Spirit Lake (32 page)

“Are you so stupid? You work for me for years bringing up bounty from the sea. You could have been rich, ruled the world with me, but instead you turn on me like a common cur."

Cole slid a foot forward. “Ruled the world?” The man had lived alone on his yacht too long.

“I'm the richest man alive. It's just that people don't know it yet. But they will."

Cole licked away the sweat pouring across his lips, then edged ahead a few inches, the rifle still drawn. Laurel's eyes stayed steady. “They don't know it because why? Were you covering up the value of the treasures we brought up? What were some of those pieces really selling for?"

Rojas laughed. “Depends on the country and the currency."

“You weren't allowed to sell the treasures until the government gave the okay.” Then Cole's mind tumbled. “If they knew about them. Not everything I brought up from the sunken ships made it to the ledgers, though, did it? Not unless Mike physically saw the stuff and he didn't see it all, did he? Until the end. He stumbled onto a secret cache, didn't he?"

The train ground on behind them still at a walking pace on its journey from Dresden. But it was gathering speed. Boxcar after boxcar slid by, some empty, some heaving with coal and lumber.

Rojas stepped back. “But you know all that, Wescott. You bring the copies of the records, she goes free."

Keep him engaged in conversation
, Cole thought. “Like the Texas socialite? Where are all the women who have visited your yacht over the years and Senator Goetz's yacht, for that matter?"

Cole saw the rifle waver. He continued. “Is it just coincidence that the chairman of the CIA oversight committee is anchored next to you? Was the CIA suspicious once? Is it now looking the other way because Goetz's nest is feathered by you? Did Mike discover that?"

A flinch tarnished Rojas's armor.

“Give it up,” shouted Cole, “because I'm not handing over the evidence."

Rojas's dark eyes erupted in fire. “You'd let her die?"

Cole noted Laurel remainded frozen. Trusting? Or too traumatized? Sweat poured down his back.

“No, Rojas. Never. But you've been done in. You see, you did kill the wrong brother. Your mistake cost you. Mike hid the copies of your books somewhere and we haven't been able to find them. You've chased me—and now indicted yourself—all for nothing. I can't help you. Let her go."

Rojas responded by hauling Laurel toward the train. Cole squeezed the trigger, but Rojas swung back with Laurel as his shield.

Then Laurel bucked with all her might, her head butting Rojas in the chin. Rojas cried out, letting go.

Cole shot, but Rojas ducked down to grab Laurel, saving himself. Cole tossed the rifle aside and pulled out his pistol, only to see Rojas tip his rifle's barrel into Laurel's neck again.

“Toss it away, far away” he said, “or this is it for her. You're making me do it. You're murdering her, Wescott."

Seeing the glassy terror in Laurel's eyes, Cole knew the man would do it. He threw the pistol off toward the woods behind them.

Rojas began shoving Laurel toward the railcars. Cole ran for him, but his leg went numb and he fell hard. Rojas charged on, half dragging Laurel with him.

Cole staggered up. His leg wasn't working at all.

Then he witnessed the horror of Rojas tossing Laurel at the open door of a boxcar half-filled with pine lumber. Her legs dangled perilously close to the spinning steel wheels underneath. Running alongside the slow train, Rojas tossed the rifle up and in, then leaped up after her.

Cole limped into a trot, not feeling his bad leg. He knew if he didn't catch them now, the train would soon slide on past, circle through the marshland and be gone forever. Rojas would find a way to never be seen again. And he'd have Laurel.

Dredging for his last bit of strength, Cole flung himself at the rocking boxcar, knowing a rifle could stare him in the face.

He landed hard on his belly, but wriggled on in time to see Rojas struggling with Laurel. She fought with the fury of a mother cat against a marauding tom.

Cole spotted the rifle a few feet behind Rojas near the lumber in the shadows of the boxcar.

As Cole crawled forward, Rojas whirled, kicked him hard in the gut. He went down.

To his horror, Rojas pushed Laurel out the open door.

“Laurel!”
Oh, God, the wheels beneath them!

Cole snapped. The adrenaline rush turned him into a true Atlas. His body surged to a standing position, but he made the mistake of favoring his leg.

Rojas saw it and flew at him with a kick. Cole writhed in pain, going down. Forcing himself up, his fist connected with Rojas's gut, who staggered back against the sway of the boxcar.

Cole seized the opportunity. The two men went down, rolled, fist against fisticuff, growl for growl. When Rojas straddled him handily, Cole discovered that he couldn't fight back effectively with only one leg willing to push. And there was no way he could reach for the knife sheathed inside his pant's leg. Inch by inch, Cole was barely holding off Rojas's attempt to move him to the open door, to dump him into the wheels beneath them.

Chapter 17

LAUREL ROLLED FAST, hands still tied. She spat out dirt. Gasping, she got up to find several boxcars had slipped by. Cole?

The train was picking up speed. She spotted the caboose coming a few cars away. It would take Cole away from her for good. Rojas would kill him.

Her lungs were on the verge of collapse, her fingers were numb, and her legs were jelly, but she forced herself into a wobbly trot alongside the train.

Then the caboose rumbled past, a red flash flickering in her periphery like a cardinal in the woods. It slid on by, but still she trotted down the tracks.

* * * *

COLE TORE AT the hands squeezing his throat and trying to dump him out the boxcar's doorway to perdition. Wind whipped his hair. The train bounced. Steel wheels seized against steel tracks beneath them, sending off a seering banchee wail.

Twisting, he bit hard on Rojas's forearm. Rojas let go and Cole rolled inside the boxcar on a dead reckoning for the rifle but couldn't come up with it in the rocking shadows. Slammed onto his butt, he pulled out Mike's knife and recoiled.

The madman towered a few feet away, silhouetted against scenery whooshing by outside. “Your Laurel is gone. You made me let go. You killed her, Wescott."

Cole's gut burned, refusing to believe Rojas despite what he'd seen with his own eyes. “She's alive."

Rojas laughed. “You only wish. She and I had lovely last moments together. That you'll never have."

With his last ounce of strength, Cole lunged at Rojas, but the train jerked violently, pitching him and Rojas out.

Hitting the ground hard, Cole gasped for air and rolled just in time to see Wiley charge from the woods in one direction, with Rojas stumbling across the tracks to disappear the other way.

“Wiley! Help!"

The wiry man leaped through the air, tripping Rojas, then straddling his head and neck, twisting an arm back. Rojas let fly with an expletive in Spanish, but Wiley grunted, “Want your mouth washed out with soap, too?” He snugged the arm tighter, eliciting a scream from Rojas, but Rojas was wriggling free.

“Hang on, Wiley!” Cole called, barely able to steady himself on his feet.

A sudden downdraft of wind beating at his hair signaled the helicopter's arrival. It was landing with John Petski aboard. The bright sunlight glinted off the bubble windshield. Two camouflaged men rushed out with him with their weapons drawn.

Cole turned his attention elsewhere, scanning down the trainline for Laurel. He didn't see her. All strength drained from him. A cold wind gutted his insides.

Had he lost Laurel?

Limping alongside the boxcars, one by one, he set off to find her ... or what was left of her. The grisliness of the thought tortured him. Why couldn't he have been the one, and not her?

“Laurel!"

He passed boxcar after rusty car. Nothing. Cole backhanded the savage tears threatening to undo him....

And then, a mirage.

Stumbling on, he called again, “Laurel?"

She seemed to take wing, his dove, her visage growing murky.

He was crying. He didn't care.

Then she was there, her long soft hair tangling around him, her throat choking in sobs against his neck, “I couldn't let him take you away. I jumped on the moving caboose."

“You what?"

“The trainman radioed the engineer from the caboose."

Cole hugged her closer, nuzzled the hair adorned with a twig or two. “You crazy woman. The brakes coming on must be why we suddenly flipped out the door. Oh, Laurel Lee."

“I thought I'd lost you,” she said, quaking against him, gasping for breath against his neck. “I love you."

Fever gripped him like talons. Words stuck in his dry throat. They had just defied death. The careless Cole of old would have easily taken advantage of this moment and the adrenaline rush, telling her anything she wanted to hear. It shook him to know he was choosing to hold back.

Drawing in a deep breath, he buried the words under the good smells about her: the pines, the floral scent of her hair, and the sunshine polishing her silken skin. To hold her was to glory in their meadow. The peace there. Which belonged to her. Not him, he reminded himself.

Holding her away from him, the sight of her bloodied face and cut wrists brought a catch to his heart. “I'm sorry."

As her smile faded, the lump in his throat grew and he interjected, “I hurt you. Badly. I'm sorry."

Her eyes bore into his, green as the forest they'd run through, beseeching. Did he love her? Always, she was questioning him, challenging him about his definition of love.

Thinking about all that he'd put her through, he knew they'd never be sure about their love if they promised things now.

He could not tell her he loved her. The decision astounded him. It came strong in his brain, like a punctuation mark called wisdom. Be sure, it said. When had he left rashness behind? When had he changed so much?

Laurel tipped her chin up, waiting, not breathing.

He swallowed hard. He wasn't sure enough about his own heart to trust anything spoken about love. Except about his son. He owed his son an “I love you” or two or ten before he'd ever be worthy of Laurel.

Cole's knees almost buckled from the weight of his thoughts, and when she allowed him to gather her to him again, he planted kisses in the soft hair at her temples. Yes, deep down, he wanted her. But even he had fences to mend for his brother, and most of all, with his own son. Those things would take time, maybe years. He couldn't ask Laurel to commit to that waiting. She deserved more. She'd spent enough time waiting where he was concerned.

All she needed from him was to be left to her peace. She had chosen that peace and it had nourished her for fifteen years, making her the best damn wildlife doctor there ever was, making her a vital person in this community. Free of him, she'd become respected again, a thing of beauty. And it wasn't in him anymore to cage a dove.

* * * *

IN THE DAYS THAT followed, with all the details that needed tending to through the sheriff's office and with the July Fourth weekend bursting the town to its seams, Cole could avoid talking to Laurel about what she'd said beside the train.

But the avoidance became a nervous dance. They grew wary of each other, nodding politely when they passed each other in town. She kept busy at the cabin. He kept busy splitting apart some of the last of the mansion's dusty lath walls.

He was stacking some of that lumber from the mansion next to her breezeway one evening when she spoke through the screen. “Coffee?"

She had two mugs in hand. What could he do? Run? He told her, “As long as it's not really tea."

“It's really coffee.” She smiled then, a tender line of lips made as dramatic as a movie from the gauzy effect of the screen.

They settled side by side on the front stoop. He would miss this with her, the wild moment of waiting before she spoke, wondering what wisdom or challenge would spew forth. It made his heart find the next gear right now. It opened him to a world he'd neglected to notice before coming back to her. He liked the “chip, chip” of the red cardinal and listened for it, and melted at the softness of baby rabbits in his roughened hands. He sniffed the air more now, paying attention to what rode the currents, like the smell of the pungent tomato vines and dill in the garden next to them by the cabin, but most of all he tested for the scent of the woman beside him. Always, heat stirred between his legs just smelling the hint of roses or jasmine or lilac in the shampoo she used to wash the billowing waves of her deep auburn hair.

Uncomfortable with the bend in his thoughts, he seared his lips on the coffee, punished his throat with a slug of it, and asked, “What're you going to do with all these vegetables?"

There were carrots, cucumbers, squash, pumpkins, onions—all of it crowding the sunny spot next to the cabin's front door.

“Do some canning with my mother, like every autumn. Give most of it away in baskets for the needy around Thanksgiving."

She'd be fine, he thought. She knew how to do important stuff. He hadn't a clue what was involved with canning. Or visiting the needy over a holiday. Champagne parties had always been more his style.

On his next sip of hot, earthy coffee, she asked, “You want to leave, don't you?"

Trapped. Like a bug on her breezeway screen under her palm. She understood he had to leave and had skipped right to the emotional nugget. Want versus need.

When he looked her way, he saw regret pushing shadows across her emerald eyes. It spliced open his heart.

“It doesn't matter what I want, Laurel Lee,” he explained in as even a voice as he could muster. “I've got to go back to Miami and see if my battery of lawyers can outfox his."

“I understand. It could drag on for years."

She was being gracious. He said, “It could."

The hurt in her eyes would remain burned in his memory.

She drew back her shoulders, basking with closed eyes in the July sun. The breeze picked up her hair and tossed it about her stoic solemnity and summer freckles. Her simple, yellow flannel shirt made his belly flip-flop. Rolled up at the elbows, exposing the fine hairs on her arms and muscles that healed animals and men, he thought her sexy as hell. Other men would be fools not to see the same thing. His stomach churned at the thought.