Blood Kin (20 page)

“He's that violent?” Bailey thought back to the meeting on the wooded trail between his house and Elizabeth's, and the shock of seeing that ax in her uncle's hand. “Surely . . .”

Forest scoffed. “It's not a question of being violent or not. Tawes may seem old-fashioned to you now, but thirty-five years ago it might as well have been the seventeenth century. Beth was a Tawes, strictly off-limits. The Tawes women were always good women and good wives, honorable women.”

“That sounds so archaic.”

“Island justice.”

“Daniel Catlin used that same phrase last night.”

The attorney nodded. “It's true. It's been true for three hundred years, and that kind of habit doesn't die out easily. Will Tawes was a man whom few wanted to tangle with—still is, for all his years. I wouldn't want to. There are rules that islanders live by, and that Tawes women are off-limits is one of them.”

“Somebody didn't follow those rules, because somebody got a fifteen-year-old girl pregnant and left her to bear the trauma and shame of her coming baby alone.”

“It's the truth,” Forest admitted. “And that truth has eaten at Will every day and night since.”

“Do you know why I was placed for adoption?”

“You remained in Will's care for three months, until Elizabeth asked me to make arrangements for a private adoption. As I mentioned before, your parents—your adoptive parents—were distant cousins of hers with ties to the island. I'm not comfortable saying anything more. I was Will's friend and still am. I don't feel that I can give you any more details. If you want to know why you were put up for adoption, I think it's best that you ask Will.”

Bailey rose. “But that's the problem, isn't it? My uncle doesn't want to tell me anything. He doesn't even want to talk to me. How do I get around that?”

Forest stood up, his eyes full of compassion. “That, my dear, is the nut of our dilemma. Because if there is anyone on earth who could help that man become part of the human race again, I think it's you.”

As she entered Emma's front door, Bailey was still far more upset than she'd expected to be. A few words from Forest McCready had washed away the resentment she'd held all her life toward her birth mother. Instead, Bailey felt a deep sympathy for the girl, and now she wanted to question Emma, to learn anything more she could about Beth and her friends. Now, more than ever, leaving things as they were and accepting that she'd never know the identity of her biological father were unacceptable.

Bailey knew she needed to consider all the possibilities. Beth's lover might have been as young as she was—terrified to face the consequences of a few hours of reckless teenage passion—or she could have been seduced by an older boy. Without proof, Bailey couldn't assume the worst. Whatever the scenario, Bailey couldn't help wondering how the two had managed to evade both her uncle and the community long enough to conceive a child. Of course, Beth could have been assaulted, unwilling afterward to disclose
her shame, a possibility Bailey didn't want to consider. Not yet, at least.

The sleigh bell hanging over the door jingled as Bailey stepped into the entranceway. “Emma! Are you—” She stopped midsentence when she heard Matthew's raised voice from the back of the house.

“Grace is worried,” he said. “I—”

“Sorry,” Bailey called. “I didn't know that you had company.”

“Is that you, honey?” Emma shouted. “We're in the kitchen. I'm making strawberry jam.”

Matthew said something, too low for Bailey to make out, but when she reached the kitchen doorway she guessed that she'd interrupted a heated discussion, because the pastor was as red-faced as Emma. Embarrassed, Bailey turned away, thinking to make a beeline for the staircase. “I was just headed upstairs to—”

“Nonsense,” Emma interrupted, her joviality seeming forced. Her hair was pinned up in its customary knot on the back of her head, and she wore an oversize red-and-white-checked apron over a T-shirt and jeans. Her workworn hands were stained red to the wrists from the strawberry juice.

The steamy kitchen was thick with the sweet smell of boiling jam, but Bailey got the impression that it was more than the temperature of the berries that had put color in their cheeks.

“I hope your first full day with the children went well,” Matthew said.

“It did, but—”

“You're a godsend to those kids,” Emma said. “I can't tell you how much people here appreciate your help.”

“Yes,” the pastor agreed, glancing from Bailey to Emma and back to Bailey again. “The children are the
heart of Tawes. Without them, there's no future for the island.”

“The summer program can't be that vital to your entire school system,” Bailey said.

“It is.” Emma wiped her hands on a clean hand towel. “Believe me, it is. Are you hungry?”

“Stuffed.” Bailey crossed to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of water. “I had a meeting with Forest McCready, and he insisted that I have lunch with him.”

“Well, I must run,” Matthew said, backing out of the kitchen. “The Lord's work is never done.”

Emma followed him to the side door, and Bailey heard them murmuring. Then Emma came back into the kitchen. “Grab an apron, girl, and give me some help with this jam. It's only fair. You owe me. I fixed your bike tire this morning after you left.”

“I know it was soft. I thought that putting air in it—”

“It had a leak, but it's right as rain now. I pumped up both tires.”

“Thanks. I didn't mind walking to school, but I'd hoped to ride out into the country later this afternoon. It's such a beautiful day.” It wasn't a lie. It was a pretty day, but she wasn't prepared to explain to Emma that she wanted to approach her uncle again. “I didn't mean to intrude on you and Matthew,” she said as she unscrewed the cap on her bottle of water.

“Don't be silly. I want you to consider this your home while you're on Tawes. Matthew's just upset about Creed's death. We all are. Matthew's always taken things to heart. It's not easy losing a good friend.” She rested her fists on her ample hips. “Maybe you'd better go upstairs and change into something you won't mind getting stained.”

“It's all right.” Bailey slipped the Mother Hubbard
apron over her head. She washed and dried her hands and turned back to Emma. “Now, what can I do?”

“You can start by capping those berries in that bowl. Aren't they lovely? Not Sure Crop. Those are Honey Eyes, the sweetest berry you'll ever taste. They don't keep worth a darn, so you won't find them at the supermarket, but they sure do taste good, and they make the best jam.”

Bailey began washing the strawberries. There were a lot of questions she wanted to put to Emma, but she sensed that this wasn't the right time. Instead, she let the older woman chatter on about varieties of strawberries and tomatoes that her mother had grown a generation ago. Emma, thank the Lord, was never at a loss for words.

It was nearly five o'clock when Will returned to the house to find Bailey Elliott waiting on his porch. The dogs caught her scent before he even set foot on the dock. They leaped out of the boat and would have charged her, but he commanded them to stay.

The girl had courage; he'd give her that. When he'd come upon her on the path between his place and his sister's she'd gone white as a ghost. It was clear as new ice to him that she was terrified of dogs, yet she kept coming back.

He'd pondered half the night over the sketch she'd left for him to find. Her talent was raw and untrained, but it was strong. No denying whose child she was or that she possessed the grit of the Tawes women who'd come before her. Elizabeth had painted flowers in oil, filling her canvases with blooms and buds and every shape of leaf and stem. Beth had been proficient in her own medium. Now here was Beth's daughter, another
artist, forcing herself into his life, not taking no for an answer, and threatening what little peace he'd carved out for himself these last few years.

Short of drowning her, he wasn't sure how to be rid of Bailey Elliott.

Scowling, Will stalked down the dock and up the bank toward the house. He motioned and the dogs followed. “What will it take to get you to mind your own business?”

“Answers,” she flung back, bold as brass.

His stomach clenched. Bailey was more than twice the age Beth had been when they'd laid her to rest in the churchyard, but he would have known her in a crowd of hundreds. Her hair was a different color, but looking at her, he knew what a beauty his little Beth would have been if death hadn't claimed her too early.

She came toward him warily, eyes on the dogs. “I'm sorry if you think I'm rude,” she said. “We started wrong, and it's gone wrong ever since. All I want is to get to know you and to learn something about my birth family . . . about Beth. You're the only—”

“You don't know what you're asking.” He glared at her.

She glared back, and for an instant he had the sensation that he was looking at his sister, Elizabeth.

“Aren't you afraid of me?” he asked.

“Yes, a little.”

Her eyes welled up with tears, and he felt a wave of compassion for her. “You don't know what you're getting into,” Will grumbled. “Didn't anyone tell you that I was tried, convicted, and spent nine years in prison? That half the island believes I got Beth with child and murdered her rather than face the consequences of having her give birth to a babe conceived in incest?”

“No.” Her eyes widened and tears suddenly glistened
in the corners. She shook her head in disbelief. “No. No one told me anything of the sort. No one . . .” She drew in a ragged breath, turned, and fled into the woods.

“I tried to warn you,” Will hollered after her as she tore through the underbrush, heedless of the wild grapevines that tore at her clothes. He stood there for a long time until the snapping of twigs and the sound of her distress faded. Then he signaled to the dogs and trudged slowly back to the boat to unload his catch.

Bailey was halfway to Elizabeth's beach, and she could see the shore of the bay through the trees when she dropped to her knees and vomited the remains of the lunch she'd shared with Forest McCready. Coughing, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and waited until the sick feeling passed. Then she made her way to the water's edge and washed her hands and face.

Everyone had warned her to stay away from Will Tawes, to leave the past buried, but she hadn't listened. As stubborn as always, she'd kept prying, not realizing until now that the islanders might not be hiding the truth, but attempting to shelter her from an ugly possibility. And now that she'd learned the secret, she wished she hadn't.

Daniel was coming around the corner of the farmhouse when she reached the edge of the lawn. “Bailey? What are you doing here? What's happened?”

She didn't want to see or talk to anyone, and most of all she didn't want to come face-to-face with Daniel Catlin when her breath reeked, her eyes were swollen from crying, and her hair was tangled with leaves. “I'm fine,” she said, but Daniel was having none of it.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” She rubbed at a scratch on her elbow. “I went back to Will's and—”

Daniel's features hardened. “Did he—”

“No.” She shook her head. “He didn't lay a hand on me. It was what he said. I just panicked and ran away.”

“Come into the house. You're as white as Emma's sheets.”

When arguing with him didn't work, Bailey allowed herself to be coerced inside into the bathroom. Surprisingly, someone had scrubbed it free of dust and mouse droppings and even laid out soap and fresh towels. She found toothpaste and a new toothbrush, still in its wrapper. When she came out, five minutes later, she felt much more in control.

Daniel was waiting for her with a thermos of hot tea. “Sit down,” he ordered.

“Who called in Merry Maids?” She motioned to the bathroom and then glanced around the kitchen. This room, too, had been cleaned until the glass shone and the floor was spotless. “You?”

Daniel poured her a cup of tea. “I can't stand working in a mess, and I expect to be using these rooms while I'm working on the repairs.” He handed the cup to her. “Careful, it's hot. Now, tell me exactly what happened at Will's.”

She took the tea. It was strong and sweet, and she drank half the cup without answering. Then, having gathered what composure she had left, she was able to tell Daniel everything her uncle had said. “He didn't admit to sexually abusing Beth,” she concluded, wiping back a stray tear,“or to beating her. But he didn't deny it either.”

Daniel frowned. “I've heard the gossip, but that doesn't make it true. Will didn't go to jail for incest.”

“No?”

“Hell, no! What made you assume that?”

“I don't know. He said . . . When he said . . .” She looked away. “I thought it sounded like a confession.”

The tall case clock in another part of the house rang the hour in a clear tone, and Bailey noticed how the rays of sunlight coming through the windows illuminated the pattern of the grain in the tabletop.

Daniel refilled her cup and poured a mug of tea for himself. “The jury found Will guilty of beating Beth so badly that she went into early labor and then died.”

“But Forest McCready said she died of blood loss the day after the baby was born. Surely she could have—”

“According to Aunt Birdy, Beth never regained consciousness after you were born. And her jaw had been broken. She might not have been able to talk, even if she was conscious.”

She sipped at the tea, trying to make sense of it all. “But why would the jury find Will guilty if there wasn't proof?”