Refuge Cove by Janet Dailey (3)

CHAPTER 3

Too wired to sleep, John sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and pulled on his jeans. A glance at the bedside clock told him it was after midnight. He could no longer hear the wind, but the rain was falling in a steady drizzle that poured off the eaves of the cabin. He didn’t expect any trouble on a night like this, but as long as he was awake, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

His loaded .44 magnum lay on the bedside table. He usually kept it locked in the Jeep, for easy transfer to the Beaver when he flew. Tonight he’d brought it inside. It didn’t make sense that Boone would drive for hours over rough forest trails on a stormy night, not even to find his runaway bride. But John couldn’t afford to take that chance. His ex-brother-in-law was as unpredictable as he was dangerous.

He had no doubt that Boone had recognized him. True, it had been almost dusk in the forest when he’d rescued Emma. But the red Beaver, with its serial number stenciled on the underside of the wing, would’ve been plainly visible when he’d made those two low passes over the muskeg.

He’d had little to do with Marlena’s family since their divorce fifteen years ago. But they knew his plane, they knew where he lived, and they hated him for giving their daughter a bad marriage and a half-breed son.

Now they could chalk up one more offense against him.

He shoved his feet into sheepskin slippers, picked up the pistol, and stepped out into the hall. Emma’s door was still closed—and probably braced with a chair on the inside. John understood that she didn’t trust him, and he knew better than to take it personally. He was a man—in her eyes, that was enough to make him suspect.

He’d held back the truth about his family connection to Boone because he wanted her to feel secure. But he didn’t like lying, not even for a good reason. When the time was right, he’d come clean.

Unless he could get her out of here first.

Still holding the pistol, he unlocked the front door, stepped out onto the covered porch, and gazed through the curtain of rain that streamed off the roof. He hadn’t expected any cause for alarm, and he didn’t find any. All he could see was more rain dripping off the trees and down the sides of the Jeep where he’d parked it. But at least, if Emma asked, he’d be able to tell her that he’d checked.

He’d been cold sober for seven years and still attended his AA meetings. But right now, if someone had thrust a flask of whiskey into his hand, he would have guzzled it dry. Any business involving the Swensons tended to push him toward the edge. He’d battled Marlena and her family for years over the right to see David, losing time after bitter time. Only when he’d given up the fight and backed off had he found a measure of peace.

Now he’d be dealing with Boone, who was the worst of the lot—but not by much.

The night was chilly, and he hadn’t worn his coat. But he wasn’t ready to go back inside. The patter of rain was as soothing as a lullaby. He inhaled the fragrances of evergreen trees and wet ground, letting the sounds and smells of nature calm his troubled spirit. His memory recalled the words of his grandfather, who had built this house and passed away under its sheltering roof.

Wise words from a wise old man. But when John’s spirit was churning, as it was tonight, it was hard to find much comfort in them.

A cold wind whipped his unbound hair and chilled him through the long-sleeved shirt he’d worn to bed. He’d been outside long enough. After a last check from both ends of the porch, he opened the door and stepped back into the house.

“Stay right where you are!” The voice was Emma’s. In the faint light from the dying fire, he saw her to the left of the doorway. She was half-crouched for an attack, her hands gripping the heavy iron poker from the fireplace.

John stifled a curse. “Emma, it’s only me! Put that thing down!”

Straightening to her full, diminutive height, she lowered the poker. John turned on the lamp. Still defiant, she stood in the circle of light with his oversized gray thermals drooping around her legs. Her hair was a mass of tangled curls. Her eyes blazed with annoyance.

“Give me that.” He laid the gun on the table and yanked the poker out of her hands. “What did you think you were doing? I had a gun. I could’ve shot you.”

“I heard somebody at the front door. I couldn’t be sure it was you. Why did you go outside? Was somebody there?”

“Since I wasn’t sleeping, I thought I might as well check around. It was a waste of time. There’s nothing out there but rain.”

Suspicion flashed in her eyes, as if she sensed that he was holding out. Guilty as charged, he thought.

“I wasn’t sleeping either,” she said, hitching up the drawstring waist of her thermals. “Right now, I couldn’t sleep if I had to.”

She was shivering, whether from cold or from stress he couldn’t be sure. But maybe it was time for a truce.

Without a word, he picked up the blanket that lay on the back of the love seat, wrapped it around her, and guided her to a seat. She curled up in it willingly, snuggling into the blanket while he added a couple of small logs and some kindling to the coals in the fireplace.

“As long as we’re awake, we might as well be warm,” he said. “I’ve got the makings for hot chocolate. Say the word if you want some.”

“That sounds nice, as long as it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble. It might even make you sleepy.”

In the kitchen, he broke the seal on a can of powdered cocoa mix, added it to some milk, and heated it in a pan on the stove. He’d never cared much for hot chocolate. It was too sweet. But he’d bought the mix a few years ago, in the hope of having David over for a weekend visit. He should have known better. The visit had never happened.

When the cocoa was hot, he poured it into mugs and carried them to the fireplace. Giving one to Emma, he settled at the other end of the love seat. By now the wood he’d laid on the coals had begun to burn. A small but cheerful blaze crackled in the fireplace. Stretching his legs, he rested his feet on the hearth.

Emma sipped the cocoa. “This is perfect,” she said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” John didn’t feel much like talking. But it was pleasant, sitting here by the fire in the middle of the night, with a pretty woman—and Emma was pretty, as pretty as the little brown birds that flashed through sunlit pine branches. There was a liveliness about her, a bright, intelligent spirit that made up for her lack of classic beauty.

Of course, he would never tell her that.

She’d been gazing into the fireplace. Now she turned toward him. “You know I’ve got some hard decisions to make. It would help if I knew more about Boone. What can you tell me?”

Her question shattered John’s brief contentment. “How much do you already know?” he asked, weighing the question of how much to tell her.

“I know that he’s handsome and charming, and that he lies through his teeth. I know that he stole my life savings, and that if I’d stayed with him in that awful place, I would’ve been raped, or worse. How’s that for starters?”

“Pretty accurate, I’d say.”

“How much do you know about his family—if he even has one?”

“Enough.” That much was true. “They’re bush people. They’ve chosen to live off the land, away from civilization, where there’s nobody to interfere with them. Where you come from, people would probably call them hillbillies.”

“You talk as if you know them.”

“Most people around here do, at least by sight. They have a homestead far up one of the canyons. Every few months they come into Ketchikan for supplies. The head of the family is the mother. Her husband, whoever he was, is long gone. He left her to raise three children—two boys . . . and a girl. All of them are grown now. Boone is her second son.”

“But you said you knew Boone in school. Did they ever live in town?”

“I was coming to that. When the children were young, their mother decided to leave Boone and his sister in Ketchikan with their grandmother. They lived with the old woman until they were out of high school. She died soon after they finished.” John took a gulp of his cocoa. It had gone lukewarm and was so sweet toward the bottom that swallowing it was like punishment for the lie of omission he was about to tell. “The girl—Marlena—stayed in town. She’s married now, to a fisherman who has his own boat. She has nothing to do with her mother and brothers. It’s as if she’s pretending she’s from somewhere else. I can’t say I blame her.”

“It sounds like she did all right for herself,” Emma said. “But what about Boone?”

“Boone was always too wild for town life. After high school, he went back to his kinfolk in the bush. I don’t know what prompted him to go wife-hunting. Maybe he was just lonesome. Or maybe the family needed a good woman to carry on the line. Whatever the reason, I’m sorry you had to be the one he found.”

“If not me, it would’ve been some other poor girl.” She gazed into the crackling flames. “I feel so foolish, now that I know. Why wasn’t I smart enough to see through all the sweet talk? Why didn’t I at least do some research and check him out before I threw my life away?”

“Because you wanted to believe it. You wanted the life you thought he was offering you. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“All my friends were married. I went to their weddings. I cuddled their babies. I ached to have what they had.”

“You said you were a teacher.”

“Yes, and I loved my job. I loved those little kids. But they weren’t mine. I wanted a good man to share my life. I wanted my own family. When Boone showed up, I was beyond ready for it to happen.” She shook her head. “It was easy for him to reel me in. So very easy.”

Her brutal honesty shamed him to the bone. He had fed her evasions sprinkled with half truths, hiding the things he didn’t want her to hear. But Emma was as true and real as a flame.

“Let me fly you out of here,” he said. “You can go to the state police in Juneau, tell them your story. There’ll be agencies there that can help you get some ID and find you a way home.”

“Thanks, but I’m not ready to leave,” she said. “I need to get an annulment and see that Boone never hurts another trusting woman. The money I gave him is probably gone for good, but I’d like to try and get at least some of it back. I’ll have better luck with those things if I stay here.”

She was right, John conceded. But staying in Ketchikan would put her in danger. And, whether he liked it or not, he’d become her protector. He couldn’t walk away until he knew she was safe.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you get careless, you could end up in more trouble. So listen to me. Here’s what we’ll do. In the morning I’ll leave you here, drive into town, and buy you some shoes. Then I’ll nose around Boone’s old haunts and find out whether anybody’s seen him. When I get back, we’ll take it from there. All right?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I don’t plan to impose on you any longer than I have to.” Sitting up straight, she twisted off her gold wedding band and thrust it toward him. “Take this. Boone told me it was his mother’s, but for all I know, he could’ve stolen it. See how much a pawnshop will give you for it. With luck it should at least be enough to buy me some cheap sneakers. Whatever it’s worth, I never want to see it again.”

John took the plain band, feeling its weight in his palm. He was no expert, but it had the look and solid feel of gold. He knew a trustworthy pawnbroker in town who’d be able to tell him what it was worth. At least it would give her a little spending money.

“Don’t you have to work tomorrow?” she asked him.

“Not on anybody’s timetable,” he said. “During the cruise ship season, from May to September, I fly six days a week for Taquan Air, taking tourists on sightseeing jaunts, as well as doing the mail run. Now that the season’s over, I’ll just be doing the mail contract. But if we get some time, I’ll take you up. There are some beautiful places I could show you. Maybe we could even look for Boone’s trailer from the air. Then you could tell the police where to find it. What do you think?”

Emma didn’t reply. She was fast asleep, her head drooping to one side like a tired bird’s. Standing, John dropped the ring into his pocket, fetched a pillow from the bedroom, and worked it behind her shoulders to cushion and support her. She snuggled into it with a little sigh.

He gazed down at her, battling a surge of tenderness he had no right to feel. She looked like an innocent child with her eyes closed, her full lips softly parted, and the firelight dancing on her face. He fought the urge to reach down and brush a fingertip along her cheek.

Mouthing a curse, he stepped away from the love seat. There’d be no going down that road. He admired Emma’s honesty and her spunky courage. He even found her attractive. But as far as he was concerned, the woman was nothing but a bundle of trouble. The sooner he got her out of his cabin and out of his life, the better off he’d be.

He took another log from the wood box and laid it on the fire. Then, after turning the reading lamp on low and angling the shade toward him, he sat down on the empty end of the love seat and opened a book.

* * *

Emma woke with a jerk. In her dream, she’d been running for what seemed like hours, legs pumping, heart pounding, but no matter how hard she ran, it was as if her feet had been nailed to the ground. And the awful, unseen thing behind her was gaining—never quite catching her, but so close that she could hear the rasp of its breath.

As the nightmare dissolved, she opened her eyes. Morning sunlight poured through a high window. From somewhere outside, she could hear a woodpecker drumming. Only after a moment’s panic did she realize that she’d spent the night on a love seat, in the remote cabin of the pilot who’d rescued her.

She could hear him in the kitchen, running water and rattling pans. Her nose caught the aroma of frying bacon. The smell reminded her that she was hungry again. Untangling her legs from the blanket, she managed to stand up.

He glanced around and saw her from the kitchen. His hair, which had been long and loose last night, was neatly braided and bound again. “You were out like a hibernating bear,” he said. “Are you all right?”

Emma cleared her throat. “Fine. Just crazy dreams. I must’ve been exhausted. What time is it?”

“It’s almost eight. I’ve been up for a couple of hours, but I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Heavens, if I were home, I’d be late for school.” She took a step, stumbling over the hems of the long underwear he’d lent her.

“Your clothes are dry,” he said. “You’ll find them on your bed. By the time you’re dressed, I should have breakfast on the table.”

“Thanks. I’m actually hungry.” Hitching up the thermals, she shuffled back to the bedroom and found her clothes neatly folded on the bed. Her jeans were ripped at the knees, and there were stains from the muskeg that no amount of washing would get out. But at least the clothes were clean. If pawning the ring fetched enough money, maybe she could buy a few simple things, like a change of clothes and underwear.

A groan escaped her lips as another thought crossed her mind. She’d left her purse in Boone’s truck. He would have not only her cash but her driver’s license, passport, cell phone, and credit cards. Until she could get everything cancelled, he would no doubt make good use of them. What a nightmare! It was even worse than her dream because it was real.

Dressed, and with the tube socks still protecting her sore feet, she returned to the kitchen. John had breakfast on the table. She took a seat and loaded her plate with bacon, scrambled eggs, and buttered toast.

“Thank you,” she said. “I really mean it. I wasn’t at my best last night, but I wasn’t ungrateful.”

“Understood.” He passed her a glass of orange juice. “I’ll be leaving for town when we’re done here. The shops open at nine. I should be back by ten with your shoes and some cash. After that, I think it’s time you told your story to the police.” His eyes narrowed as if he’d noticed her hesitation. “What is it?”

“It’s just . . . I’m not sure I can trust the police. Boone bragged to me that he had friends on the force. What’s to keep them from letting him know where to find me?”

“Friends?” John shook his head. “There are a couple of guys on the force who went to school with us. But I don’t recall their being friends with Boone. He ran with the rough crowd—booze, weed, bullying the weaker kids . . .” He rose, picking up his plate to take to the sink. “I wouldn’t worry about the police if I were you. Besides, you’re going to need their help. You can’t go after Boone by yourself.”

Emma had to concede he was right. “Fine. I’ll be ready to go when you get back from town. I wear a size six shoe, by the way. Get me whatever’s sturdy and comfortable, and hopefully on sale.” She glanced toward the sink, where he was rinsing his plate. “Don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll do that while you’re gone.”

“Thanks. That’ll save us some time.” He took a quilted vest from a hook behind the door and slipped it on. “I’m leaving the pistol,” he said. “You’re not likely to need it, but if the bastard shows up and threatens you, don’t be afraid to pull the trigger.”

If he was joking, she could see no sign of it in his stern expression. “Stay inside and keep the door locked,” he said. “Don’t go out on the porch or even look out the windows until I come back. If anybody knocks, don’t answer.”

“I understand.” Emma eyed the gun where it lay on the side table by his books. He was worried, she realized—maybe as worried as she was.

She checked the locked door as he drove away. Then she went back to the kitchen and started on the dishes.

* * *

John drove the Jeep to the highway, then south another eight miles into Ketchikan. The quiet after the end of the season was almost startling—the long boardwalk with its empty ship berths, the closed tourist office, the fishing boats clustered at anchor in the basin below the floating pier.

From where he stood by the parked Jeep, he could see where the streets climbed the steep slope to an area of newer, nicer homes. In one of them, a two-story white frame house, Marlena lived with her fisherman husband, their two young children, and David. They had decent lives, he imagined. With his own boat and crew, a man could make a lot of money during the salmon run. David, seventeen by now, would soon be old enough to help crew.

John wondered if his son would like that kind of work. But he wouldn’t get a chance to ask him. Marlena had done a number on the boy. After the things she’d told him, it was no wonder that David wanted nothing to do with his natural father.

A lone bald eagle circled above the water and flapped away to disappear against the sky. Reminding himself that he’d come into town for a reason, John turned away from his view of the white house, locked the Jeep, and strode up Dock Street toward the business section of town.

The pawnshop, on Main, was just opening for the day. The old man who’d run the place for decades examined the ring with his jeweler’s loupe. “It’s gold, all right. I’d say maybe eighteen carat,” he announced. “But the ring’s old. It’s had some hard wear. Not good for much now except melting down. I can offer you two hundred for it.”

Two hundred dollars wouldn’t get Emma very far, and the ring was all she had. John had been hoping for more, but he knew the old man was fair and honest. He walked out of the pawnshop with the cash in his wallet.

The bank was on the next block. John walked in and withdrew an additional two hundred dollars from his own account. He knew that Emma would never accept money from him. But she wouldn’t have to know that he’d sweetened the price of the ring.

He returned to the Jeep and spent the next twenty minutes driving the streets, looking for Boone’s old camo-painted pickup truck. He saw no sign of it, which didn’t mean much. Boone could be anywhere.

John checked the supply and gas place where Boone usually stocked up. The clerk remembered Boone from the day before, when he’d loaded up his truck and paid for the goods by peeling bills off a big wad of cash. But no, the man hadn’t been in since then.

With no place else to look, John was on his way to pick up Emma’s sneakers and head home when a sudden hunch struck him. He hit the brakes, swung the Jeep around, and headed for the Gateway County building. He might be wasting time, he cautioned himself, but if his instincts were right, he could be returning with a surprise for Emma—one that would be even more welcome than new shoes.

* * *

By ten minutes after nine, Emma had finished cleaning the kitchen. In the bathroom, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and finger-combed her hair. No makeup, but then, she’d never worn much. The way she looked this morning would have to be good enough.

Growing restless, she prowled the cabin. She was tempted to open the front door, just to look around, or at least glance out of a window. But the heavy pistol, lying on the table, was a reminder of the danger that could be lurking outside. A calm, capable man like John Wolf wouldn’t be worried without good reason.

She wandered to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, built into the wall on one side of the fireplace. Most of John’s books appeared to be non-fiction—history, true-life adventure, and how-to volumes that covered everything from cooking to airplane engine repair. There were a few novels—authors like Hemingway, Faulkner, and Steinbeck. But Emma, who loved to read but favored contemporary women’s fiction, found little to catch her interest.

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.