coat, took the robe, and carried it back down the hall. It went without saying that he wasn’t pleased to have her here. Maybe that had something to do with her being married to Boone. She shouldn’t have been surprised that the two men knew each other. They appeared to be about the same age, and Ketchikan was a small town.

But were they friends or enemies? Questions twisted the frayed knot of her nerves. After what she’d been through today, she couldn’t rule out anything.

Had Boone known whom he was firing at when he’d shot at them in the twilight? Had he shot to kill, or had the near-misses been deliberate?

If Boone knew John and had recognized him earlier, he could show up here demanding to claim his wife. Could she count on John to protect her, or would he hand her over to her lawful husband?

For all she knew, the two men could even be friends. John could be planning to call Boone on his cell phone the minute she got into the shower.

Either way, she knew better than to feel safe here. But right now she had nowhere else to go.

The small bedroom was spotless, the twin bed covered with a Native American blanket and made up with military precision. The upper part of a double wall shelf displayed model planes and boats, and beautiful little figures of bears, seals, and walruses, hand-carved from beechwood. The row of well-thumbed books—mostly adventure stories written for young boys, filled the lower shelf. An Alaska travel poster, showing an eagle in flight, was thumbtacked to one wall. An ancient-looking black bearskin, laid next to the bed, lent a little warmth to the cold wooden floor.

This was a boy’s room, carefully, even lovingly arranged. But Emma had seen no boy.

Standing on the bearskin rug, she laid the robe on the bed and stripped off her wet, muddy clothes. Even her plain pink cotton bra and panties were soaked. She hesitated. An image flashed through her mind—her intimate garments in John Wolf’s hands as he put them in the wash. A warm flush crept up her throat and into her cheeks.

But she was being silly now. Shivering in the cold room, she peeled off the undergarments and wrapped them in her shirt, then slipped on the bathrobe. The worn flannel was soft against her bare skin. The scent that rose from its folds blended clean soap and a hint of male sweat.

Opening the door, she tossed her wet clothes into the hall and found the bathroom. The stacked, apartment-sized washer and dryer sat in a niche outside the bathroom door. The shower was a prefab model. Exposed pipes connected to a small water heater. The arrangement looked primitive, but when she turned it on, the hot water was heavenly. It took all her willpower to turn it off after a couple of minutes to save the precious supply.

With a towel around her wet hair and John’s oversized robe wrapping her body, she walked back into the kitchen. Her lacerated feet were sore. They stung with every step.

The table was set with two mismatched plates. A pot of chili simmered on the stove. John turned away from stirring it.

“Sit here,” he said, indicating one of the two kitchen chairs. “I want to check your feet.”

She sat down, making sure the robe covered her knees. After picking up a jar of salve, a pair of rolled-up tube socks, and a box of bandages from the counter, he pulled out the other chair and took a seat facing her, laying a towel across his knees. “Give me your foot,” he said.

Emma raised one foot. Resting the heel on the towel, he opened the jar and began rubbing salve on the fresh scrapes and scratches. At his touch, warmth trickled up her leg. She willed herself to ignore it. In the silence, she could hear the washer running and the night wind whistling through the trees.

“Thanks for the shower,” she said, needing to make conversation. “The hot water made me feel like I’d died and gone to heaven.”

“You didn’t stay in there long.”

“Believe me, I was tempted. But I wanted to leave enough water for you.”

He glanced up at her with sharp, dark eyes, then lowered his gaze to her foot again, giving Emma her first real chance to study him. His features were angular, almost fierce, with a finely chiseled nose, square chin, and high cheekbones. His skin was a deep golden bronze.

From where she sat, she could see one of the old black and white photos that hung on the wall. She couldn’t make out the details, but it appeared to show three people in ceremonial garb, with robes and headdresses, standing at the foot of a totem pole.

“The people in the photos, who are they?”

“My relatives—the Tlingit.”

“The pictures look old.”

“They are. Those people are mostly gone now.” He slipped a white tube sock over her foot and lowered it to the floor. She raised the other foot without being asked.

“And those amazing costumes—do your people still wear them?”

“Only at celebrations.” He inspected the sole of her foot. “Most of the time we’re just people—teachers, lawyers, laborers, fishermen, artists, even pilots.”

“I do believe that’s the longest sentence I’ve heard you speak,” she teased, trying to draw him out.

“Most people talk too much.” He daubed salve on a long scratch. She winced as he touched a deeper cut.

“That one needs more than salve.” He unwrapped a bandage. Taking care to clean around the cut, he applied it and pressed it tight.

Emma unwrapped the towel from her hair and began using it to blot away the water. She wasn’t here to make small talk, she reminded herself. This might be her only chance to learn more about the man she’d been foolish enough to marry.

“So how do you know Boone?” she asked.

“We went to school together.”

“Were you friends?”

“No.”

“And now?”

“No.” He slipped the other tube sock onto her foot, rose, gathered the supplies he’d used, and set them aside on the counter. “The chili should be hot. Hungry?”

“Starved.”

He set butter and a loaf of store-bought bread on the table, and filled two glasses with milk. “Sorry I can’t offer you a beer,” he said. “Since I’ve sworn off alcohol, I don’t keep it around.”

“It’s all right,” she said, surprised that this taciturn man would reveal something so personal. “I don’t drink either. Not even coffee.”

“Salt Lake City. I should’ve guessed.” He spooned steaming chili into two bowls and placed one in front of her.

“It smells wonderful,” she said. “Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes. I even shot the moose you’re about to eat.” He took a seat on the opposite side of the table.

Emma blew on a spoonful of chili and took a cautious taste. “It needs time to cool, but it’s good,” she said, meaning it. “I’ve never tasted moose before.”

“You were married to Boone, and you’ve never had moose?”

Emma sighed and put down her spoon. “Is that my cue for the rest of the story?”

“You need to eat. Your story can wait.”

She shook her head. “I’ll feel more like eating after I’ve told you. Be warned. It isn’t pretty.”

He propped the spoon on the edge of his bowl. “I’m listening.”

* * *

John studied the woman sitting across from him, his bathrobe warming her bare body. Her damp chestnut hair hung past her shoulders, curling around her face in soft tendrils. Even though he knew she was in her thirties, there was a look of almost childlike innocence about her. He found her intelligent hazel eyes, generous mouth, and lightly freckled complexion appealing, but her features came together in a way that fell short of beauty. Such a woman—vulnerable and lacking confidence when it came to men—would be a natural target for a man like Boone. The fact that she had money put away would make her the perfect mark.

Outside, the storm had arrived. Thunder boomed across the sky. Rain battered the windows of the cabin as Emma began her story.

“I flew in last night on Alaska Airlines,” she said. “Boone met me at the ferry landing. He said he had a motel room for us, but . . .” She flushed awkwardly. “I didn’t want to spend the night with him until we were married, so I paid for a room of my own. Early this morning he gave me the marriage license to sign. A minister friend of Boone’s performed the ceremony in a park with totem poles. It was beautiful, with the sun coming up, reflecting on the water. I’d even brought along my mother’s wedding dress to wear. I was so happy, so trusting. . .”

Her words trailed off. She was close to tears. It would be a kindness to stop her. But John knew he had to hear the rest of her story. He’d never meant to get involved with this woman and her problems. But whatever ugly truths he might be about to hear, he was too curious to turn his back and walk away.

He waited in silence while she fought to bring her emotions under control. She seemed determined not to cry. John liked her for that. He remembered how he’d found her, struggling through the muskeg with dogs on her heels. She might appear as fragile as a violet, but she was a scrapper.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t easy.” She took a sip of milk and picked up her story. “I gave Boone all my cash. While I changed clothes, he used some of it to fill his pickup truck with gas and supplies and pocketed the rest. Then we left town and drove most of the day, over old logging roads, into the back country. I’d dozed off, dreaming about the beautiful log home he’d shown me in the photo and how we were going to raise our family there.

“I woke up—literally and figuratively—when he stopped the truck and told me we were home. That was when . . .” She paused, lifting her chin. “That was when I knew I’d been a silly, romantic fool. I was looking at a dilapidated house trailer, surrounded by junk. Two huge dogs were chained by the front wheel—they didn’t look like they’d had anything to eat, except this old deer head they were fighting over. Some kind of animal carcass was hanging from a tree. . . .”

She shook her head. “There was more. But you get the idea. It was awful. But worst of all was the change in the man I’d married. It was like he’d been acting in a play, and the play was over.

“Boone ordered me to get out of the truck and help him unload. You can imagine what the inside of the trailer was like. Food wrappers, garbage, even flies.” She shuddered. “On the stove there were some burnt-looking pans. Back home, I’d had a neighbor arrested for cooking meth. I recognized the smell.”

She’d begun to tremble. Her fingers twisted the gold ring on her finger. John checked the impulse to get up and comfort her. Hands off the lady—that was the only sensible rule.

“So was that when you ran?”

“Not quite.” Her reply was laced with irony. “When we’d finished unloading supplies and were back in the house, Boone announced that he was going to the bathroom. He told me, ‘When I open the door, I want to see you undressed and in that bed.’

“By then I was already searching for a way out—any way I could find. When he closed the bathroom door, I saw my chance. I’d noticed a jug of kerosene and some matches next to a lamp on the table. I poured some kerosene into a pan on the stove, lit a couple of matches, and tossed them into it. When the fire blazed up, I ran for my life.”

“You set the trailer on fire with Boone in the bathroom?” John was torn between horror and admiration. Damn, the woman had guts. No wonder Boone had come after her with a rifle.

“The fire was in a cast-iron pan, on the stove. And I’d left the trailer door open. Boone wouldn’t be trapped—I was sure of that. But he’d have to deal with the fire before he came after me. I was hoping that would give me time to get away.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. “I was wrong. I’d been on the run for an hour, maybe, hopelessly lost, when I heard the dogs. You know the rest.”

“At least you know you didn’t kill him,” John said.

“I wouldn’t want to kill anybody. Not even Boone. But he’s bound to come after me again. And if he recognized you, he could come here. That’s why I have to leave.”

John glanced upward, listening to the drumbeat of rain on the roof. Emma could be right. But she wasn’t equipped to go anywhere. She’d fled Boone’s trailer with no spare clothes, no identification, and no money. Without help, she’d be reduced to begging on the street.

Standing, he took her bowl and scraped the chili back into the pot and turned on the gas flame. “You still need something warm in your belly,” he said. “And don’t worry about tonight. You’ll be safe enough with the storm outside. Tomorrow you’ll be rested and have dry clothes to wear. I’ll drive into town, buy you some shoes, and we’ll take it from there.”

The chili hadn’t taken long to warm. He ladled it back into the bowl and placed it in front of her. “Eat. That’s an order.”

She took one spoonful, then another. He could tell she was hungry. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know my being here is an imposition. I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can walk through that door on my own two feet.”

“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.