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“Were they guilty?”

“I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Jack interjected impatiently. “A jury let them off. But did they do it?”

“From what I’ve read of the testimony, yeah. But Cantrell was brilliant in revealing some of the government’s heavy-handed tactics. So, the guys walked and he went on to become a hired big gun of the legal profession. In fact, I read in this morning’s paper that he’s heading up the team representing that TV sitcom star. You know, the one arrested the other day for stalking his ex-girlfriend, then slashing her throat.”

“Cantrell sounds like a dandy guy,” Jack muttered. “So his daughter is trying to live up to his lofty legal reputation?”

“You have to remember that I haven’t seen her for years. And I’m no shrink. But yeah, at least back in high school, I’d say that was definitely the case.”

“Terrific.” Jack’s curse was rich and ripe. That was all he needed messing in this: a mouthy woman with an Oedipus complex waving her fancy Harvard law degree in his face. As the door to the house opened and an arm, clad in a pink sleeve reached out and snatched the pizza from the porch table, Jack wondered if his father had ever had days like this.

Finally, her long journey almost over, Raine was standing at the railing of the ferry
Walla Walla
that was making its way across Elliott Bay. The stiff wind, carrying with it the pungent bite of green fir and the softer scent of pending rain, cut through her suit and tore at her hair. But needing to clear her head after her long flight, and to prepare for battle with that small-town sheriff who’d been the bane of her existence these past hours, Raine resisted the lure of the ferry’s warm interior.

Although night would have already fallen back in New York, here on the West Coast the sun was just beginning to set, turning the choppy waters a shimmering copper. Behind the white boat, the glass towers of the Seattle skyline faded into the distance. On the top deck, two suit-clad businessmen—obviously commuters—were taking advantage of the stiff breeze to fly kites that soared like colorful dragons overhead. On any other occasion, Raine would have enjoyed the carefree sight. But not today.

Perhaps it was the emotional roller coaster she’d spent the day riding, but her feelings were veering back and forth like an out-of-control pendulum. Visions, like isolated snapshots, flashed through her mind: a vague memory of a little girl holding tight to her mother’s hand as they crossed these very same waters, excited at this new adventure, but secretly worried that they might be swallowed up by a huge killer whale, just like Pinocchio.

Another memory, from two years later, sponging Savannah’s face with a wet paper towel after her younger sister, seasick from choppy waters, had thrown up the hot dog, barbecue potato chips, and Dr. Pepper Lilith had fed them for dinner.

And then there’d been that painful day when she was a beanpole-skinny thirteen-year-old, desperately wishing for some magic word that would make her invisible while her glamorous mother leaned against the railing, her hair flying out like a shimmering banner in the crisp sea breeze as she flirted with a trio of lovesick sailors who were drooling over Lilith like three chocoholics raptly gazing upon a giant Hershey bar.

During those childhood years, part of Raine had looked forward to coming back to Coldwater Cove. It was, after all, the closest thing she’d ever known to home, the only place she felt safe. Secure. But always, deep inside the most secret places in her mind and heart lurked the fear that this would be the time Lilith would leave them at their grandmother Ida’s house and never return.

A young, obviously pregnant woman came out onto the deck with a little girl who was about the age Raine had been the first time she’d taken this ferry ride. As the woman pointed out the kites brightening the pewter sky and mother and daughter laughed together, obviously enjoying each other’s company, Raine experienced a sharp feeling of loss for a childhood she’d never known.

Less than twenty minutes after leaving Seattle, she caught her first glimpse of Coldwater Cove in the distance. The turreted, gingerbread Victorian buildings perched atop the green bluff overlooking Admiralty Bay were backlit by the setting sun in a way that made them look as if they were on fire. A slanted gray curtain between the water and the town suggested rain. A suggestion that was borne out when a random drop carried on the salt-tinged wind hit her face. Then another. Then more, finally driving Raine inside.

As the ferry approached the pier, she sipped from a foam cup of espresso that provided a much needed burst of caffeine and watched a brown pelican skim along the coastline in search of fish, the ungainly, awkward looking bird surprisingly graceful in flight. More pelicans perched on wooden pilings. When the docking call sounded, Raine tossed off the last of the espresso, left the glassed-in observation deck and took the metal stairs to her rental car.

She’d no sooner driven off the ferry when she found herself immediately engulfed in the wet, gray curtain she’d seen from the railing. Rain sheeted the windshield as she made her way through town, headed to her grandmother’s home. She hit the search button on the car’s radio, stopping when she landed on what seemed to be a news station. She listened to the weather forecast, which predicted rain.

“Now there’s a newsflash,” she muttered, turning the wipers to high as raindrops hit the glass in front of her like bullets, obscuring her view.

The Pacific Northwest hadn’t gotten these towering green trees that rose into the silvery mist like shaggy arrows, or the seemingly endless supply of crystal creeks and tumbling waterfalls, without receiving a lot of precipitation. Most residents considered the tradeoff worthwhile.

Coldwater Cove, originally founded a century ago by a Swedish lumberjack, remained a town of Nordic cleanliness, where shop owners still swept the sidewalks each morning and the streets were as clean as a Swedish kitchen. There was one theater, and churches outnumbered taverns three to one. The crack of Little League bats could be heard on Saturday mornings, the chime of church bells on Sunday.

She paused at the only stoplight in town where a wide, grassy town square at the end of Harbor Street served as the centerpiece of the town. A fountain bubbled at one end of the green; a horseshoe pit claimed the other. A clock tower, made of a red brick that had weathered to a dusty pink over the century, could be seen for miles. Raine wondered if each of the four sides of the clock still told a different time, and suspected, given the way the town seemed frozen in time, they probably did.

“We’ve just received an update concerning the ongoing crisis in Coldwater Cove,” the male voice announced as she continued through town. “Stay tuned for the latest development following this word from Timberland Bank, neighbors serving the Puget Sound community for fifty years.”

Raine dove forward and began twisting the dial. Having no doubt what the crisis referred to, she didn’t have the patience to listen to a commercial pitching debt-consolidation loans.

After skimming through various country, jazz, religious, rock, and oldies stations, she gave up and returned to K-SOUND—
More News, Less Chitchat
.

“How about less commercials?” she suggested acidly as the bank commercial segued into one for a franchise fish restaurant, then a break for station identification. Then, finally! The news update she’d been waiting for.

“This is Patrick Christopher, with an update on the crisis in Coldwater Cove. Sources tell us that fire trucks from neighboring Port Townsend and Port Angeles have been dispatched to the Lindstrom residence. Although the weather has grounded K-SOUND’s
Eye in the Sky
, we have our pilot, Captain Jim, in the newsroom, monitoring the situation…. Jim, what are you hearing from your sources?”

“Well, Patrick, there have been several confirmed reports of smoke coming from inside the house. We’ve been told that whatever fire may have been started seems to be under control at this time. Although that hasn’t been confirmed by either Sheriff O’Halloran or any involved fire personnel.”

“A fire?” Raine echoed, her blood going even colder than the rain lashing against the car.

“What about the three delinquent girls, Jim? Have you received any word regarding them?”

“Something’s coming in now, Patrick. If you’ll just wait a minute…” There was a moment of dead air. “Yes, the sheriff has reported that all three girls escaped the house unharmed.”

Raine let out a long breath she hadn’t even been aware of holding.

“Any word regarding a possible cause of the fire, Captain Jim?”

“Nothing’s been confirmed as yet. But speculation seems to be that the police may have grown tired of waiting for the girls to surrender their standoff and shot an incendiary device into the house to smoke them out.”

“A bomb?” Raine shouted at the radio. “He bombed three teenage girls?” The sheriff was going to pay for this, she vowed. She was going to keep the hick Lone Ranger wannabe in court until doomsday.

“Thank you, Captain Jim,” the voice on the radio was saying. “Of course we’ll keep you informed on further word regarding this potentially dangerous situation. Meanwhile, this is Patrick Christopher, K-SOUND Radio, returning to our weekly
Focus on State Government
with moderator Jane Kendall, in progress.”

By the time she reached her grandmother’s house, Raine was fuming, scheming the legal revenge that would not only cost the sheriff his job and whatever good reputation he may have inherited from his father, but everything he owned. Everything he might ever own. She was Xena, Warrior Princess. And she wasn’t going to put away her weapons and cease fighting until she had Sheriff Jack O’Halloran’s ass nailed to the courthouse door.

The bubble lights on top of the fire trucks were flashing through the mist, creating a surrealistic red glow as Raine plowed straight through the yellow police tape and pulled up behind a state police cruiser.

Fortunately, Raine noticed, the house was still standing, with no outward sign of fire damage. Normally, the sight of the weathered gray gingerbread house with its wide front porch and fish scale-roofed tower would have given her a sense of homecoming. Today, however, her mind was on other things.

She threw open the driver’s door, then heedless of the rain, little caring that the heels of her suede pumps were sinking into the mud, she marched toward the group of uniformed men gathered together beside a black Chevy Suburban bearing the Olympic County insignia.

She stopped in front of them, dragged a handful of wet hair out of her eyes, then splayed her hands on the hips of her soon-to-be-ruined Donna Karan suit. “So which one of you cowboys is Sheriff Jack O’Halloran?”

Conversation came to an abrupt halt. All eyes shifted toward her before returning to the rangy man who seemed absurdly tall, standing literally head and shoulders above the others.

“That’d be me.” Rainwater dripped off the brim of his—wouldn’t you just know it? she thought scathingly—black Stetson. He was wearing a black Gore-Tex jacket that carried the same insignia as his ridiculously macho truck. “And you must be Ms. Raine Cantrell. The New York lawyer who’s kept our county judicial system so busy the past few hours.”

His half smile was obviously feigned, his gunmetal gray eyes offering not an iota of welcome. The tinge of sarcasm in his baritone voice frayed Raine’s last nerve.

“If I weren’t an officer of the court, I’d hit you for what you did to those girls.” Her voice was tight with anger.

He gave her a bland look. “Since
I’m
an officer of the court, if you were to hit me, I suppose I’d have no choice but to haul you in for assaulting an officer.” He shrugged. “Looks as if we’re at a stalemate, Counselor.”

Raine thought about that. But not for long. “Not exactly. There’s still the little matter of you bombing a house with three innocent teenagers in it,
Sheriff
.” She heaped the same amount of sarcasm on his title as he’d used on hers.

“A bomb?” His dark brows crashed down toward his nose. A nose that looked as if it had been broken at some time in the past. “As an
officer of the court
”—there it was again, Raine thought, that damn sarcasm—“you, of all people should understand the power of an accusation. I didn’t do any such thing.”

“And I assume that fire just started by itself?”

“No.” He skimmed a look over her. Then turned away. She was about to demand to know where he was going, to insist he not walk away while she was talking to him, when he opened the front door of the truck and retrieved a school bus yellow rubberized poncho. “And it wasn’t really a fire. Just a lot of smoke. When the storm knocked out the power lines, the heat went out. Of course, since they were refusing to talk with me, I had no way of knowing that. Until they got cold and decided to light a fire in your grandmother’s old wood stove. Unfortunately, no one ever mentioned the advisability of opening the damper first.”

She caught the rain gear he’d tossed toward her with a murmured, reluctant “thank you,” yanked it over her head, then followed his gaze to the back seat of the truck, where the three girls seemed none the worse for their experience.

“And now that we’ve settled that, Counselor,” he said wearily, “I think I’ll leave the logistics of straightening out this mess to you and the juvenile-court system. Because it’s been a long day and my patience is hanging by a very thin thread.”