Spirit Lake (36 page)

The blood drained from her. Her legs went wobbly. Even in the shadows, she knew what she saw.

Her voice was but a gossamer whisper. “Jonathon.” She couldn't breathe. “His baby picture. Where—? It is Jonathon, isn't it?"

She searched his eyes for any hidden secrets, for any lies. When he nodded, she cried, hugging the locket to her breast.

Cole engulfed her into the heat of his arms, the locket cradled between their heartbeats. “I talked with your mother right before I left."

“My mother?"

“She was upset at first,” he began, a thumb caressing her cheekbone, painting her with his warmth. “But she finally confessed her cousin in Arizona might have kept a photo taken by the hospital. She'd never pursued it because she was sure it would be too painful for you."

And it would have been back then, she realized. Then she felt an ache for him. “This must have been hard for you.” When he flinched, she rubbed at his arms. “Talk to me about Tyler. How are the both of you doing? Really?"

She relaxed to see a shadow lift from his eyes. “Feeling safe. We had a long talk recently, about a whole lot of things."

She looked at the photo again, so tiny and fragile lying in her palm under the half-light of the moon and stars. “He's beautiful."

“Like his mother."

“Thank you, Cole."

“I want you to know something."

She swallowed hard under the seriousness of his gaze. “Whatever it is, I can take it. The past is past."

“I found the medicine. That bandage for fragile things."

She leaned toward him and into the hum. “Our medicine?"

Licking his lips, he nudged her chin upward with a callused finger. “When I went back toTyler, he didn't much like me at first. He even told me off, had a few choice words, said he didn't need a bum like me."

“I'm sorry. You've been through a lot it sounds like.” Colder air wafted up from the valley.

He gathered her against him. “I told the FBI boys, the newspaper reporters, the racing circuit promo wolves to go to hell so I could spend every day of August before school started with my son."

Warm admiration spiked into her heart. Smiling, she realized they'd exchanged roles in life. While she'd become the one being interviewed with her photo all over the papers and Internet Web pages, he'd retreated to tend to family.

She offered, “I hope you can patch things up eventually."

“Actually, after I followed him to soccer practice for about the tenth time, and after picking up him and his friends to go get pizza for the twentieth time, he told me something pretty darn profound."

“And what was that?” She could hear his heart thrumming in his chest, a fragile thread tethering her to him.

“He said, ‘Dad, I forgive you. You're okay after all.’ He suddenly made it sound so simple to change things. To make things fresh again he said merely, I forgive you."

“Because he not only needs you, he loves you."

“Yes, I think he does."

Looking up at the yearning in his dark eyes, she asked, “I know he does.” Her heart scuttled about. Her mouth went dry.

“That's our medicine,” he said. “It's forgiveness. When my son said that he forgave me, something wonderfully free and warm washed over me, as if I were flying. And it helped me see there's a new kind of love out there if I'm open to it. If you'll forgive me. And if I can forgive myself. I think I can if you'll do me a favor or two."

She swallowed around the lump pulsating in her throat. “A favor?"

“I want to bring Tyler back here sooner than we talked about."

“Anytime,” she said, breathless. “I want you to visit often. And I'd love to meet him."

“Will you put your finger up on a star?"

She did. He pressed his finger on the same star, his thick finger sparking heat down her finger and arm, through her middle and down to her toes.

He said, “Are visits enough?"

“You're asking too many questions."

“What if Tyler and I came to live at Spirit Lake?"

Shock waves rocked her. “But your business, your racing—"

She began to pull her finger from the star, but he commanded, “No, keep your finger on our star.” When she did, he continued, “I figure I still have that crayon box, so I can fly to a race now and then without too much trauma. Of course, I'll need to work out the vacation time with John."

“Why's that?” The heat rippled from their fingers held against the star.

“There's a lot of work to do patrolling the lakes around here. He thinks he could use a deputy, someone who could handle boats and going fast."

She hummed. She definitely hummed. “Cole?"

“Will you marry me?"

Laurel saw the wicked glint in his dark eyes. Lightning must have struck her finger because sparks showered the air between them. Rescuing her heart before she fainted, she brought her hand down. The night air held a pungent promise on it.

She felt a smile bubble up, but she wondered if she'd been hearing things. “You're just lookin’ for trouble, aren't you?"

To her delight, he got down on his knee. Raising an eyebrow rakishly, he said, “Have I found it?"

Sighing, her heart aglow, she nodded. “That's your bad leg. You better get up."

“Not until you say you forgive me."

“For what?” Her fingers tingled.

“For being late with this proper proposal."

“There's never anything proper about you, Cole."

“Then you'll say yes?"

“Questions are my specialty, remember?” she spouted.

“Then you'll say—"

“Yes, damn you!” Heatwaves crashed down her.

“I love you, Laurel Lee, and it's not that old kind of love, that stuff teenage boys toss around loosely like cheap bottles of perfume. This is the big stuff, longer and wider and deeper than Spirit Lake."

“Hmm, I'll need a mighty big bottle to hold that kind of love."

“Just a lifetime. I've come home, Laurel Lee. I need you. With you, I can leap fences, tear down fences—"

“And get in trouble!” Her heart swelled and she fell into his arms. “I love you, Cole. You're no good for me, no good at all."

But she kissed him anyway.

* * * *

LATER, WHEN THEY released the owl, they watched him course high into the sky across the moon, winging onward to their meadow.

And they followed. Hand in hand. They had become a family.

Christine DeSmet

Christine DeSmet is an award-winning writer who loves fast-paced, visual suspense stories set in wild landscapes that naturally feature both beauty and danger. Her new novel, SPIRIT LAKE, set in the forests of northern Wisconsin, earned First Place in the 1999 Golden Network contest sponsored by Romance Writers of America (RWA). It was a finalist in the 1996 RWA Golden Heart contest under the title SHADOW GARDEN.

She's also a professional screenwriter, and her novels reflect her love of developing visual images and emotionally-charged dialogue. Her motion picture script “Chinaware-Fragile,” written with writing partners Peggy Williams and Bob Shill, won the Slamdance Film Festival contest in 1998 and is currently optioned to New Line Cinema.

Christine is a fellowship graduate of the Warner Bros. Sitcom Writers Workshop, a board member of Wisconsin Screenwriters Forum, a member of the Writers Guild of America East, and a member of RWA.

Raised on a farm near Barneveld, Wisconsin, her stories always reflect her love of animals. “I grew up with pets that included gophers, chickens, cows, ponies, pigs, raccoons, the occasional rescued baby bird, and of course parakeets, canaries, kittens, guinea pigs, and many dogs.” She has a master's degree in journalism and leads writing workshops for UW-Madison's Division of Continuing Studies.

Readers are welcome to email her at: [email protected]