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Looking at Dane Rainhart, she suspected he’d experienced worse as well. Had it changed him? Ignited anger? Prompted a vendetta mission?
Sadness, definitely. She recognized the emotion the moment he looked at her six days ago, amidst snow and rain.
Latching onto that recognition, she thrust out the flowers. “Something from my garden.” When he continued to bar the doorway, she babbled on. “If you’d like, I could put them in a glass…On second thought,” she tried to smile, “why don’t I set them on the coffee table and let you deal with them however you wish.” She laid the bundle down. “Okay, then. I’ll just get out of your way.” Avoiding eye contact, she barreled toward the door. One way or another, he would have to move.
“Kaitlin.”
She stood close enough that if he wanted he could reach out—
“I’m sorry I intruded, Dane. It won’t happen again.” Then with a force that surprised her, “Please, let me pass.” Come hell or high water, she was getting out of this cabin.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”
Within his space, she could finally see his face, those indigo eyes full of regret, that shockingly sensuous mouth. He’d been where the wind danced in his hair; locks tufted at his hairline and along the crown of his head. “Who said I’m afraid?” she asked.
A smile quirked. “It’s all over your face. Sometimes my height can intimidate.”
She folded her arms against her stomach. As a teenager, he’d been lean and wiry. At thirty-eight, he carried twenty extra pounds of muscle and sinew, and towered at least ten inches above Kat. Yet, gut instinct said he wasn’t a bad guy.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t know anything about flowers, but I’d hate for that nice bunch,” he nodded to the coffee table, “to wilt before the day is done. Would you show me what to do?”
Again his mouth tweaked, and a tremor of heat shot through her. What would it be like to have him kiss—
Lord, what was the matter with her? Turning on her heel, she hurried over, snatched up the bouquet and went to the kitchen sink. When he closed the door and removed his hiking boots, she pictured him setting the footwear on the mat, then slipping on the comfortable slippers.
She reached into the cupboard she’d stocked with chinaware, drew out a tall drinking glass, and filled the container with warm water.
“They’re very pretty.” He peered over her shoulder, igniting nerve endings she hadn’t realized she possessed.
Her fingers fumbled with the stems as she inserted them into the glass. Water sloshed onto the counter. She said, “You need to trim the ends each day and give them fresh warm water.”
“Trim the ends?”
“Yes. With a pair of scissors or a knife.”
She glanced over. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. The fact he had yet to remove his gloves puzzled rather than worried Kat. Was it possible he had an aversion to germs, or psoriasis?
She stepped toward the utility drawer next to his hip—and saw the knife sheathed on his belt.
Whoa. How had she missed that? Eight inches in length, the thing was a dragon slayer.
Her gaze snapped to his. “Do you always carry knives?”
His irises darkened. “Only when I go into the wilderness.”
“Wilderness?” She glanced toward the window and the wooded hills on her five-acre property. “Dane, have you forgotten this island has an area of only twenty square miles? We have chipmunks, squirrels and coyotes. And some deer. Firewood is not the Rockies, Alaska or the Everglades.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I haven’t forgotten what’s on this island.”
Their eyes held. And again she felt something primal sizzle between them, a lightning she had never experienced.
Catching the tang of the outdoors emanating from his green flannel shirt, she took in the mud-stained hiking boots positioned at the door, before she sized up his black cargo pants. Specks of mud and grass clung to his shins. Where had he gone?
“Kaitlin?”
Her head jerked.
A jagged dimple materialized above his scarred jaw. “The flowers?” Amusement lingering in his eyes, he opened the drawer, dug out a pair of scissors, then laid the instrument gently on the counter next to her posies.
Kat released an uneven breath. “Okay,” she began. “Each day you snip off the ends.” Demonstrating, she cut a half-inch off a tulip stem. “With fresh water, they should last five to seven days, depending on where you place them and the temperature of the cabin.”
God, how she could babble.
“How about the eating nook?” He nodded to the booth alcove separating kitchenette from living room. “It gets the morning sun.”
She imagined him drinking his first coffee of the day there, perhaps reading one of his magazines or books. She imagined him glancing at the blooms. Thinking of her.
“I’ll leave the decision to you,” she said, heading to the door. When had a man’s proximity jumbled her senses to the point of making her jittery as a silly schoolgirl? Not since you were a schoolgirl, Kat, and he was mooning over Lee.
“Who owns the property with the boatshed and fish shack down by the shoreline?”
The question slammed her to a stop. “That’s…They were my husband’s. He ran a small fishing business. Salmon, mostly.”
Dane remained against the counter. Eyes locked on her, he waited. Kat pushed at her shaggy bangs. “He—Shaun drowned four years ago.”
Across the room, the man dwarfing the kitchenette stayed silent. Suddenly she was grateful for that silence, appreciated the way he allowed her to tell what she wanted, when she wanted.
She shoved into her clogs. “In case you’re wondering, the boat inside the shed didn’t cause his death.” Turning for the door, she added, “If you need anything…”
“I’ll call.”
Of course, he wouldn’t, but she lifted a quick hand anyway. “Bye.” Pushing open the door, she nearly stumbled into her mother on the other side.
“Goodness, Kat, get hold of yourself.” Charmaine Wilson tugged the hem of her mocha-hued jacket straight.
“Mom. What are you doing here?”
The older woman’s gaze landed on the man behind Kat. “I might ask you the same thing,” she countered.
“Can I help?” Dane stepped onto the porch.
“No,” Kat blurted, then flushed with embarrassment. “Everything’s fine. Mom, do you remember Dane Rainhart? He was Lee’s…One of her school friends.”
Charmaine’s pupils pinpointed. “’Course, I remember. You’ve grown up some, Dane.”
Before he could respond, Kat snatched her mother’s arm and ushered her from the porch. “Why are you here?” she whispered.
Charmaine had a knack of showing up at the most awkward times. Yes, she’d retired from the hair salon, but that did not mean Kat was free whenever her mother had nothing to do. And this morning…Well. “I thought you were babysitting for Addie today.” Kat’s youngest sister had an eight-month-old son whom Charmaine cared for while Addie taught math part-time at Fire High.
“Alexander has a little cold,” the older woman explained, “so your sister called in a sub. Which brings us to why I’m here. I brought Blake home.”
Kat’s adrenaline spiked. “Why? Is he sick?”
“Seems he has the same bug as Alex.”
“Why didn’t the school call?”
“They did, but you weren’t answering.”
No, she was busy with her guest. Kat walked to the house.
In the comfort of her kitchen she called, “Blake?”
“Here,” came the hoarse reply from upstairs.
She hurried up the stairwell, down the hallway, to the first bedroom on the left. Her son lay on his side on top of the quilt.
“Hey, honey.” She walked over, sat on the bed, brushed a dark curly lock—so like his father’s—from his forehead. “Grams said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Throat hurts. The school said you weren’t home.” Accusation pinched the words.
“I was housekeeping at the cabin.” Warmth struck her skin. Liar. You were trying to get Dane Rainhart’s attention.
From the pillow, Blake gave her a one-eyed stare. “Thought the guy didn’t want housekeeping.”
As always, she had informed him about their guest. “The sign was down today.”
“Oh.”
Kat hated seeing her child in discomfort. “Want some chicken soup?”
“’Kay.”
Rising, she removed his sneakers, then tugged his pajamas from under the pillow. “Get into these and I’ll be back with the soup.”
She was almost at the door when he asked, “Is that guy staying here forever?” Blake rose into a sitting position, feet on the floor. Over the course of the last year he’d grown to equal her height.
“No,” she said, “just until June first.”
“I saw him sneaking around in the forest last Friday.”
“Sneaking around?”
“Yeah, like he was creeping up on something. He had on one of those army coats like you see on the news? And these big boots like Dad used to wear—you know, with the laces? Anyway, it looked like he was playing G.I. Joe or something.”
Kat frowned. Not thirty minutes ago, Dane had stood in the doorway of the cabin dressed exactly as Blake described. With a hunting knife strapped to his waist.
And he’d arrived without a sound.
She forced a smile. “Grown men don’t play G.I. Joe, Blake.”
“This one does,” he said hoarsely.
Pushing aside this morning’s imposing image, Kat advised, “Get under the covers and stay warm. I’ll be right back.”
Downstairs, Charmaine stirred a pot of chicken broth at the stove. She said, “I stopped at my place for some homemade.”
“Thanks.” Already the comforting scent of soup suffused the room. Kat prepared a tray. Beyond the corner window above the sink, bits of the cabin peeked through the leafless trees. The porch was once again empty, the door firmly shut, the sign in place.
Charmaine glanced over. “He stayed outside for a long time, you know.”
She didn’t have to ask who.
“Looked like one of those plantation overseers you read about in history books, standing on the porch, arms crossed, feet planted. Gave me the willies the way he stared straight at the house.”
“He’s probably interested in people from his past,” Kat said, recalling her own endless curiosity concerning the man who was her father, the man whose name Charmaine refused to disclose—no matter how much Kat begged, cajoled and argued. She tamped back her bitterness with a sigh. The disagreement would go on forever. “Anyway, it’s been years since he’s been on the island.”
“Well,” Charmaine continued, “why isn’t he staying with his family? His parents must be wondering, and his sister, too.”
The senior Rainharts worked at the Burnt Bend Medical Clinic, their daughter was the local social worker.
“Why is he hiding out here?” Charmaine asked.
Hiding out. Was that it? Kat wondered as the office telephone rang. Grateful for an excuse to escape her mother, she hurried to pick up the receiver. “Country Cabin, Kat O’Brien speaking.”
“Is the boy all right, Kaitlin?”
Dane. Her breath caught. “He’s fine,” she said, wariness surfacing. “How did you…?”
“I saw your mother pick him up from the elementary school when I was on the trail across the road.”
The eight-mile hiking trail circling forest and parkland and, at one point, paralleling the school grounds. The trail Blake mentioned two minutes ago. “I see.”
“I needed to clear my head. Walking helps.” Pause. “Is there anything I can do?”
You can stop making me wonder about you. “No,” she said. “But thanks for asking.”
After hanging up, she sank into her desk chair. Now what? Both her son and her mother questioned Dane’s motives. Still, intuition told Kat different. He’d erected an invisible wall, one, she suspected, that shielded his pain from the world. After Shaun died, she’d erected a similar barricade. So. Should she ask Dane to leave—or let him stay?
She was still weighing her options when a knock sounded on the mudroom door.
Charmaine frowned as Kat walked through the kitchen, nerves jittery at the prospect of seeing him again. But when she opened the door, no one stood on the back deck and the morning sun remained as bright as it had fifteen minutes earlier.
She looked toward the cabin, hoping to see something, anything, but all remained silent amidst the forest. Where had he gone—and so fast?
Forget him, Kat. Right now Blake needs you.
She was about to shut the door when a folded notebook page tucked under a corner of the outside mat caught her eye. Her heart kicked. Bending slowly, she retrieved the page.
