The inky, gray waters of Lake Huron stretched out to infinity in front of the cottage, constant and dependable. Just like the man prowling her space. He stalked into the kitchen, taking up all of the space with his cowboy shoulders and grumpy competence.
And that, she realized as she shed her boots and coat, was why she’d come back. To be just close enough to feel safe again. Despite his protestations, Brick Callan cared about her. There was something in his spirit that demanded that all the people he cared about be safe. She envisioned him running around like a cattle dog, nipping at the heels of the people of Mackinac, keeping them all from harm’s way.
She let out a sigh. Nothing good ever came from mooning over the ungettable man. Besides, she had bigger, more dangerous problems on her hands.
He produced a blister pack of batteries from one of the bags. She watched as he efficiently popped the cover on the first smoke detector without needing a chair or stepladder and wished she could curl up on the couch and sleep while he was here. While she was safe.
She climbed into one of the blue velvet swivel armchairs in front of the window. Turning her back to the lake, she pulled her knees up to her chin and watched him grudgingly take care of her.
Covers clipped back into place, he pitched the packaging and old batteries into the trash bin under the sink.
“Do you do a lot of maintenance for Agnes?” Remi asked.
He turned to look at her, and when those long legs of his ate up the space between them, she scooted back in the chair. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to do, but it certainly wasn’t to take her right hand gently in his and push up the sleeve of her oversized sweater.
She had hugged, kissed, poked, prodded, and leaned into him about a thousand times over the years. There was a spark of something special every time they touched. It fascinated her. Comforted her. Confounded her. But the very thing that attracted her to Brick seemed to repel him from her. She could count on one hand the number of times the man had voluntarily touched her first.
“How the hell did you do this?” he demanded. His voice was stern, but the way he held her hand as he examined the plaster was almost tender.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she insisted, not sure if that was indeed the truth.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, it feels great. Of course it hurts. It’s a broken arm,” she snapped.
“How did it happen?” he demanded grimly.
She tensed, unable to control the visceral reaction to the memories. Blindingly bright lights. Metal collapsing in on itself. Falling into the dark.
“I told you. It was a car accident,” she said, trying to pull her arm away. But he held her arm carefully, firmly in his grip as his fingers explored the tangerine plaster of her cast.
Those blue eyes focused on her as if they were peeling back the layers.
“What happened?” he asked again. His voice was rough and low, but his touch warm. That blue, pulsing light that surrounded him seemed to envelop her, too.
She was horrified when her eyes filled with tears.
This time, she was able to yank her arm free and turned away to face the windows and the water beyond. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You always want to talk about everything.”
“Not anymore,” she murmured.
“How much does it hurt?” he rasped, sounding as if he were in some pain himself.
She rested her cheek on her knee and willed the tears away. “Not so much anymore.”
“You do remember that I can tell when you’re lying,” he said, spinning her chair around and forcing her to look at him. She saw storms in his eyes. More gray than blue now. She wondered what he might see in hers.
Would he look past the bravado and see what lurked beneath the surface? The thing that hadn’t existed before. The thing that had changed everything.
“That was a long time ago,” she reminded him quietly. “We’re both different people now.”
He rose, straightening those mile-long legs of his and returned to the kitchen. “You’re gonna need to stock up on some essentials,” he observed as he loaded up his bags. He was leaving. She was relieved and sad. As much as he annoyed her, his presence chased away the shadows. And that pissed her off.
“I’ll get around to it,” she told him, quickly wiping a tear away when he wasn’t looking.
Groceries collected, he paused and gave her another once-over. “You look tired. You should rest.”
“Good-bye, Brick,” she said pointedly. He headed toward the door, and she waited until he’d opened it. “I like your beard,” she called after him.
With a clench of his jaw and one last smoldering look, he was gone.
3
“Remi Honey?” Not much surprised Chief Darlene Ford. Born and raised on Mackinac, she’d served the island as a cop for nearly thirty years. But finding her youngest daughter—who was supposed to be working and living in Chicago—standing on the front porch seemed to be enough to put a hitch in her step.
“Surprise!” Remi wrapped her mom in a too-tight hug and held on for dear life. The name badge clipped to the front of Darlene’s offseason uniform sweatshirt bit into Remi’s shoulder. She may have inherited the woman’s green eyes, but she hadn’t gotten any of the extra height.
“Well, holy hell!” Darlene breathed, squeezing her hard. “Why didn’t you call and tell me you were coming? I could have gotten your room ready. How are you? Are you taking your prescriptions? Is something wrong? How’s your painting going? Have you sold any?”
The motherly interrogation made Remi laugh as she released her. “I wanted to surprise you and Dad. I don’t need my room because I talked Agnes Sopp into renting me a place. And everything else is just fine.”
“Well, I’m just tickled!” Still gripping her shoulders, Darlene looked over her shoulder and bellowed. “Gil! Get your ass down here.”
“What’s wrong? It’s too cold for spiders,” Gilbert Ford called back from the second floor.
“It’s not a spider,” Darlene shouted.
Darlene Ford had been born fearless…except when it came to spiders. It was the one area in which she allowed her mild-mannered, English-teaching husband to ride to her rescue without complaint.
“Well, come on inside before we heat the whole neighborhood.” She ushered Remi across the threshold into the house she’d spent her teenage years escaping.
Small details were different. The rug under her feet was new. There was a sturdy desk in the cluttered study on the left. The old one, a rickety-ass card table, had finally collapsed last year under the weight of high school essays and half-empty coffee mugs. Across the hall, the living room boasted a bigger, newer TV.
But it still smelled like home. Coffee and furniture polish.
Her landscape of Mackinac’s shoreline, one of her first paintings, still hung in the hallway that led to a sunny kitchen and dining room. And her parents still yelled from room to room.