The Second Time

JANET DAILEY CAPTURES THE
HEART OF AMERICA!
LOOK FOR:
The Four Volume
Calder Saga
:

This Calder Range
Stands a Calder Man
This Calder Sky
Calder Born, Calder Bred

The Best Way to Lose
For the Love of God
Foxfire Light
The Glory Game
The Great Alone
The Hostage Bride
The Lancaster Men
Leftover Love
Mistletoe and Holly
Night Way
The Pride of Hannah Wade Ride the Thunder
The Rogue
The Second Time
Separate Cabins
Silver Wings, Santiago Blue
Terms of Surrender
Touch the Wind
Western Man

PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS

Slowly Dawn Raised Her Lashes To Look at Him.

Mixed in with the bitter pain, she could see the want that was darkening Slater’s gray eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. “I was such a fool, Slater.”

Eleven years of hunger were unleashed when his mouth moved onto her lips. Her fingers curled into the virile thickness of his hair. His hands were caressing, roaming at will over her back and shoulders and stirring up passions that had lain dormant for so long.

Abruptly, almost violently, Slater was pulling her arms from around his neck and pushing her from him. There was a rigid movement of his head, a negative shake that was heavy with disdain.

“You destroyed any future for us eleven years ago,” he stated flatly, and started for the door…

Books by Janet Daily

Calder Born, Calder Bred
Stands a Calder Man
This Calder Range
This Calder Sky
The Best Way to Lose
Touch The Wind
The Glory Game
The Pride of Hannah Wade
Silver Wings, Santiago Blue
For the Love of God
Foxfire Light
The Hostage Bride
The Lancaster Men
Leftover Love
Mistletoe & Holly
The Second Time
Separate Cabins
Terms of Surrender
Western Man
Nightway
Ride the Thunder
The Rogue

For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1982 by Janet Dailey
Cover art copyright © 1986 Bob Maguire

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Simon & Schuster Inc.,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Originally published by Silhouette Books.

ISBN: 0-671-87513-2
ISBN-13: 978-0-6718-7513-8

First Pocket Books printing February 1986

10  9  8  7

Map by Tony Ferrara

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of
Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

T
HE
S
ECOND
T
IME

In the yellowing light of a May morning, it was already hot and the temperature would climb toward the hundred mark in the Florida Keys before the day was over, led by the rising sun. The quiet was broken by the droning whine of a boat’s engine as it skimmed over the calm waters. The noise disturbed a pelican from its roost in the mangroves. Its lumbering bulk took wing as the skiff and its two occupants came into view.

There wasn’t any breeze, but the speeding craft whipped up a wind that tore the smoke from the cigarette protectively cupped in Slater Mac-Bride’s hand almost before he could taste it. Dark sunglasses were curved to his face to reduce the long glare of the angling sunlight reflecting off the water. They concealed his gray eyes, the dark color of gun metal that sometimes silvered with humor, and sometimes smoked with anger. Now they were sweeping the narrow, ever-shifting channels of the Keys’ back country with calm but lively interest.

Facing into the wind, his profile was delineated by bold, sure strokes from the slant of his forehead
to the straight bridge of his nose and the slight jut of his chin. A lifetime spent under a subtropical sun had tanned his skin the shade of polished teakwood and etched creases at the corners of his eyes. In contrast, the sun had lightened his brown hair, streaking its darkness with paler strands, and giving it the light and dark, woodgrained look. The wind’s tearing fingers had raked the hair away from his forehead and aggravated the small cowlick in the front that always gave an unruly touch to the shaggy thickness of his hair, yet not unattractively so.

The skiff sped past another island, one of the maze of coral and oolite formed islands that comprised the Florida Keys. Its shoreline was a tangle of mangrove roots, as if the trees themselves were stretching on tiptoes to avoid the sea water. At this speed, there was only a glimpse of the island and it was gone.

Ahead, Slater MacBride saw a trio of stately white herons wading along a shallow flat. Natives of these waters knew that where there were herons, it was too shallow for a boat. The weathered and decaying hull of a fishing boat that had run aground on the flat protruded from the water, telling a sad tale of someone who hadn’t heeded the warning of the herons’ presence.

Slater was aware of the meaning of the birds, but he didn’t point them out to the man at the controls of the skiff. Jeeter Jones was an experienced guide, and an old family friend. He had made his living for nearly thirty years taking people sportfishing in these waters. Besides, any
conversation was nearly impossible with the loud whine of the engine roaring in their ears.

Seconds later, the skiff veered slightly to the right and was aimed toward some unseen channel Jeeter Jones knew was there. The water was crystal clear, the ocean bottom plainly visible a few feet below and the depth lessening. The skiff’s engine was pushed to full throttle, planing the boat to skim over the surface. Slater sat back enjoying the fast ride and the tangy sea spray on his face.

For over a hundred years, there had been a MacBride living in the Keys and working in various reputable and disreputable occupations. There had been salvage captains, not above encouraging a wreck or two, fishermen, and rum-runners, and even a relative in the cigar-making industry when it was a flourishing concern in the islands. Adaptability was almost an inbred trait. Locals said a MacBride could turn his hand and make a living at whatever enterprise was the most prosperous at the time—pity, he couldn’t save any of it.

Once it had been said about Slater MacBride, too. But ten years ago, all that had changed. Now he was something of a local tycoon, owning prime business property in Key West, a couple of tourist resorts, and a small fleet of shrimp boats. A few of them knew about the girl he’d loved and lost when she chose a wealthy Texas millionaire over him. The scars and bitterness were on the inside; the hurt had gone too deep to ever be truly erased.

As the skiff neared the basin, the engine was
throttled back to almost idling speed. The air stopped its rush and became still, like the flat, slick surface of the water glistening in the sun and blending into the blue sky.

“This here’s the place.” Jeeter Jones cut the engine and picked up the fiberglass push pole to quietly enter the basin. Late May was the season when the tarpon were abundant and moving. It was the lure of this game fish that had drawn Slater away from his varied business interests, a rare break for him nowadays. “Think you still know how to catch one?” Tufts of graying hair poked out from beneath his sun-and-sea-softened captain’s hat. Its texture was wiry as if permanently stiffened by years of salty air.

“You find me one and put me in casting distance, and we’ll find out,” Slater replied dryly to the challenge to his infrequently used skill.

“Old Pop Canady was down at the marina yesterday afternoon. Did I tell you?” Jeeter expertly poled the skiff into the basin, barely making any noise at all.

“No.” Slater no longer stiffened at the mention of the name Canady, but there was an inner resistance, a tightening of nerves.

The guide sent a brief, skimming look at the thirty-five-year-old man he’d known since boyhood, so he was more aware than most of the startling contrast from the devil-may-care young man to the successful entrepreneur sitting in his boat. Most people thought Slater had gotten over what had happened eleven years ago, but Jeeter
wasn’t so sure. He’d played poker with the man too many times to believe his hard, smooth features weren’t hiding something.

If he was right, then Slater deserved to be told the news so he could be prepared for it. And if he was wrong, it would be like water rolling off a duck’s back. It wouldn’t matter.

“Yeah, Pop was all puffed up and bragging. It seems Dawn is coming home, so he’ll be bringing his grandson around to show him to all his friends.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jeeter caught the sharp glance Slater threw him, although nothing flickered on his deadpan expression.

“I imagine Pop would be happy about that.” Slater managed a noncommittal response and contained any reaction to the disruptive announcement.

Inwardly he was damning the cruelty of his mind that wouldn’t let him bury the past. If he closed his eyes, he knew he’d recall the sweet scent of gardenias, waxen white against flaming copper hair. Bitterness choked his throat. Dawn had loved him, but she had married money. At the time he’d had no future, and no prospect of any, and she had wanted more than love. He didn’t blame her as much as he used to, but that didn’t ease the bitterness her decision had created.

“You knew her husband died a month ago, didn’t you?” Jeeter inquired in a casual voice.

“I heard.” His gaze remained on the water as if
waiting for the first glimpse of a tarpon’s wide oily back rolling out of the water, but he was seeing nothing. “She’s coming back a very wealthy widow. Will she be arriving by yacht or a private jet?” A bitter sarcasm was threaded through his taut voice despite his attempt to keep it in check.