Land's End (9 page)

Rain pounded against them, drumming on the wooden walkway. The green of shrubs and trees turned iridescent in the deluge. The pool sparkled and danced as they hit the patio and turned toward the house. His spirits lifted. It was exhilarating to race the storm, making him feel like a kid again.

“We might as well stop running,” Sarah gasped. “I can't get any wetter.”

He stopped short, and she bumped into him. He steadied her with a firm grasp of her arm. Her skin was cool from the rain, but it warmed to his touch.

“Is this better?” He looked down at her, laughter in his voice.

Her hair, darkened by the rain, hung wetly around her face. Her cheeks were flushed from the run, and her eyes sparkled with laughter that matched his.

His grip tightened. He wanted to pull her close, hold her against the rain—

Sarah's pupils dilated, making her green eyes dark. She seemed to sway toward him. Then her breath caught in an audible gasp, she stepped back.

“I—I'll go dry off.”

“Wait.” Stupid, but he didn't want her to go.

“I'll come to the house once I'm dry. We have to talk.”

Something about her tone alerted him. He wasn't going to like what they had to talk about. “What is it? What did Melissa say to you?”

She hesitated for a moment, as if she wouldn't speak. Then she turned back, the rain pelting down her face like tears.

“She knows what people are saying about Miles and Lynette. She doesn't believe it. She doesn't believe her mother would do anything wrong.”

 

Sarah paused at the door to the family room. She was no longer shivering, but that didn't really improve her feelings any. The need to confront Trent about the storage locker had combined with the pressure she felt to help Melissa, tying her stomach in knots.

Well, she couldn't let that deter her. With a silent plea for guidance, she opened the door.

Trent turned from the dark fireplace, which he was facing.
He looked younger, less formidable, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his hair still wet from a shower. The knots tightened. She'd forgotten to add that uncomfortable surge of attraction to her litany of problems.

“Feel better now?” His brows lifted.

“Drier, at least.” She forced herself to move forward.

The family room was more casual than the rest of the house, its rattan furniture covered with bright sailcloth pillows and its bookshelves filled with an assortment of children's books and popular fiction. A coffee service was set out on the glass-topped table, adding a welcoming touch.

But she wasn't welcome, and she had to keep that firmly in mind. She'd let herself forget it during those moments when she and Trent had run through the rain together, and look what had happened. She had to keep her guard up with Trent for more reasons than that unpredictable spurt of attraction.

Like the incident at the storage locker, for instance.

Trent was looking at her, frowning a little. “What is it? You look as if you're ready to do battle.”

“Maybe I am.” She stopped a few feet from him. That was close enough. “I went to the storage facility this afternoon to check out the things I left here.”

Wariness flickered in his gray eyes. “That must have been difficult.”

“It had to be done.” In the first flush of anger it would have been easy to accuse him. Now it was harder to get the words out. “I had the door propped open. When my back was turned, someone took the prop away. They locked me in. The attendant had already left. If I hadn't been able to free myself—” The memory robbed her of breath.

For a moment Trent didn't move. His expression didn't change, and it was impossible to read guilt or innocence in
his face. Then he crossed the space between them in two swift strides. He grasped her hands, his grip hard and compelling.

“Are you all right?” His fingers moved against her skin, as if to assure himself she was there and safe.

Relief swept through her, its depth surprising her. Unless Trent was a far better actor than she gave him credit for, he hadn't had anything to do with it.

“I'm fine. Fortunately Miles's toolbox was inside the locker, and I was able to get the door open.”

“In this heat, you could have died before anyone found you.” Anger and passion colored his voice. “What were you thinking to go there alone? You should have let someone know where you'd be, at least.”

She jerked her hands free. “Right. Blame the victim. Of course I should have guessed someone might lock me in.”

He stared at her and then shook his head slightly. “Sorry. I didn't mean to act as if you're to blame.” His frown deepened, engraving three deep lines between his brows. “Look, are you sure it wasn't just an accident?”

“The broom I'd used to wedge the door was lying ten feet away. It didn't get there on its own. Someone threw it.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “So of course you thought of me.”

She shrugged, uncomfortable. “It seemed the logical choice. You didn't, did you?”

“No. But it's hardly a compliment that you have to ask.”

Trent hadn't done it. That left very few possibilities. “Are you sure Farrell left the island?”

“Farrell?” Clearly the thought hadn't occurred to him. She could almost see his mind ticking over that.

“I was responsible for his getting fired.”

His lips tightened. “I suppose he might see it that way. If he's still on the island, I can find out easily enough.”

Of course he could. The police chief would be happy to help him. That resolution was oddly anticlimactic. She'd been geared for a few more fireworks.

“That's really all I wanted to say.” She made a slight movement toward the door, but he stopped her with a light touch.

“But not all I want to say.” He shook his head. “I don't know why we're standing here. Come and sit down. The least we can do is to drink the coffee Geneva fixed for us.”

He wanted to talk about Melissa. Her heart sank. She'd already said more than she should. She sat down on the rattan sofa. The cushions cradled her body and urged her to relax, and she sank into them. She must be more tired than she'd thought.

She leaned back, watching Trent's face as he went about the small business of pouring out coffee, adding sugar, stirring it. He wore his control like a shield, but she'd seen behind that barrier more than most people had, probably. He was hurting. Pain had driven those harsh lines into his face, not bitterness, as she'd first thought. He'd deny it, of course, but he needed to know the truth about Lynette and Miles as much as she did.

She barely sipped the coffee, knowing she didn't need any caffeine to ensure another restless night. Trent took a long swallow and then set his cup down firmly. She tightened. Here they came—the questions she didn't want to answer.

“Why did Melissa confide in you?”

The question, when it came, wasn't the one she expected, and for an instant it threw her.

“I'm not sure.” She watched his hands, finding it easier than looking at his face. His long fingers were linked in what should have been a casual pose, but she read the strain he carried in every muscle. “Maybe she felt that we shared a common grief. I didn't ask any questions, Trent. Really.”

He nodded. “I believe you. But—” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Did she say anything more?”

There were all sorts of reasons why she shouldn't tell him what his daughter had said, and only one reason to tell him. She cared about what he and Melissa were going through.

“She said that she knew her mother was unhappy.” Her throat tightened, and she had to force the words out. “She said that she had heard Lynette crying.”

His hands twisted against each other, the knuckles going white. It was no good thinking she could guard herself from his pain. She couldn't.

“Lynette—” His voice seemed to choke. He paused a moment, clearly fighting for control. When he went on, his voice had roughened. “She was always restless, always dissatisfied. I thought when she had Melissa it would make a difference, but it didn't. She seemed to need something I couldn't give her.”

The raw honesty of the confession cut her already bruised heart. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, the words inadequate.

His face was bleak. “If I'd realized what that was leading her to, maybe I could have found a way to stop it.”

What it was leading her to—the isolated cottage and a rendezvous with a lover—that was what he meant. She tried not to picture the cottage, but she couldn't stop. She'd never get the image out of her mind—the softly padded furniture, the air of seclusion, the fire laid ready to be lit—it had been such an unusually cold, wet spring last year.

“It doesn't make sense.” The words were out before she'd fully formed the thought.

He sighed. “I know you don't want to believe Miles could have betrayed you, but what else are we to think?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “No. I don't believe he would, but that's not what I meant.” She sat up straight, sud
denly energized. “If Lynette was there to meet her lover, why didn't she light the fire? It was ready. I saw it. Surely that would have been more romantic than a smelly space heater on a wet, rainy day.”

“Sarah, that doesn't mean anything.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as if her persistence gave him a headache.

The more she thought, the more convinced she became. “It's something that doesn't fit. It has to mean something.”

“No.”

A wave of anger swept over her at his stubborn refusal to consider any other verdict. “There could have been another reason why they were at the cottage. Why are you so ready to believe that she betrayed you?” She caught his arm, and it was like iron under her fingers.

“Because.” He turned toward her, his face harsh and forbidding. He had the look of a man goaded beyond all bearing. “Because two weeks before she died, Lynette confessed to me that she'd been having an affair.”

T
rent moved blindly, driven by the need to get away from Sarah. She'd made him reveal something he hadn't breathed to another soul, and for a moment he hated her for it.

His stride took him to the fireplace. He stopped, pressing his palms against the smooth pine mantel as if he'd push it right through the wall. He glared down at the fireplace. If they hadn't been near it, maybe Sarah would never have come up with this absurd theory.

Her soft steps sounded on the heart pine floor. She stopped a foot away from him, but he was so intensely aware of her presence that they might as well have been touching.

“I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” He spit out the words. Sorry you came here, Sarah. Sorry you brought it all back to life again.

“You have to tell me.” Fear laced her words. “Did she say it was Miles?”

For a moment he wanted to say yes. To hurt her as she'd hurt him. To bring an end to this.

“No.” He swallowed, his throat cramping at the effort it took. “No, she didn't. She refused to say who the man was.”

“You asked her.”

“Of course I asked her.” He'd stormed at her. Shouted out his hurt. All the control he was so proud of had deserted him completely. “She wouldn't tell me. She said it was over. She wanted me to forgive her.” He kicked at a log.

Sarah's face was white. She had herself under such rigid control that it was too painful for him to watch. “I see. Did you forgive her?”

She didn't have the right to ask that question. He didn't have to answer her.

“No.” It shamed him, remembering that. “Maybe I would have, given enough time, but we didn't have time.”

Sarah stared down as if looking for an answer there. “That still doesn't mean it was Miles.”

He swung toward her, half-afraid of the anger that raced along his veins. “Why won't you leave it alone?”

“Because I can't.” Her head came up, eyes defiant. “You have no proof the man was Miles.”

The anger went out of him as suddenly as it had come. Sarah was groping like a hurt child for any other explanation. There wasn't one.

“Lynette had been having an affair.” He tried to gentle his tone. “She and Miles died together at the cottage. What else are we to believe?”

Sarah's eyes were bright with tears she seemed determined not to shed. “I know. It's very convincing. The only thing I have to put against it is my instinct. Miles wouldn't.”

“Sarah—” He wanted to help her, but he didn't know how. “Don't you think I felt the same way? You don't want to believe that his love for you wasn't strong enough—”

“That's not it.” Her mouth twisted. “It's not what I think he felt. It's who I knew Miles to be. He'd have told me. He'd have done the honorable thing. That's who he was.”

Miles had been a lucky man, to inspire that kind of trust. “People don't always live up to our image of them.”

She shook her head stubbornly. Maybe that determined stubbornness was all that kept her going now.

“Look.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “You tell me. What do you want? What can I do to convince you?”

“Give me the freedom to learn the truth.” She said it so quickly that it was obviously the only thing on her mind. “You're the man with the power here. No one will talk to me as long as they think you don't want them to.”

“You're giving me too much credit. People always talk.”

“Not here.” Her smile flickered. “You're the king of St. James, don't you know that?”

“Even if that's true—” He wanted to protect her, but she kept rejecting that protection. “You'll end up hurting more.”

Her chin came up at that. “I'll take that risk.”

She had courage—he had to say that for her.

“All right,” he said finally. “I'll arrange for you to talk to anyone you want. But at the end of it—”

“I'll go away.” She held out her hand, as if to seal the bargain. “I know that's what you want.”

His hand closed over hers, and he felt the by-now-familiar surge of emotion. She was wrong. He didn't want her to go away. But he knew she would. She had to.

They had no choice. No matter what they might feel, tragedy and betrayal would always stand between them. It bound them together, and it set an impenetrable barrier between them. There was nothing they could do about that.

 

When you don't know what else to do, do the thing that's in front of you.
That had been one of her grandmother's favorite maxims, speaking as it did to duty. Do the next thing.

In this case, the next thing was working a shift at the clinic. Sarah fastened the braid in her hair in and picked up her bag. She hadn't seen Trent since that painful conversation the previous evening, and that was probably for the best.

She'd get away from Land's End for a few hours. A little distance and time might help her view things with more detachment. Now she simply felt sore, as if her body as well as her spirit had been bruised.

She closed the door to the guest suite and started across the patio toward the garage. The sun was already hot, the air already humid. Summer could come early to the Low Country—it was already late May.

She heard the door to the house open and turned to see Geneva waving at her.

“Ms. Sarah, Mr. Donner wants to speak to you for a moment, if it's convenient.”

She doubted very much that Trent had put it that politely. She resisted the urge to keep on walking. Apparently the next thing to do was another difficult conversation with Trent.

Cool air rushed to meet her as she stepped inside. Geneva closed the door quickly, as if to keep the humidity at bay.

“He's up in his study.” Geneva gestured toward the staircase that rose toward the loft. “Please go up.”

The staircase curved like a bird soaring in flight—a tribute to the skill of the builder. Like everything in Trent's house, it was perfectly designed for the space. No doubt he'd secured the best architect to prepare his sanctuary.

She went up slowly, running her hand along the smooth banister. She wasn't eager for another meeting with Trent.

Please, Lord, help us not to hurt each other again.

The door at the top of the stairs opened as she approached. Joanna Larson came out, her face tightening at the sight of Sarah.

“Go in. Please.” She bit off the words. “He's expecting you.” She turned and went quickly down the stairs, as if disassociating herself from this meeting.

Sarah pushed the door open. Trent sat behind a massive cherry desk. In the chair opposite, looking ill at ease, was the patrolman she'd seen at police headquarters. Bobby Whiting—one of the men who'd found Miles and Lynette.

“Come in.” Trent's voice grated, and she could hear how much he hated this. “This shouldn't take long.”

Whiting, galvanized at the sight of her, stumbled to his feet. He was lanky in a crumpled-looking uniform shirt and pants, and he ran one hand around his collar when he nodded to her, as if it had suddenly tightened.

“Miz Wainwright,” he mumbled, then flushed to his prominent ears. “I mean, Dr. Wainwright.”

She nodded to him and sent a questioning look at Trent. He frowned back at her.

“I didn't want you chasing around the island and getting into trouble looking for Whiting. He's here to answer any questions you have.” He turned the frown on Whiting. “You understand. Answer truthfully.”

Whiting nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Apparently satisfied, Trent stalked across the office to the long window that overlooked the salt marsh. He stood staring out, hands clasped behind his back. But his hands gripped each other too tightly and his shoulders were too stiff to make the pose anything but pretense.

She took a breath, realizing she hadn't spoken since she'd entered the office. A chair had been placed a few feet from Whiting's, facing his, obviously for her. She crossed to it and sat down, stomach churning. She had what she'd wanted. Now what was she going to do with it?

She'd have to plunge in and hope Whiting could make things clearer. “Will you tell me what happened that day?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma'am. Mr. Donner, he called to say his wife had taken a boat out and hadn't come back. We notified the Coast Guard and started the search.” He darted a look at her. “You see, we have a reg'lar way we do that.”

She nodded. Trent must have been frantic. Because she'd been in Savannah at the hospital, no one had even realized Miles was missing, too.

“Go on.”

“Well, I took the chief in my boat, going along the marsh. It was raining off and on, chilly that day. Tide was going out, so it was chancy handling, but when we saw the dock, with the two boats tied up, we knew we'd done right.”

She knew about the boat Miles had rented. He'd never done that before, but he could handle it. He'd summered at Cape Cod every year when he was growing up.

“We figured it was gonna be awkward.” Whiting stared at his shoes. “We had to go in, though. And we found them.”

She swallowed. “How did they look?” Had he seen anything the chief, in his hurry to whitewash the situation, hadn't?

“Miz Donner, she was toppled over on the sofa, like she'd been sitting there when the fumes got her. Mr. Wainwright lay on that hooked rug between the sofa and the fireplace. There was a mark on his forehead, like he'd hit the coffee table when he fell. They looked—” He stumbled over the word. “Well, we could tell it was carbon monoxide right away.”

She knew how that looked. “What did you do first?”

“The chief told me to get the windows open. He was holding a handkerchief to his face whilst he looked at them. So I did.”

“What else did you notice, in those first couple of minutes?”

He frowned, eyes becoming distant as if he pictured it again. “Miz Donner's bag lay on the floor. She had a notebook laying on the coffee table in front of her, with a pen next to it. The cap was off the pen.”

Trent swung around abruptly. “I was never told that.”

Whiting's eyes widened. “Sorry. I mean, the chief, he does all the talking for the department. Guess he figured it wasn't important.” He stopped, obviously not knowing what to do when he was caught between the two authority figures in his life.

Sarah leaned forward, heart thumping. “Was anything written in the notebook?” The man had a good visual memory. If anything had been written—

He squeezed his eyes shut. “No, nothing. Seems like as if—” His eyes popped open again. “The notebook was one of them spiral-bound ones. There was some little bits of paper laying on the table, like somethin' had been tore out.”

“Before you opened the windows or after?” Trent's question cracked like a whip.

Whiting looked confused.

“Did you notice the notebook and the bits of paper before the chief sent you to open the windows, or after?”

But there Whiting's memory failed him. He shook his head. “I don't know. I was pretty shook up—I never seen anything like that before.”

No, he wouldn't have. Things like that didn't happen here.

“Did you find out what was wrong with the space heater?”

“Yes'm.” He looked relieved to switch to a more technical subject. “There was a leak in the pipe. The gas would build up, and they probably didn't even know what was happening 'til they were too sleepy to do anything about it.” He moved his shoulders restlessly. “Was something like that on the
mainland, four, five years ago. Three young guys at a hunting cabin—all of them gone before they could get out.”

Perhaps Miles had realized, in those final moments when Lynette toppled over. He'd tried to get up, falling against the coffee table as the fumes took him. She swallowed hard. The image would be there forever now.

“You're sure there wasn't anyone else around the island?”

“Anybody come by boat, they'd have tied up at the dock, wouldn't they?” He shrugged. “Well, anybody but ole Lizbet.”

Something in her snapped to attention. “Who is Lizbet?”

“Lizbet Jackson.” Trent supplied the name. “She's an elderly Gullah woman with the reputation of being a healer. She's all over the marshes in a dugout, looking for herbs.”

“She could pull that boat of hers up on the bank most anyplace,” Whiting said. “She likes Cat Isle, says some special kind of moss grows there. But I didn't see her that day.”

It was someone to talk to, anyway. “Where can I find her?”

He shrugged. “She's got a little house, but often as not she sleeps out rough, or bunks in with some of her kin. She's probably related to half the islanders.”