Spirit Lake (19 page)

The sheriff grunted. “She abhors the things, what with the accidents she sees."

“Owlsy with his shot-up wing?"

“Too many like that. But she would still have the old hunting rifle of her dad's."

“Ah, yes. Nice little number. The one he used to express his opinion about Laurel and me marrying ourselves in that little church."

Anger flared across John's face. “You haven't been out there, have you?"

Considering John's look and the ugly tone, Cole thought better of mentioning the visit to the graveyard. John obviously was still protective of his best friend's daughter after all these years. “No,” Cole said, “I haven't been near the place."

“Good. Laurel wouldn't like you tramping around out there by the graves."

Cole knew when it was wise to steer the subject in another direction. “Do you think Wiley's going to be okay with this plan we've hatched with him? His drinking could get in the way."

“I've never seen him sober up so fast. He took quite an interest in your story about Marco Rojas."

A shudder traveled up Cole's spine. “Laurel won't be relieved if she ever finds out I'm working with Wiley, of all people."

“But he offered a good idea on how to help draw out Rojas."

“And he's an old Naval officer.” He patted the pocket with the photo of the young man in uniform. “How could I turn him down, right?"

“It won't matter,” the sheriff said, pulling his hat down against the morning sun, “if you come up dead after all this."

Cole reached out and stopped the sheriff. He looked the older man in the eyes. “Tell me the truth, Sheriff. Would Laurel be better off if I were dead? Has she said anything about me over the years?"

John squinted toward the sun. “Some things just aren't talked about."

“Because Kipp came along? She alluded to feeling she had no choice but to marry Kipp.” He froze in his tracks, thinking over the reasons people marry. “I've been stupid not to guess this, right John?"

The sheriff's horrified look stopped Cole.

Swallowing against a sense of hollowness in his gut, Cole persisted, “She didn't just lose her father and Kipp. She lost Kipp's child, too, didn't she?"

The sheriff averted his face. “Please, son, don't say anything to her, or to anyone, about the baby. It's a private sorrow she's put behind her."

“Of course. I understand. I have a boy of my own now. Was it a boy?"

The sheriff's nod left his gut knotting up. Then John leaned into his day and left Cole standing on the boardwalk alone.

Remorse overtook his soul like a purple shroud.

What a clod he'd been. He'd mocked Laurel about hiding from life and living alone, and he'd galloped in with talk about a thriving, healthy son. His heart ached for Laurel.

He wondered if Mike had uncovered Laurel's background, including the child? Probably. Why hadn't Mike told him? Why did Mike appear to purposely want Cole to come here? To re-connect with Laurel?

The notion hit Cole with more power than a locomotive going full bore down a mountainside. Darn you, Mike! You don't know her at all. Or me!

He couldn't offer her what she deserved, or what Mike may have thought she deserved. And Laurel wouldn't survive loving and losing again. He'd seen that fragility in the way she held her baby animals, in the way her eyes darkened whenever she looked at him, in the way she'd insisted they just be friends. Nothing more. Just friends.

Sweat trickled down his back, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets before limping on to go find her.

* * * *

FLUSHED FROM spotting Cole and the sheriff with their heads together again out at the public pier, Laurel raced into the bait shop to ask her mother about anything she might know about Mike's visit or John's current cases. Her mother was in aisle two and up to her elbows sorting a shipment of bobbers into the appropriate trays. The Bowman kid was tending the register.

Madelyn beamed at Laurel. “Just the person I was about to call. There's a man I want you to see. The guy in my cottage."

“Mother, please. I wanted to ask you—"

“Hold this.” Madelyn shoved an empty tray in Laurel's arms and proceeded to fill it with red and white bobbers. “He's very nice. I know you'd like him. He bought a new graphite rod and a tacklebox, and two pairs of those fancy leather gloves, the thick kind so muskellunge don't bite through them. And oh, the giant minnow cages. I sold one to another man a few weeks back, and now this nice man bought two of them. Can you imagine? He's been asking so many questions about fishing that I hoped you might go out with him, to give him pointers."

Laurel shook her head. She must not have heard right. “What kind of retail specials are you running these days? Buy a hundred dollars worth of equipment and get a free date with the Hastings’ daughter?"

“Why not invite him to dinner tonight? I told him about Al's on Hwy. N, and he nodded."

“Because he probably couldn't believe you'd be trying to set him up with a date. He could be an ax murderer."

Madelyn rolled her eyes. “Not here, dear. Not in Dresden."

“You'd be surprised,” Laurel muttered.

“You could meet him there, then it wouldn't seem so much like a date. Just talk about fish, over fish."

Laurel plunked the bobber box back on the display shelf. “I don't have time for your matchmaking."

Madelyn looked genuinely hurt. “He likes my curtains."

Laurel had forgotten about the curtains. “Oh, Mom, I'm sorry."

“When was the last time you went out on a real date?"

In pure frustration, Laurel blurted, “I already have a date for tonight."

“Who?"

Right. Who? “Atlas."

“Your hobo help? Talk about ax murderers."

“Bye, Mother.” Laurel pivoted, stomping out of the bait shop before her headache grew to gargantuan pounding.

Her mother called after her, “He's going to be there. At seven."

Dashing down the sidewalk, dodging tourists, strollers and dogs, Laurel ran smack dab into Cole. The bag he carried busted open, spilling hardware at their feet.

“Sorry!” Laurel yelped. She bent down to help him pick up his purchases. “Window locks?"

“I put it on your account with Gary. I'm putting them in tonight."

“We won't have time.” She plucked a screw up off the concrete.

“Oh?"

“We're going out tonight.” Her heart pounded to match her head.

“What brought this on?"

“I'm asking you for a date, okay? Dinner, drinks, talk about the weather. Now shut up and be nice about it and accept, darn you."

Cole stared at her gape-mouthed. He scooped up the last of the hardware, then stood. “A date, when we're mad at each other?"

“Get over it.” She started walking away.

Cole caught up. “Where're we going on this date?"

“Al's on Hwy. N. Pork chops and sauerkraut on special. Get your choice of mashed potatoes and gravy, or home fries. I'll buy."

“Hmm,” he grunted, “a serious date."

“At least make it look that way. And fair warning. My darn mother's likely to be there, hiding with some ‘nice’ blind date to spring on me from behind the stuffed black bear that stands next to the bar. That thing has lice."

“Her date for you, or the bear?"

She flashed him a frown and pushed on through the throng.

He laughed from behind her. “Doesn't sound like your favorite place."

Shuddering, she stepped out of the foot traffic, looking him square in the eyes. “Al's on Hwy. N is where Kipp proposed."

He almost dropped the bag of hardware. “Want some of my aspirins?"

“I'd love a couple."

* * * *

LIKE A SET OF dominoes, the faces lounging at the bar in Al's Supper Club turned Laurel's way when she walked in. She knew it was because of Cole.

One by one, the men elbowed each other down the line. The air conditioning lacked enough oomph to overpower the heat pressing her cheekbones. Still, one of the dark, empty spaces inside her filled with a glow, a thrill really at the idea of being out with Cole, as if a fifteen-year separation never happened.

When one of the men slammed a dice cup on the bar, the remainder of the curious turned back to their betting and Leinenkuegel beer.

Cole touched her elbow to move on, igniting yet more heat. “Our worry over anyone recognizing me was certainly a waste. Doesn't anyone ever feed those wolves?"

Laurel realized it was a back-handed compliment. She glanced at her nondescript jeans and ordinary pale yellow blouse with eyelet stitching on the front placket. For the life of her she didn't know why men would—

“No man can resist watching the way your hair moves with you,” he said, winking at her. “Not even me.” He brushed a few wavelets back off her shoulder. “And I've always enjoyed your moves."

“If we turn around now,” she muttered, feeling hotter than Hades and foolish to boot for even being here, “we could go home and I'll fix you a sandwich."

“No way,” he said, nudging her toward the “Wait to be seated” sign and dining room. “No egg sandwiches. I'm looking forward to clogging my veins instead with those pork chops."

Craning his head in every direction, he added, “Don't see your mother yet."

“I'm betting she won't even show up. One of those wolves, as you call them, is probably going to a phone right now to report in."

Cole laughed. “Your mother as the ringleader in an intrigue is a different side to her."

“Whatever you do, don't encourage her strange behavior."

“Strange? Wanting her daughter to date, marry, have a dozen grandchildren for her, sounds almost normal."

Was this his way of telling her she'd allowed life to move on without her?

The restaurant suddenly smelled stale and looked drab in its mauve carpet and pine paneling. The man beside her seemed too powerful, a scary unknown in her life. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to be home with her animals, with Cole all to herself, working as—what did he say? As partners?

“I don't think I remembered to turn on the heat lamps."

“You checked them when I picked you up. Twice."

“Oh."

Then they were attacked by the clown, no, it really was a waitress, Laurel concluded. The overly-made up woman wearing an elaborate German costume that left pillowy cleavage peeking out of her peasant blouse smiled and said, “Just the two of you?"

Cole hiked a brow at Laurel. “Should we save a seat for your mother, just in case she chooses not to hide behind the bear?” He winked.

She relaxed. Boldly plunking her hand in the crook of his arm, she replied, “Let Mom fend for herself. Tonight's our night."

* * * *

THE WAITRESS'S pillowy chest jiggled. “The bear?” the waitress quipped. “We moved him ‘cause of losing his fur, but we have Al's bighorn sheep."

The head of which they sat under, next to a window overlooking a miniature golf course with a mangy-looking stuffed bear straddling Hole 13. Two little boys and their parents knocked white balls at the bear's feet.

The waitress disappeared.

Cole grunted. “Some ambiance. Want to leave?"

She gulped at her water. A tiny room in that house that was her heart wanted Cole to enjoy something of hers, even if it was a tattered tourist trap of a restaurant. “No. Besides, I'm starved."

“I can't eat until we clear the air. You and Kipp came here often?"

Surprisingly, she found herself smiling. “He liked the cheap specials, and he met friends here for cards. I came with often enough, but looking back I suspect he just felt obligated to bring me along."

“The man wanted to show you off. Can't blame him for that. I share the desire."

Liquid heat spilled down her skin. “Thank you. But he also appreciated talking about hunting with his buddies here, including my father."

Leaning toward her, his eyes twinkling, he whispered, “I don't hunt. Is that okay to admit that around here?"

“Sure. But watch what bar you're in and don't say it too loud during hunting season."

They laughed together.

The purity of the sound, the shared secret of nonsense, the simple joy of being here with him, all of it unnerved her.

“Kipp and I never had a peaceful meal in a restaurant or local bar where he focused just on the two of us. He was always hopping up and down to greet some buddy of his."

She worried her hands in front of her on the table. “Don't get me wrong. I appreciated that people liked him, but—"

“There's something to be said about a man focusing his attention solely on the woman he's with."

The way his dark eyes burrowed into hers took her breath away. A wellspring of renewal washed through her. She realized, maybe for the first time, the value of the way this man focused on one thing at a time. A thrill threaded through her for the second time this evening.

Feeling coy but daring, she said, “Am I still too much of a tomboy? Should I have worn a dress tonight?"

He leaned forward again, invading her space, eyes growing wide, an eyebrow softening into a sexy slouch. The air hummed between them. “You're pretty on the outside,” he ventured in a husky tone, “but I always liked you because of what was on the inside. Don't pretend to be what you're not, not for me or any man."

His reference to “any man” reminded her that what they had was at best a tenuous friendship built on nostalgia. And hormones. Oh, yes, that she would admit to inwardly.

Wanting to keep the conversation on the light side, she said, “Try the sauerkraut here. You'll look like a local."

He pointed out the window. “Like him? Nothing beats the look of a man in plaid shorts and knee socks playing miniature golf."

“That's no local. I'll bet he's a retired speedboat racer from Florida slumming up here in the summer,” she said, poking fun at him. It felt freeing to do so.

His broadening smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “No way will I ever wear plaid shorts like that. Or the matching knee socks."

“Wait until you hit seventy. Proneness for plaid shorts and knee socks to keep you warm is on one of those mysterious male genes. You watch. Scientists will soon discover that men can save their virility by wearing ugly shorts and socks."

His laugh almost visibly illuminated the room.