Land's End

She pushed hair back from her damp forehead. That wasn’t right, anyway. Whatever Miles had been doing here, it wasn’t making love to Lynette Donner. If she couldn’t believe that, nothing in her life made any sense.

She grasped the door handle and pushed it open. She stood for a moment, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Abruptly a wave of distaste washed over her. What was she doing here?

Like an echo of her thought, the voice came from within the room. “What are you doing here?”

With a queer, cold twist in her stomach, she turned. The shaft of light from the open door cast harsh shadows on Trent’s rigid face.

“A stupid question, isn’t it, Sarah? I already know what you’re doing here. You’re looking for more grief, and you’ve found it.”

FOUR

Trent didn’t know which emotion was stronger at the sight of Sarah—rage or shame. Rage that she was here, or shame that she, of all people, had caught him here?

“You just can’t listen to me, can you?” He took a furious step toward her. Rage, definitely.

The shock that had filled her eyes at the sight of him faded. She squared her shoulders, as if determined he’d find no weakness in her.

“I want to see where it happened. I have to.”

“You’re trespassing.” If his tone was any sharper, he’d cut himself. “Get out.”

Her mouth firmed. “I have a right to see where my husband died, trespassing or not.”

“It won’t do you any good. There’s nothing to see here.” Nothing but betrayal. The thought burned like acid.

She studied his face, as if she’d see behind the words to the feeling. She wouldn’t. He didn’t let anyone in.

“Why are you here, then?”

The rage flashed along his nerves again, and he fought it back. “That’s none of your business.”

She shook her head, her pale hair moving like silk on her shoulders. “We’re the same, Trent. You came here for the same reason I did. To try and make sense of what happened.”

“If we’re alike, then neither of us should come here. There is no sense in it.”

He wanted to deny the despair in his voice. It was a weakness, this failure to put Lynette’s death behind him. He didn’t tolerate weakness, not in the people who worked for him, not in himself. Certainly not in himself.

I tried. You know I tried. Why couldn’t I make her happy?

God didn’t give him an answer. He never did to that question.

He took a breath, forcing himself to calm. “I’m sorry for your pain.” He gestured to the cottage he’d once thought would be a peaceful retreat for him and Lynette. “Believe me, I’ve looked, but this place doesn’t have answers. It’s just a shell.”

She moved slightly, as if he’d given her a respite from the tension. “Did you come here often? Before, I mean.”

Before their lives exploded.

“I thought we would, but it didn’t happen. Lynette—” He swallowed. “She was enthusiastic about fixing the place up when we first bought it, but she soon gave up. She didn’t seem to like it here.”

“Someone made it comfortable.” Sarah touched the back of the leather sofa that faced the fireplace.

“My housekeeper.” His voice sounded strangled to his ears. “She ordered the furniture.”

Did Sarah know Lynette had died on that spot? Pain twisted inside him, as fresh as if it had happened yesterday—racing to the cottage when the police called, bursting in the door, heart pounding as if it would explode from the pressure.

Gifford and a couple of his officers had straightened at the sight of him. They’d stepped back, averting their eyes, as if it were indecent to look at him at such a moment.

No. He wouldn’t remember the rest of it. He wouldn’t let that image back into his mind.

The fury surged through him again. This was Sarah’s fault. He was here, remembering, because of Sarah.

He stepped toward her, driven by blind anger. His leg brushed the table next to the sofa, and the small glass vase on it wobbled. His fingers closed on the vase—tight, tighter, until it should snap in his hand.

With a quick, hard movement he threw it. It smashed against the logs that lay ready in the fireplace, the sound a shocking punctuation to his thoughts.

Sarah jerked back, her green eyes darkening like the ocean on a stormy day. “Trent, don’t—”

He couldn’t be here with her any longer without losing control. He grasped her elbow and propelled her toward the door. “You’re going. Now.”

Maybe she recognized the futility of protesting. She let him usher her out the door, across the porch, down the steps. He rushed her down the path toward the dock, brushing through overgrown branches of crepe myrtle and tendrils of Spanish moss, dozens of Low Country scents released by their brusque passing.

He charged onto the dock and came to an abrupt halt. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder how Sarah had gotten to the cottage. Now he knew. Jonathan’s four-passenger jet boat bobbed on the swell. Jonathan stared at him, shock and apprehension on his face.

He gave Sarah a final push toward the boat. She slipped on the mossy planks, and Jonathan extended his hand to help her. Without looking back, she stepped lightly onto the rail and down to the deck.

Maybe he’d frightened her. He hoped so.

“Trent, I’m sorry if this has upset you.” Jonathan’s tone was grave.

“Upset?” He was aware of an urge to punch something. Or someone. “Why would it upset me to know that my friend is going against my wishes behind my back?”

“I understand how you feel.”

“Do you?” His eyebrows lifted. “I doubt it.”

Jonathan’s patrician face seldom showed anything so raw as embarrassment, but he seemed to wince. “No, I suppose not. But Sarah has feelings, too. Her loss is as great as yours.”

The impulse to deny that astounded him and gave him pause. He’d been giving lip service to Sarah’s loss, but had he really considered how the tragedy had affected her? She and Miles seemed to have a happy marriage—happier than his and Lynette’s, in any event. And she still believed in Miles.

It didn’t matter, he thought at some level, and was instantly ashamed. Of course Sarah’s grief mattered. But he had his child to protect, and that one fact outweighed everything else.

He had to say something. He looked at them. Jonathan wore a slightly chiding air. Sarah’s eyes were dark with pain, but she stared back at him steadily, as if to say that she wouldn’t give in. That this wasn’t finished between them.

He wouldn’t apologize again. “You’ve seen the cottage. That will have to be enough for you, Sarah. Go back to Boston and get on with your life.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. Sarah wouldn’t give up.

That was the first thing he’d learned about her, back when she was nothing more than his new assistant’s slightly inconvenient wife. He’d soon learned she was much more than that. She’d nearly driven him crazy over that clinic idea of hers, and probably the real reason he’d resisted it so long had been because he’d enjoyed butting heads with her.

Jonathan, apparently realizing there was nothing to be gained here, turned the ignition. The sound of the motor sent a brown pelican lifting from the water. The jet boat backed slowly away, the gulf widening between boat and dock.

The gulf between him and Sarah had widened that night at Adriana’s party, when a half-serious, half-laughing quarrel had, as suddenly as summer lightning, sparked into awareness. They’d both recognized it in the same instant, both turned guiltily away.

He watched the figures in the boat grow rapidly smaller as Jonathan accelerated, throwing up an emphatic spray. Determination hardened inside him.

Sarah had to leave St. James.

Sarah turned the car off the main road onto a narrow lane, wincing as overhanging branches slapped the windshield. The rays of the setting sun slanted through the trees, dappling the lane ahead of her with alternating patches of sun and shade.

Jonathan had reluctantly given her the directions to Haller’s Tavern, and he hadn’t offered to go with her. Maybe because he knew she’d refuse, or maybe because he was already tiring of her and her quest.

Jonathan’s attitude toward her had changed after that encounter with Trent the previous day. She could hardly blame him. He was Trent’s friend, unless she’d ruined that with her interference.

That friendship had always surprised her a bit. There didn’t seem much common ground between the idle patrician and the self-made man, and now—

Now, according to Adriana, Trent had turned into a hermit, rejecting all invitations. Sarah seemed to see again the bitter lines in his face as he swung toward her at the cottage.

At the very place where Lynette and Miles had died. She could hardly be surprised that his bitterness had surfaced there. Why had he been there? Did he go often, torturing himself with memories?

There’s so much pain between us, Heavenly Father. I’d help him if I could, but it seems impossible.

She didn’t want to cause Trent more pain, but she had to know the truth.

And what if this truth is all there is, a small voice in the back of her mind inquired.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she negotiated a bend in the road, splashing through puddles left by the afternoon’s rain. Well, if all her searching only proved that what people already believed was true, somehow she’d have to learn to live with it. But not until she was sure.

Which led her to Guy O’Hara. He’d been one of the engineers on some project Trent had been pursuing. He’d been as close to a friend as Miles had made on the island in the short time they’d been there. If Miles had confided in anyone, it would have been Guy.

Lights glinted to her left, and the road, apparently giving up its forward momentum, widened into a parking lot. Already several cars and pick-ups dotted the area in front of the low cement block building. No attempt had been made to blend into the surrounding landscape—it looked like a roadhouse, and that’s what it was. Still, the lush growth of the forest made inroads on it, softening the hard blocks with tendrils of green and gray that would inexorably cover it if not cut away.

She parked and turned off the ignition. Guy had rejected her suggestion that he come to the cottage or meet her at the inn. He’d insisted on this place.

Maybe he preferred not to be seen with her where Trent would hear about it. Or maybe he knew something and wanted the security his own turf provided when he talked to her.

She got out, scoffing at her own reluctance to go inside. She’d learned to take care of herself a long time ago. She’d go inside, find Guy and get this conversation over with.

When she pulled the sagging metal door open, a blast of country music and a wave of cigarette smoke enveloped her. Holding her breath, she stepped inside. Faces turned toward her instantly, as if they all swung on the same pivot. She glanced around quickly. Guy wasn’t there.

He’d said eight, and it was that now. She’d have to wait, and she’d be less conspicuous sitting at a table than standing in the doorway like a deer in the headlights. She took one close to the door, yanked out a chair and sat down. The jukebox segued into another plaintive song of lost love, heads turned away from her again, and the bartender jerked his head in what might have been a greeting.

“Get you something, ma’am?”

“An iced tea, if you have it.”

He nodded, wiping a glass out with a towel that looked as if it had never known bleach.

He brought the filled glass to the table. She laid a bill beside it. “Has Guy O’Hara been in yet?”

He shook his head. “He comes most nights, but not yet tonight. You’re welcome to wait.” He jerked his head toward the bar. “Don’t you mind the boys. They can be a mite mouthy, but nobody acts up in my place.”

Had she been looking that apprehensive? Apparently so. She managed a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He headed back to the bar. She took a gulp of the tea and nearly choked. She’d forgotten the Southern habit of making sweet tea, laced with enough sugar to turn it into syrup. Hopefully Guy would show up before the combination of sugar and caffeine had her bouncing off the walls.

Forty-five minutes later, Guy still hadn’t shown. The room had gotten progressively more smoky, the music louder, the crowd larger. Two of the men at the bar stole glances at her and nudged each other. In a moment one of them would work up enough courage to come over, and she’d have to deal with him.

A wave of disgust went through her. If Guy intended to keep this meeting, he’d have been here by now. She shoved her chair back, dropped some change onto the scarred tabletop next to the cash and pushed back out the door, letting it clatter shut behind her.

The sweet, close aroma of the Southern night closed around her, and she took a deep breath. This had been a singularly unprofitable evening. Annoyance flickered. What was Guy playing at, making an appointment and then failing to show? Had Trent somehow anticipated this and frightened him off?

Or was there a darker answer? If Guy knew something about Lynette’s and Miles’ deaths, someone might not want him to talk to her. But that was making an assumption that someone had something to hide. Trent’s only interest seemed to be in protecting Melissa and himself from further gossip.

She wove her way through the dark shapes of cars, shells crunching under her feet. A footstep sounded behind her, and she glanced back. No one. The hair lifted on her arms. No one had come out of the tavern behind her—she’d have heard the blast of music if the door had opened. But someone was there. Someone who had halted when she had, sheltering behind one of the parked vehicles.

Heartbeat accelerating, she scurried toward her car, key out and ready. It was probably nothing, but she’d feel better when she was in her car, the doors locked. She’d—

She stopped, staring at her car. It seemed to sag listlessly. No wonder. All four of the tires had been slashed.

For a moment she stood, raging silently. Then common sense kicked in. Whoever had done this could still be nearby. The thought of that footstep sent her scrambling into the safety of the car. She couldn’t drive away, but she could lock the doors and call the police.

It took fifteen minutes by her watch for the police car to pull into the lot. In that time no one came out of or went into the tavern. She might have been alone in the world. But someone had been there. Someone who’d slashed her tires in a mute, pointed warning. Who had an interest in doing that but Trent?

She unlocked the door as the uniformed officer approached.

“Miz Wainwright?” The beam of his powerful torch swept from one tire to another. “Looks like you got yourself in some trouble here.”

She got out, facing him. He was older than the young patrolman she’d seen at the station, his face lined with resignation, as if he’d seen everything there was to see and no longer thought he could make a difference.

“Someone slashed my tires while I was inside.”

He glanced toward the tavern. “Seems like a funny place for a lady to be.”

She stiffened. His implication was clear. Her troubles were her own fault, for coming to such a place. “I was supposed to meet a friend here. I assume it’s against the law to slash my tires, no matter where I happen to park.”

“Yes, ma’am, it sure is, but I doubt I’ll be able to find out who did it. Folks who frequent Haller’s don’t confide much in the cops. Still, I’ll try.” He gestured. “Maybe you’d like to wait in the patrol car. I’ll give you a lift home, and you can have the garage come out and take care of your car.”

She didn’t have much choice. She climbed into the front seat of the patrol car, not caring to sit in back like a felon. She caught a glimpse of the interior of the bar as the officer swung the door open. The faces turned toward him didn’t look particularly welcoming.

He was back in a suspiciously short time. She rubbed her forehead. Or maybe she was the suspicious one, creating enemies where they didn’t exist. She had enough real ones that she didn’t need to invent any.

She tried to muster a smile as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Any luck?”

He shook his head, turning the ignition key. “No, ma’am. They was like the three monkeys, you know. See no evil—”

“I know,” she said shortly. He was clearly amused at his own joke. “So you didn’t find out anything.”

“Well, Joe Findley did say he saw a car pull in and then out again quick, but Joe’d been hitting the bottle pretty hard. You don’t want to pay too much attention to what old Joe says.”

She wasn’t as quick to dismiss it as he was. “Did this Joe say what the car looked like?”

He shrugged, his shoulders moving uneasily as he pulled back onto the road. “Said it was a big car. A big gray car.”

A big gray car. Like Trent’s Rolls. Had he thought of that, dismissed it so quickly because he didn’t want to tangle with Trent?

Words bubbled up, but she suppressed them. It would do no good to argue with the patrolman. The person she needed to confront about this was Trent. And that probably wouldn’t do any good, either.

By the time the patrol car swung into the driveway at the Lee house, she felt too wiped out to confront anyone about anything. With any luck, Jonathan and Adriana would never know she’d come home in a police car.

The car stopped in front of the cottage, and she slid out with a word of thanks. The cruiser rolled quickly away, leaving her alone in the still night. The cop hadn’t had to ask her where she was staying. He’d known. Probably everyone on the island knew by now. St. James was Trent’s fiefdom, and she’d best remember that.

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