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Ignoring her familiar use of his name, he crossed the kitchen and entered a small neat office with a beat-up desk, two metal filing cabinets and a window viewing the circular driveway. Posters of her cabins and the main house, along with maps of the village of Burnt Bend and Firewood Island, decorated one wall. His gaze fell to a photo on her desk of a barrel-chested man in a fisherman’s hat, laughing at the camera, bear paw hand resting on the shoulder of a tow-haired preschooler. Husband and son?
Behind the desk, Kat O’Brien smiled. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Should I?” And then, because he’d grown up on the island, he added, “Did we go to school together?”
“I’m Lee Tait’s sister. You used to come to my mother’s house when you were in high school.”
Dane studied the woman across the desk, his memories scrambling back and back. And then it hit. Except…this woman couldn’t be the dark-eyed sprite once nagging her sister to be included in their group. Could she? “You’re…Kaitlin?”
“Kat,” she corrected. “When I turned sixteen, I wanted a name that sounded fun, so I resigned Kaitlin to the…” her fingers made air quotes “…official drawer.”
When he said nothing, when he could only stare, her smile slipped. Setting a pen on the registration book, she said, “I’ll also need to include your driver’s license on your registration form. Then I’ll show you the cabin.”
He felt those keen eyes observe his gloved hands as he wrote. Forcing himself to keep his head down, to not blurt, Be thankful you can’t see the scars, he focused on his breathing. In his peripheral vision, he saw her turn momentarily to one of the metal cabinets.
“Your key,” she said handing it over the instant he completed the information. Then, chin up, spine stiff, she led him out the door. “If you choose to eat with us,” she said, locking up the office, “breakfast is at eight a.m. each morning, except Sunday when it’s at nine. Lunch and dinner are your responsibility. However, I will set out refreshments and snacks at four p.m. on the dinner table.” She nodded to the dining section where a long table, stationed in front of a wall-size, country-paned window, faced the circular drive. “You’re also welcome to use the guest living room, back deck or sit on the porch gliders. The rest of the house is off-limits.”
“Does the cabin have a kitchen?” he asked. Standing in her kitchen with its floor to ceiling cupboards, he noted the bow of her mouth, the way it tilted at the corners as though anticipating that fun she mentioned.
“Yes, both cabins are fully outfitted.”
He glanced at her commercial Sub-Zero refrigerator, imagined the food inside, the ten summer guests seated around her table, chatting, laughing, asking each other questions. Though a stab of guilt pierced him, he was infinitely glad the current cold temperatures would give him an excuse to stay in the cottage and refrain from her listed amenities.
He headed for the mudroom, intent on leaving for the privacy of his cabin.
She followed. “I’ll show you the way.”
Before he could say, I know where it is. I booked the smaller cabin, remember? she zipped past him, grabbed the umbrella and was out the back door, her baked cookie scent swirling in his lungs.
Dane stepped onto the deck. Thankfully, a wet gust of wind eradicated her from his nostrils and he inhaled deep to ensure no trace remained. He did not want her image branded into his brain.
Yet he trailed her and that silly umbrella across the strip of wet lawn, up a flagstone path, to the log building sporting another rain-drenched flag, although smaller than the one welcoming visitors onto the veranda of her house.
Kaitlin O’Brien was a patriot.
He couldn’t get inside the safety of the cabin fast enough.
Before he heard it all again. The roar of the improvised explosive device, an IED. The shattering glass. The deafening blast ripping metal, wood—bodies—into a trillion bits.
Before he heard Zaakir’s screams, saw the flames destroying—
Stumbling on the first step leading up to the porch, Dane grabbed the newel post. The familiar knot in his throat had him swallowing. Not now. Not while she’s watching.
“Dane?” She hurried back down the stairs. “You okay?”
“Must’ve slipped,” he lied.
She looked at the step he’d stubbed with his toe. “I’ll have someone put down some new weather stripping right away.”
Ashamed of his deception, he shook his head and took the steps two at a time. “No need. I’m just tired, is all.” Half turning, he looked back. She stayed on the stairs, her fine dark brows puzzled, the rain a wet curtain around her and the pumpkin umbrella. “It’s okay,” he assured. “And thank you for letting me in a day early.” He inserted the key, opened the door.
Guilt pressed hard, crushing his chest. Still, the up-bringing he’d had before he’d left the island for the military had him hesitating. He nodded politely. “Goodbye, Kaitlin.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He studied her for a moment. He should explain. He should tell her he was a loner. That life had changed him, Iraq had changed him, war had made him see things in ways she would never understand. He should present some guarantee he wasn’t completely crazy. To ease the uncertainty in her eyes.
You don’t need to fear me, he wanted to say. I’m not one of those types.
She hoisted the umbrella higher, took the lower step. “If you need anything…”
“I know where to find you.”
She offered a smile. “Enjoy your stay.”
As he watched her walk through the drenched woods, he wondered what she’d say if he told her joy was no longer part of his vocabulary.
Chapter Two
Two days later, the Do Not Disturb sign remained on the exterior doorknob of Dane Rainhart’s cabin.
Kat could see her commercial yellow-and-white notice from the corner window by the enamel sink where she scrubbed egg from her son’s plate. She had walked Blake to the end of her wooded lane ten minutes ago, then returned home the moment they heard the school bus rumbling along Shore Road.
Since his tenth birthday, Blake no longer appreciated his mother waiting in full view of the other bussed kids. Yet, he hadn’t wanted to let go entirely of their ritual. Thus, they waited in the lane’s bend, and when the bus approached, Kat turned back, out of sight. Sometimes, she caught herself blinking to dispel the sting of tears; soon even this small daily routine would disappear forever.
Nothing stays the same, she thought.
Boys grew into young men.
Husbands died before their time.
And former childhood infatuations became grim-faced loners.
The dishwasher loaded, she made a decision. This morning, she would knock on his door. Whether or not he welcomed the intrusion, she needed to change his bedsheets. Her guest rooms never went a day without clean bedding and a thorough sanitizing, but she had respected his privacy for two days because of the sign, because his motorcycle hadn’t moved out of the carport.
However, the time to freshen up the cabin was at hand. Yes, he’d signed on for three months, but that didn’t mean she would disregard her business. Sign or not, she’d give the place a scrubbing.
As she tidied her own house and worked in her office, she prepared herself mentally.
He’s not the same as he was twenty years ago.
Neither are you, Kat.
At ten o’clock, she gathered sheets, towels, wash-cloths and two new soap bars from the storage room into a laundry basket. Slipping into her tall, green farm boots, she took a deep breath and stepped out onto the deck.
The air smelled of wet earth and rotted leaves. Gray clouds flecked the sky, though a mellow sun crept among the barren branches. Somewhere, a squirrel chattered and higher up the slope a crow cawed.
The cabin looked lifeless.
She strode up its stone path.
At the porch steps, she faltered. What had occupied him for two days, in four hundred square feet of floor space?
Not your concern. Pressing her lips together, she knocked on the door. And waited. Fifteen seconds, thirty. Another knock, louder this time. Fifteen more seconds.
She was about to lift her hand a third time when the door cracked open. Shadowed in the dim interior and the porch roof, he appeared grimmer than he had getting drenched on his Harley.
“Good morning,” Kat said with forced cheer. Mercy. The man’s potency hit like a hammer. The way he stood there, dressed in all black…sweatshirt, cargo pants, socks…
Tongue-tied, she nudged the basket higher.
His gaze dipped. “Thanks, but I do my own housekeeping.”
“The rental price includes housekeeping.” When he didn’t slam the door shut, she took heart. “I’ll be no more than ten minutes, and I won’t be in your way.” When he continued to block her access, she drew a long breath. “Look—why don’t I leave these with you? When you’re done, leave the dirty laundry in the basket on the porch and I’ll pick it up later. And, oh,” she nodded to the round flowered tin atop the clean linens, “the cookies are fresh and a bonus.”
A glance, then his eyes lifted to her. An electric jolt hit Kat’s abdomen. Smarten up, she told herself. You’re not a teenager anymore and neither is he.
With gloved hands, he reached for the bundle in her arms. “Thanks.”
Kat frowned. Gloves inside the house? “Is the heater not working?” Darn it, she did not need an added expense this time of year. “If there’s a problem with it—”
“The heater’s fine. Thanks for the linens and the cookies.”
He moved to close the door.
“Is there anything you need me to—”
“No.” The doorway narrowed to a slit. “You’ve done enough, Ms. O’Brien.” And then she was alone again.
Kat shook her head. What an odd sort he’d become.
Several seconds passed. No sound came from within. Even the forest had gone silent. She went down the path to her house.
He wore gloves. And black clothes.
A chill skittered across her skin. Was he into drugs? Was he a thief, a mobster on the run? Why wasn’t he staying with his parents on the other side of the island? Or at his sister’s apartment in the village?
Dozens of possibilities rushed through Kat’s mind—and none felt right. Behind that severe Clive Owen facade, Dane Rainhart exuded a soul-deep sadness. His eyes spoke of it whenever he thought she wasn’t paying attention.
At her own door, Kat paused. Through the trees, the cabin appeared the cozy getaway she’d always envisioned. Today, the structure resembled isolation and loneliness, two impressions she recognized better than any since Shaun’s death.
She went inside to continue her day, but her thoughts journeyed a thousand times to the cabin in the woods.
What made Dane Rainhart so unhappy? And why did she care?
And then there were the hot twinges deep in her core—those she didn’t understand at all.
Not when she still dreamed of her late husband.
The following Tuesday morning, the privacy sign no longer hung on the cabin’s doorknob. Did that mean he wasn’t home? Or was it a message for her to visit?
Twice in the past week, she had exchanged his soiled bedding for a laundered stack, hoping at the same time to catch a glimpse of him. So far, nada.
Emboldened by the sign’s absence, she tugged on a ratty blue cardigan hanging at the back door, and headed out.
Purple crocuses, daffodils and a medley of tulips—characteristic of Puget Sound’s mild winters—colored the dark, damp flowerbeds bordering her tiny backyard. On a whim, Kat hurried back into the mudroom and grabbed a pair of pruning shears she kept handy.
She cut a handful of waxy-leafed flowers before slipping the shears into the cardigan’s deep pocket and walking to the cabin. The day had dawned bright and clear, the temperature hovering around fifty-eight. March was entering like a lamb.
She knocked twice.
The door remained closed.
Her face warmed. What was she doing, bringing a man flowers, for God’s sake? Maybe he had allergies. Or hated flowers.
Before she could change her mind, she tried the knob. The door fell open several inches.
“Hello?” she called softly. “It’s me…Kat. I’ve brought you something…” No answer. “Dane?”
She nudged the door with a fingertip. The cabin lay empty. Crossing the threshold, she paused on the welcome mat to scan the great room/kitchenette.
Her guest was a neatnik. No shirt or jacket draped the jungle-green loveseat or the pair of big-cushioned chairs. No socks hid under the round coffee table in front of the river-rock fireplace. Beside her on the mat, footwear marched in military sync: the harness boots he’d worn on the bike, a pair of loafers and a pair of worn gray slippers.
Intrigued, she stepped out of her rubber boots. Didn’t bikers leave cigarette butts and beer cans, girlie magazines and hunting brochures all over? Shouldn’t clothes be strewn haphazardly across the furniture?
Why, Kat? Because Shaun used to toss his clothes around the house? A habit you hated, until that terrible moment when you’d give anything to have it back?
She scanned the rooms a second time. Tidy, neat. Everything had its place.
On the knotted-rag rug near the sofa, two big stones—where had they come from?—supported an array of books. Moving closer, Kat read titles on hiking, computers, philosophy and…. She tipped the lone magazine from its slot. Journal of the American Medical Association?
Something niggled in her mind. Something Lee mentioned years ago…Yes, that was it…Dane Rainhart had joined the service as a doctor. Kat hadn’t kept track; by then she’d been married.
“Can I help you?”
At the sound of his deep voice, she jumped on the spot. “Oh!” Spinning, she pressed her hand against her throat where her heart bounded like a deer in hunting season.
He stood in the doorway, a powerful silhouette against the morning light.
Kat swallowed. “I—I didn’t expect you.”
“Obviously.” Remaining on the threshold, he blocked her flight.
Her gaze darted past his shoulders, to the freedom of the outside world. What did she really know about this man? He’d rented her cabin, yet hadn’t welcomed her attempt at housekeeping. In reality, he could be a man hiding from the law, a killer on the loose.
Yes, she had known him more than twenty years ago, but people change. Life alters. For better and worse.
Shaun’s death proved that.
