The Welcoming (8 page)

From the bedroom beyond, she could hear the buzz of an electric saw. A good, constructive sound, she thought as she pushed the door open to peek inside.

His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he bent over the wood he had laid across a pair of sawhorses. Wood dust flew, dancing gold in the sunlight. His hands, and his arms where he'd rolled his sleeves up past the elbow, were covered with it. He'd used a bandanna to keep the hair out of his eyes. He didn't hum while he worked, as she did. Or talk to himself, she mused, as George had. But, watching him, she thought she detected a simple pleasure in doing a job and doing it well.

He could do things, she thought as she watched him measure the wood for the next cut. Good things, even important things. She was sure of it. Not just because she loved him, she realized. Because it was in him. When a woman spent all her life entertaining strangers in her home, she learned to judge, and to see.

She waited until he put the saw down before she pushed the door open. Before she could speak he whirled around. Her step backward was instinctive, defensive. It was ridiculous, she told herself, but she thought that if he'd had a weapon he'd have drawn it.

“I'm sorry.” The nerves she had managed to get under control were shot to hell. “I should have realized I'd startle you.”

“It's all right.” He settled quickly, though it annoyed him to have been caught off guard. Perhaps if he hadn't been thinking of her he would have sensed her.

“I needed to do some things upstairs, so I thought I'd bring you some coffee on my way.” She set the thermos on the stepladder, then wished she'd kept it, as her empty hands made her feel foolish. “And I wanted to check how things were going. The parlor looks great.”

“It's coming along. Did you label the paint?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because it was all done in this tidy printing on the lid of each can in the color of the paint. That seemed like something you'd do.”

“Obsessively organized?” She made a face. “I can't seem to help it.”

“I liked the way you had the paintbrushes arranged according to size.”

She lifted a brow. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, as long as I know.” Her nerves were calmer now. “Want some of this coffee?”

“Yeah. I'll get it.”

“You've got sawdust all over your hands.” Waving him aside, she unscrewed the top. “I take it our truce is back on.”

“I didn't realize it had been off.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, then looked around and poured the coffee into the plastic cup. “I made you uncomfortable yesterday. I'm sorry.”

He accepted the cup and sat down on a sawhorse. “You're putting words in my mouth again, Charity.”

“I don't have to this time. You looked as if I'd hit you with a brick.” Restless, she moved her shoulders. “I suppose I might have reacted the same way if someone had said they loved me out of the blue like that. It must have been pretty startling, seeing as we haven't known each other for long.”

Finding he had no taste for it, he set the coffee aside. “You were reacting to the moment.”

“No.” She turned back to him, knowing it was important to talk face-to-face. “I thought you might think that. In fact, I even considered playing it safe and letting you. I'm lousy at deception. It seemed more fair to tell you that I'm not in the habit of . . . What I mean is, I don't throw myself at men as a rule. The truth is, you're the first.”

“Charity.” He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling out the bandanna and sending more wood dust scattering. “I don't know what to say to you.”

“You don't have to say anything. The fact is, I came in here with my little speech all worked out. It was a pretty good one, too . . . calm, understanding, a couple of dashes of humor to keep it light. I'm screwing it up.”

She kicked a scrap of wood into the corner before she paced to the window. Columbine and bluebells grew just below in a bed where poppies were waiting to burst into color. On impulse, she pushed up the window to breathe in their faint, fragile scents.

“The point is,” she began, hating herself for keeping her back to him, “we can't pretend I didn't say it. I can't pretend I don't feel it. That doesn't mean I expect you to feel the same way, because I don't.”

“What do you expect?”

He was right behind her. She jumped when his hand gripped her shoulder. Gathering her courage, she turned around. “For you to be honest with me.” She was speaking quickly now, and she didn't notice his slight, automatic retreat. “I appreciate the fact that you don't pretend to love me. I may be simple, Roman, but I'm not stupid. I know it might be easier to lie, to say what you think I want to hear.”

“You're not simple,” he murmured, lifting a hand and brushing it against her cheek. “I've never met a more confusing, complicated woman.”

Shock came first, then pleasure. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. No one's ever accused me of being complicated.”

He'd meant to lower his hand, but she had already lifted hers and clasped it. “I didn't mean it as a compliment.”

That made her grin. Relaxed again, she sat back on the windowsill. “Even better. I hope this means we're finished feeling awkward around each other.”

“I don't know what I feel around you.” He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders, then down to the elbows again. “But awkward isn't the word for it.”

Touched—much too deeply—she rose. “I have to go.”

“Why?”

“Because it's the middle of the day, and if you kiss me I might forget that.”

Already aroused, he eased her forward. “Always organized.”

“Yes.” She put a hand to his chest to keep some distance between them. “I have some invoices I have to go over upstairs.” Holding her breath, she backed toward the door. “I do want you, Roman. I'm just not sure I can handle that part of it.”

Neither was he, he thought after she shut the door. With another woman he would have been certain that physical release would end the tension. With Charity he knew that making love with her would only add another layer to the hold she had on him.

And she did have a hold on him. It was time to admit that, and to deal with it.

Perhaps he'd reacted so strongly to her declaration of love because he was afraid, as he'd never been afraid of anything in his life, that he was falling in love with her.

“Roman!” He heard the delight in Charity's voice when she called to him. He swung open the door and saw her standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. “Come up. Hurry. I want you to see them.”

She disappeared, leaving him wishing she'd called him anyplace but that innocently seductive bedroom.

When he walked into her sitting room, she called again, impatience in her tone now. “Hurry. I don't know how long they'll stay.”

She was sitting on the windowsill, her upper body out the opening, her long legs hooked just above the ankles. There was music playing, something vibrant, passionate. How was it he had never thought of classical music as passionate?

“Damn it, Roman, you're going to miss them. Don't just stand in the doorway. I didn't call you up to tie you to the bedposts.”

Because he felt like a fool, he crossed to her. “There goes my night.”

“Very funny. Look.” She was holding a brass spyglass, and she pointed with it now, out to sea. “Orcas.”

He leaned out the window and followed her guiding hand. He could see a pair of shapes in the distance, rippling the water as they swam. Fascinated, he took the spyglass from Charity's hand.

“There are three of them,” he said. Delighted, he joined her on the windowsill. Their legs were aligned now, and he rested his hand absently on her knee. This time, instead of fire, there was simple warmth.

“Yes, there's a calf. I think it might be the same pod I spotted a few days ago.” She closed a hand over his as they both stared out to sea. “Great, aren't they?”

“Yeah, they are.” He focused on the calf, which was just visible between the two larger whales. “I never really expected to see any.”

“Why? The island's named after them.” She narrowed her eyes, trying to follow their path. She didn't have the heart to ask Roman for the glass. “My first clear memory of seeing one was when I was about four. Pop had me out on this little excuse for a fishing boat. One shot up out of the water no more than eight or ten yards away. I screamed my lungs out.” Laughing, she leaned back against the windowframe. “I thought it was going to swallow us whole, like Jonah or maybe Pinocchio.”

Roman lowered the glass for a moment. “Pinocchio?”

“Yes, you know the puppet who wanted to be a real boy. Jiminy Cricket, the Blue Fairy. Anyway, Pop finally calmed me down. It followed us for ten or fifteen minutes. After that, I nagged him mercilessly to take me out again.”

“Did he?”

“Every Monday afternoon that summer. We didn't always see something, but they were great days, the best days. I guess we were a pod, too, Pop and I.” She turned her face into the breeze. “I was lucky to have him as long as I did, but there are times—like this—when I can't help wishing he were here.”

“Like this?”

“He loved to watch them,” she said quietly. “Even when he was ill, really ill, he would sit for hours at the window. One afternoon I found him sitting there with the spyglass on his lap. I thought he'd fallen asleep, but he was gone.” There was a catch in her breath when she slowly let it out. “He would have wanted that, to just slip away while watching for his whales. I haven't been able to take the boat out since he died.” She shook her head. “Stupid.”

“No.” He reached for her hand for the first time and linked his fingers with hers. “It's not.”

She turned her face to his again. “You can be a nice man.” The phone rang, and she groaned but slipped dutifully from the windowsill to answer it.

“Hello. Yes, Bob. What does he mean he won't deliver them? New management be damned, we've been dealing with that company for ten years. Yes, all right. I'll be right there. Oh, wait.” She glanced up from the phone. “Roman, are they still there?”

“Yes. Heading south. I don't know if they're feeding or just taking an afternoon stroll.”

She laughed and put the receiver at her ear again. “Bob— What? Yes, that was Roman.” Her brow lifted. “That's right. We're in my room. I called Roman up here because I spotted a pod out my bedroom window. You might want to tell any of the guests you see around. No, there's no reason for you to be concerned. Why should there be? I'll be right down.”

She hung up, shaking her head. “It's like having a houseful of chaperons,” she muttered.

“Problem?”

“No. Bob realized that you were in my bedroom—or rather that we were alone in my bedroom—and got very big-brotherly. Typical.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a fabric-covered band. In a few quick movements she had her hair caught back from her face. “Last year Mae threatened to poison a guest who made a pass at me. You'd think I was fifteen.”

He turned to study her. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a silk-screened map of the island. “Yes, you would.”

“I don't take that as a compliment.” But she didn't have time to argue. “I have to deal with a small crisis downstairs. You're welcome to stay and watch the whales.” She started toward the door, but then she stopped. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Can you build shelves?”

“Probably.”

“Great. I think the parlor in the family suite could use them. We'll talk about it.”

He heard her jog down the stairs. Whatever crisis there might be at the other end of the inn, he was sure she would handle it. In the meantime, she had left him alone in her room. It would be a simple matter to go through her desk again, to see if she'd left anything that would help him move his investigation forward.

It should be simple, anyway. Roman looked out to sea again. It should be something he could do without hesitation. But he couldn't. She trusted him. Sometime during the past twenty-four hours he reached the point where he couldn't violate that trust.

That made him useless. Swearing, Roman leaned back against the windowframe. She had, without even being aware of it, totally undermined his ability to do his job. It would be best for him to call Conby and have himself taken off the case. It would simply be a matter of him turning in his resignation now, rather than at the end of the assignment. It was a question of duty.

He wasn't going to do that, either.

He needed to stay. It had nothing to do with being loved, with feeling at home. He needed to believe that. He also needed to finish his job and prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Charity's innocence. That was a question of loyalty.

Conby would have said that his loyalty belonged to the Bureau, not to a woman he had known for less than a week. And Conby would have been wrong, Roman thought as he set aside the spyglass. There were times, rare times, when you had a chance to do something good, something right. Something that proved you gave a damn. That had never mattered to him before, but it mattered now.

If the only thing he could give Charity was a clear name, he intended to give it to her. And then get out of her life.

Rising, he looked around the room. He wished he were nothing more than the out-of-work drifter Charity had taken into her home. If he were maybe he would have the right to love her. As it was, all he could do was save her.

Chapter 6

The weather was warming. Spring was busting loose, full of glory and color and scent. The island was a treasure trove of wildflowers, leafy trees and birdsong. At dawn, with thin fingers of fog over the water, it was a mystical, timeless place.

Roman stood at the side of the road and watched the sun come up as he had only days before. He didn't know the names of the flowers that grew in tangles on the roadside. He didn't know the song of a jay from that of a sparrow. But he knew Charity was out running with her dog and that she would pass the place he stood on her return.

He needed to see her, to talk to her, to be with her.

The night before, he had broken into her cash drawer and examined the bills she had neatly stacked and marked for today's deposit. There had been over two thousand dollars in counterfeit Canadian currency. His first impulse had been to tell her, to lay everything he knew and needed to know out in front of her. But he had quashed that. Telling her wouldn't prove her innocence to men like Conby.

He had enough to get Block. And nearly enough, he thought, to hang Bob along with him. But he couldn't get them without casting shadows on Charity. By her own admission, and according to the statements of her loyal staff, a pin couldn't drop in the inn without her knowing it.

If that was so, how could he prove that there had been a counterfeiting and smuggling ring going on under her nose for nearly two years?

He believed it, as firmly as he had ever believed anything. Conby and the others at the Bureau wanted facts. Roman drew on his cigarette and watched the fog melt away with the rising of the sun. He had to give them facts. Until he could, he would give them nothing.

He could wait and make sure Conby dropped the ax on Block on the guide's next trip to the inn. That would give Roman time. Time enough, he promised himself, to make certain Charity wasn't caught in the middle. When it went down, she would be stunned and hurt. She'd get over it. When it was over, and she knew his part in it, she would hate him. He would get over that. He would have to.

He heard a car and glanced over, then returned his gaze to the water. He wondered if he could come back someday and stand in this same spot and wait for Charity to run down the road toward him.

Fantasies, he told himself, pitching his half-finished cigarette into the dirt. He was wasting too much time on fantasies.

The car was coming fast, its engine protesting, its muffler rattling. He looked over again, annoyed at having his morning and his thoughts disturbed.

His annoyance saved his life.

It took him only an instant to realize what was happening, and a heartbeat more to evade it. As the car barreled toward him, he leaped aside, tucking and rolling into the brush. A wave of displaced air flattened the grass before the car's rear tires gripped the roadbed again. Roman's gun was in his hand even as he scrambled to his feet. He caught a glimpse of the car's rear end as it sped around a curve. There wasn't even time to swear before he heard Charity's scream.

He ran, unaware of the fire in his thigh where the car had grazed him and the blood on his arm where he had rolled into a rock. He had faced death. He had killed. But he had never understood terror until this moment, with her scream still echoing in his head. He hadn't understood agony until he'd seen Charity sprawled beside the road.

The dog was curled beside her, whimpering, nuzzling her face with her nose. He turned at Roman's approach and began to growl, then stood, barking.

“Charity.” Roman crouched beside her, and felt for a pulse, his hand shaking. “Okay, baby. You're going to be okay,” he murmured to her as he checked for broken bones.

Had she been hit? A sickening vision of her being tossed into the air as the car slammed into her pulsed through his head. Using every ounce of control he possessed, he blocked it out. She was breathing. He held on to that. The dog whined as he turned her head and examined the gash on her temple. It was the only spot of color on her face. He stanched the blood with his bandanna, cursing when he felt its warmth on his fingers.

Grimly he replaced his weapon, then lifted her into his arms. Her body seemed boneless. Roman tightened his grip, half afraid she might melt through his arms. He talked to her throughout the half-mile walk back to the inn, though she remained pale and still.

Bob raced out the front door of the inn. “My God! What happened? What the hell did you do to her?”

Roman paused just long enough to aim a dark, furious look at him. “I think you know better. Get me the keys to the van. She needs a hospital.”

“What's all this?” Mae came through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Lori said she saw—” She went pale, but then she began to move with surprising speed, elbowing Bob aside to reach Charity. “Get her upstairs.”

“I'm taking her to the hospital.”

“Upstairs,” Mae repeated, moving back to open the door for him. “We'll call Dr. Mertens. It'll be faster. Come on, boy. Call the doctor, Bob. Tell him to hurry.”

Roman passed through the door, the dog at his heels. “And call the police,” he added. “Tell them they've got a hit-and-run.”

Wasting no time on words, Mae led the way upstairs. She was puffing a bit by the time she reached the second floor, but she never slowed down. When they moved into Charity's room, her color had returned.

“Set her on the bed, and be careful about it.” She yanked the lacy coverlet aside and then just as efficiently, brushed Roman aside. “There, little girl, you'll be just fine. Go in the bathroom,” she told Roman. “Get me a fresh towel.” Easing a hip onto the bed, she cupped Charity's face with a broad hand and examined her head wound. “Looks worse than it is.” She let out a long breath. After taking the towel Roman offered, she pressed it against Charity's temple. “Head wounds bleed heavy, make a mess. But it's not too deep.”

He only knew that her blood was still on his hands. “She should be coming around.”

“Give her time. I want you to tell me what happened later, but I'm going to undress her now, see if she's hurt anywhere else. You go on and wait downstairs.”

“I'm not leaving her.”

Mae glanced up. Her lips were pursed, and lines of worry fanned out from her eyes. After a moment, she simply nodded, “All right, then, but you'll be of some use. Get me the scissors out of her desk. I want to cut this shirt off.”

So that was the way of it, Mae mused as she untied Charity's shoes. She knew a man who was scared to death and fighting his heart when she saw one. Well, she'd just have to get her girl back on her feet. She didn't doubt for a moment that Charity could deal with the likes of Roman DeWinter.

“You can stay,” she told him when he handed her the scissors. “But whatever's been going on between the two of you, you'll turn your back till I make her decent.”

He balled his hands into impotent fists and shoved them into his pockets as he spun around. “I want to know where she's hurt.”

“Just hold your horses.” Mae peeled the shirt away and put her emotions on hold as she examined the scrapes and bruises. “Look in that top right-hand drawer and get me a nightshirt. One with buttons. And keep your eyes to yourself,” she added, “or I'll throw you out of here.”

In answer, he tossed a thin white nightshirt onto the bed. “I don't care what she's wearing. I want to know how badly she's hurt.”

“I know, boy.” Mae's voice softened as she slipped Charity's limp arm into a sleeve. “She's got some bruises and scrapes, that's all. Nothing broken. The cut on her head's going to need some tending, but cuts heal. Why, she hurt herself worse when she fell out of a tree some time back. There's my girl. She's coming around.”

He turned to look then, shirt or no shirt. But Mae had already done up the buttons. He controlled the urge to go to her—barely—and, keeping his distance, watched Charity's lashes flutter. The sinking in his stomach was pure relief. When she moaned, he wiped his clammy hands on his thighs.

“Mae?” As she struggled to focus her eyes, Charity reached out a hand. She could see the solid bulk of her cook, but little else. “What— Oh, God, my head.”

“Thumping pretty good, is it?” Mae's voice was brisk, but she cradled Charity's hand in hers. She would have kissed it if she'd thought no one would notice. “The doc'll fix that up.”

“Doctor?” Baffled, Charity tried to sit up, but the pain exploded in her head. “I don't want the doctor.”

“Never did, but you're having him just the same.”

“I'm not going to . . .” Arguing took too much effort. Instead, she closed her eyes and concentrated on clearing her mind. It was fairly obvious that she was in bed—but how the devil had she gotten there?

She'd been walking the dog, she remembered, and Ludwig had found a tree beside the road irresistible. Then . . .

“There was a car,” she said, opening her eyes again. “They must have been drunk or crazy. It seemed like they came right at me. If Ludwig hadn't already been pulling me off the road, I—” She wasn't quite ready to consider that. “I stumbled, I think. I don't know.”

“It doesn't matter now,” Mae assured her. “We'll figure it all out later.”

After a brisk knock, the outside door opened. A short, spry little man with a shock of white hair hustled in. He carried a black bag and was wearing grubby overalls and muddy boots. Charity took one look, then closed her eyes again.

“Go away, Dr. Mertens. I'm not feeling well.”

“She never changes.” Mertens nodded to Roman, then walked over to examine his patient.

Roman slipped quietly out into the sitting room. He needed a moment to pull himself together, to quiet the rage that was building now that he knew she would be all right. He had lost his parents, he had buried his best friend, but he had never, never felt the kind of panic he had experienced when he had seen Charity bleeding and unconscious beside the road.

Taking out a cigarette, he went to the open window. He thought about the driver of the old, rusted Chevy that had run her down. Even as his rage cooled, Roman understood one thing with perfect clarity. It would be his pleasure to kill whoever had hurt her.

“Excuse me.” Lori was standing in the hall doorway, wringing her hands. “The sheriff's here. He wants to talk to you, so I brought him up.” She tugged at her apron and stared at the closed door on the other side of the room. “Charity?”

“The doctor's with her,” Roman said. “She'll be fine.”

Lori closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I'll tell the others. Go on in, Sheriff.”

Roman studied the paunchy man, who had obviously been called out of bed. His shirttail was only partially tucked into his pants, and he was sipping a cup of coffee as he came into the room.

“You Roman DeWinter?”

“That's right.”

“Sheriff Royce.” He sat, with a sigh, on the arm of Charity's rose-colored Queen Anne chair. “What's this about a hit-and-run?”

“About twenty minutes ago somebody tried to run down Miss Ford.”

Royce turned to stare at the closed door just the way Lori had done. “How is she?”

“Banged up. She's got a gash on her head and some bruises.”

“Were you with her?” He pulled out a pad and a stubby pencil.

“No. I was about a quarter mile away. The car swerved at me, then kept going. I heard Charity scream. When I got to her, she was unconscious.”

“Don't suppose you got a good look at the car?”

“Dark blue Chevy. Sedan, ‘67, ‘68. Muffler was bad. Right front fender was rusted through. Washington plates Alpha Foxtrot Juliet 847.”

Royce lifted both brows as he took down the description. “You got a good eye.”

“That's right.”

“Good enough for you to guess if he ran you down on purpose?”

“I don't have to guess. He was aiming.”

Without a flicker of an eye, Royce continued taking notes. He added a reminder to himself to do a routine check on Roman DeWinter. “He? Did you see the driver?”

“No,” Roman said shortly. He was still cursing himself for that.

“How long have you been on the island, Mr. De-Winter?”

“Almost a week.”

“A short time to make enemies.”

“I don't have any—here—that I know of.”

“That makes your theory pretty strange.” Still scribbling, Royce glanced up. “There's nobody on the island who knows Charity and has a thing against her. If what you're saying's true, we'd be talking attempted murder.”

Roman pitched his cigarette out the window. “That's just what we're talking about. I want to know who owns that car.”

“I'll check it out.”

“You already know.”

Royce tapped his pad on his knee. “Yes, sir, you do have a good eye. I'll say this. Maybe I do know somebody who owns a car that fits your description. If I do, I know that that person wouldn't run over a rabbit on purpose, much less a woman. Then again, there's no saying you have to own a car to drive it.”

Mae opened the connecting door, and he glanced up. “Well, now, Maeflower.”

Mae's lips twitched slightly before she thinned them. “If you can't sit in a chair proper you can stand on your feet, Jack Royce.”

Royce rose, grinning. “Mae and I went to school together,” he explained. “She liked to bully me then, too. I don't suppose you've got any waffles on the menu today, Maeflower.”

“Maybe I do. You find out who hurt my girl and I'll see you get some.”

“I'm working on it.” His face sobered again as he nodded toward the door. “Is she up to talking to me?”

“Done nothing but talk since she came around.” Mae blinked back a flood of relieved tears. “Go ahead in.”

Royce turned to Roman. “I'll be in touch.”