Charlotte Moore

How peaceful. How serene.

Charlotte sighed at the silence as she shut off the ignition. What could possibly be more wonderful?

CHAPTER TWO

“MAGGIE!” Charlotte shaded her eyes and stared at the rocky headland several hundred yards in front of her.

Then she turned and gazed back down the long curve of the bay, toward where she’d left her vehicle, almost hidden in the tall grass. Each individual footprint she’d made in the cool, firm sand as she’d rounded the bay was in sharp focus. A third of the way back to the Suburban, she could see the windbreaker and sweater she’d discarded, along with her socks and shoes. She was still hot, even though clouds had scudded in from somewhere to partially block the sun and a steady breeze had sprung up.

Charlotte frowned. Maybe Maggie had backtracked behind her while she was running? They’d played at the edge of the water for a while and then shared lunch—an apple, a bag of Doritos and some beef jerky, plus kibble for Maggie, sitting on the grass beside the truck. Then Charlotte had decided to go for a run. She was in no hurry to leave, although she’d considered going on to Charlottetown that afternoon.

“Maggie!” No answering bark. Annoyed, Charlotte tried whistling—a faint, ineffective sound whipped away by the rising wind. The tide had turned when they’d arrived but was still a long way out on the shallow sandy tidal flats. Charlotte had spent a good hour tossing a stick in the surf, laughing as the retriever leaped into the rolling waves time and again, before they’d returned to the shore for their lunch.

She gazed back toward the sea. The tide had come in considerably. No sign of a dog, but that was to be expected. Maggie wouldn’t have gone out to the water by herself. Maggie never wandered—never.

But there was no big black dog now. Charlotte broke into a slow, cool-down lope. She wasn’t really worried. Ten more minutes and she’d make her goal, the rocks that marked the headland, then go back. Maggie was bound to show up by the time she reached the Suburban.

Whoa. Charlotte stopped dead. She tilted her head slightly, listening. A dog? On the land side? Toward that straggle of trees on the other side of the dunes? She remained still, aware of her heavy breathing and the pounding of her pulse. Now that she wasn’t running, she felt chilled in her loose cotton cargo pants and perspiration-soaked T-shirt.

There! A chorus of barking followed by a single, excited bark. More like a yip. Maggie?

“Maggie!” Charlotte tried the whistle again, but her lips were so stiff that no sound emerged. Her teeth chattered.

Damn that dog, anyway! So much for blue ribbons in obedience. Charlotte veered toward the dunes, which blocked her view of the land, toward the steep hill that rose from the shore. This was totally unlike Maggie! It wasn’t as though she was a terrier, following her nose after mice. Or a spaniel, snuffling around in the underbrush for birds. She was a retriever. So what was she doing in the woods, barking after squirrels or chasing rabbits?

Charlotte reached the top of the dune and peered toward the copse of trees where she’d heard the barking. “Maggie! Yoo-hoo! Come, Mag-gie, come!”

No sign of Maggie, but Charlotte heard something that alarmed her. Another dog? The deeper tones didn’t sound right. She squinted at the dark trees, eyes shaded, willing Maggie to appear. The prospect of having to go after her, to navigate clumps of saw-edged grass and broken sticks and dead sea things did not appeal.

“Ma’am?”

Charlotte shrieked and felt the goosebumps double in size all over her shivering body. “Omigosh! I didn’t hear you coming!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” A boy of thirteen or fourteen had emerged over the side of the dune from the north. He turned red as a beet. “You lookin’ for something, ma’am?”

“My dog. She’s—” Charlotte waved in the general direction of the woods “—in there somewhere.”

“Your dog?” The boy seemed puzzled. He put two fingers to his mouth and let fly a piercing whistle, one long and two short.

To Charlotte’s amazement, a dog shot out of the trees. Maggie! Oh, no—there was another black dog, right behind the first one. They ran together, occasionally turning to nip playfully and to paw each other with their front feet, then run side by side again. Neither animal headed their way.

“Y-yours?” Charlotte was befuddled.

“Liam’s.” The boy looked over his shoulder, then glanced at her again. He seemed worried. “My dad’s cousin.”

Liam Connery? No. She wasn’t ready to meet him; she wasn’t dressed properly. She hadn’t thought of what she was going to say yet. She had a definite, much-tweaked plan for their first meeting, and this wasn’t it. But it had to be him—how many Liams could there be in this tiny corner of the island?

The boy sent her another look. He was handsome, with fair skin and piercing blue eyes and a few freckles still left from childhood. “Liam’s right mad about Scout going over the side like that….”

He stared toward the two dogs, now running in a madcap manner along the line where the grass met the trees, his expression about as helpless as Charlotte felt. Then she saw him glance over his shoulder.

“Scout’s here, Liam, just like you figured,” he said. “He’s goin’ after another dog. I called him but he’s a bad old boy and he won’t come.”

To her horror, Charlotte saw a man striding toward them up the same side of the dune the boy had taken, dressed in a camouflage jacket and carrying a—a big gun! He had another dog with him, a large brown dog with a coarse-looking coat, wavy along the back.

The ominous comments she’d heard at the diner, about Liam Connery not taking to strangers, skipped through her mind.

This was Liam Connery? The man approaching didn’t resemble the boy of her memories. He was tall and powerful looking. Dark hair—that was as she remembered—dark eyes, what she could see of them. What color had his eyes been—brown? Green? She couldn’t recall. A three-day growth of beard gave him a dangerous, lawless air. Scuffed lace-up work boots, a faded plaid shirt under the open jacket. The gun slung over his shoulder. Hair in need of a trim.

He stood beside the boy—ignoring her completely—and gazed out at the dogs frolicking halfway up the side of the hill.

“Well, Goddammit. Would you look at that.”

That was all he said, in a low, forceful tone that made her skin crawl. Charlotte was shivering uncontrollably. She wished she’d tied her windbreaker around her waist instead of dropping it on the sand several hundred yards back. The brown dog sat attentively at the man’s side, ears alert, but showing no sign of joining the other two dogs.

“Your bitch, ma’am?” He finally glanced her way. The drawled query shocked her. She wasn’t used to calling Maggie a bitch, even though she knew that was the proper name for a female dog.

“Y-yes,” she managed to say. “M-my sister’s, actually.” She turned to him, but his attention was back on the hillside.

“She wouldn’t be in heat, would she?”

He looked directly at her without a trace of recognition in his eyes. They were brown—a very dark brown—shot with gold and green. She shook her head. “No—at least, I don’t think so.”

“Good,” he continued flatly. “Most people would have the sense not to let loose a bitch in heat.”

“It’s my sister’s dog,” Charlotte answered, her voice small. She decided this definitely wasn’t the time to tell him she was delivering Maggie to his kennel.

Liam frowned, put his fingers to his mouth, as the boy had, and let loose an ear-splitting whistle, gazing intently toward the hill. Then he swore again.

“I have no idea why she won’t listen. She’s usually obedient,” Charlotte said, then, irked by the man’s disdain, added proudly, “She’s a champion, after all.”

He threw her a quick glance, eyes narrowed, interested—the first time, Charlotte suspected, that her presence had actually registered with him.

“Champion?”

“Show champ. Many times over.” Maybe she ought to sing Maggie’s praises a little. The Lab had not made a good first impression by running off and not coming back when she was called. “Lots of ribbons. Obedience trophies, too.”

Liam Connery made a nasty noise in his throat, and the boy glanced at him. “You want me to go get ’em, Liam?”

“Better do that, Jamie. Scout’s got one thing on his mind right now, and it isn’t his dinner.”

He turned and stared at her finally, sizing her up—a little rudely, in Charlotte’s opinion. In the past five minutes, she’d had second thoughts about everything. First love! This man was a lout. A hunter, from the looks of the gun, even though she didn’t see any ducks or anything. But the gun had to be for something. He wasn’t even polite. He was rude, he was bossy—and she didn’t like the way he referred to Maggie as a bitch in heat, even if she was.

Charlotte was doing some serious readjusting. So much for the romantic first-crush reunion story— Zoey and Lydia would die laughing when they heard about this.

The boy began to slide down the hummock toward the dogs. She stepped forward, anxious to take some kind of action, too. “Wait! I’ll go with you.”

“Ma’am—?”

Charlotte glanced back. Liam stood silhouetted against the sky, holding out his jacket, which he’d taken off.

“Better wear this.” He hitched one shoulder toward the beach, and Charlotte automatically looked that way.

Her clothes! The tide had inched in far enough now that the water had reached her sweater and jacket. As she watched, an incoming wave slurped up the sand, smoothly covered her clothes, released them and then slipped back down the sand into the sea. Charlotte could have wept. Everything—everything!—was going wrong.

She might as well accept his offer. Her teeth were chattering. As she walked toward him, his eyes narrowed again, focusing on her face. Recognition? A hint? No way. She’d never have known him if the boy hadn’t mentioned his name, and fifteen years ago he hadn’t even been aware she existed.

He held the garment, and she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Without a word, he pulled it up on her shoulders and around her neck. She avoided his eyes. The dog by his side never missed a move, watching everything Charlotte did, every gesture. He had yellow eyes—kind of creepy.

“Th-thanks,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself in the cozy flannel lining. It was an oddly intimate thing to do: give her his coat, which was huge on her and still warm from his body. A very generous gesture. She took back her first impression.

Okay. Still rude, maybe. But generous.

“You stay here. I’ll go get your stuff.”

Still bossy, too. Charlotte opened her mouth to say she’d go get her clothes herself, but he started toward the beach before she could speak. The brown dog followed him. She clamped her lips shut and stared miserably in the direction the boy had taken. Jamie reached down and grasped Scout by the scruff of the neck. He snapped on a leash and made a grab for Maggie, who danced around them both, tail high. Scout shook himself vigorously then barked, straining to get free again. Jamie hung on tightly, thank heavens.

“Maggie!” She thought she’d try again, to no effect. “Come!” Maggie didn’t even look her way.

Charlotte noticed that Liam had picked up her clothes but, instead of walking back to join her, was heading toward the boy. The wind had come up. She couldn’t hear anything they said but saw Liam dig into the pocket of her jacket and extract something shiny, which he handed over.

Her car keys!

He talked to Jamie for another minute or so, then strode toward her, while his young cousin began to drag Scout down the beach in the direction of her vehicle, with Maggie happily cavorting behind, showing off for her new boyfriend, who tugged enthusiastically at his leash. Both dogs were yipping and whining with excitement.

Charlotte felt faint. Maggie had abandoned her without even a backward glance. Where was Jamie taking them?

She was freezing, but she felt she had to make some kind of move. She took a few steps forward and nearly fell down. Her legs were stiff, her lips numb.

Liam hiked the gun he still carried higher on his shoulder and tossed something up the dune toward her. Ugh, her wet sneakers. She stuck her sandy feet in them, grimacing at the unpleasant sensation.

“This way,” he called, and veered to the north, gesturing to her to follow him. The brown dog fell into step at his left side.

She planted her feet firmly. She wasn’t going anywhere, not until she knew what was happening.

He glanced over his shoulder and with an expression of pure annoyance turned around and walked back.

“Problems?” he asked from a distance of about twenty feet, at the base of the dune.

She gazed down at him, thinking he looked like he’d stepped out of an outfitter’s catalog, with his hunting clothes, his sturdy boots, his gun, his windblown hair. “Uh, what did you do with my car keys? And where’s my dog? Where are we—?”

“You can warm up at my place.” He waved an impatient hand in the direction he’d been walking. “Ten minutes on the other side of this headland. It’s cold, and your clothes are wet,” he went on, frowning. “Okay? Jamie will drive. He knows a shortcut that—”

“Does he have a driver’s license?”

Liam sighed loudly. “He’s been driving since he was twelve. He’s taking a back lane through the fields,” he explained slowly, as though he were dealing with a simpleton. “A private road. Perfectly legal. He’ll meet us at the house. Now, are you coming?”

What choice did she have? She could have stayed where she was and—and what? She had no dog, no keys, no car, and her sopping wet windbreaker and sweater were still in his hand. What was she going to do—wrestle them away from him and run? Run where? And why? She was wearing his jacket. He was just being hospitable, offering her a place to warm up out of the wind and the cold, maybe even a cup of tea. Jamie would be there in a few minutes; it wasn’t as though she’d be alone with this rather intimidating man and…what if she was? She was twenty-eight years old, well able to take care of herself.

For pity’s sake, what did she think might happen?

“Okay. I—I’m coming,” she called out, hoping it sounded fairly ordinary, or at least as though she’d just had a cramp in her foot or a stone in her shoe or there’d been some equally good reason that had prevented her from following him immediately.

She stumbled down the dune, keeping her arms around herself to hold the jacket, which reached past her hips, against her skin. The wind had increased, whipping her hair across her face, and the clouds had darkened. A serious storm coming? She was chilled to the bone.

Liam, as expected, was no gentleman. He strode ahead, his dog at his side, obviously familiar with the lay of the dunes and, when they entered the woods, each twist and turn of the path. Only occasionally did he glance back.

She did her best to keep up. She had a sudden giddy vision of Hansel, with her as Gretel scurrying behind him, two children lost in the magical dark woods, scattering bread to mark their way, crumbs that were immediately gobbled up by the birds.

She might well be Gretel, blindly stumbling along, but the analogy stopped there: Liam Connery knew exactly where he was headed. All she had to do was follow him.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS HARD TO BELIEVE they’d walked less than ten minutes by the time the gloomy path through the sea-stunted forest gave way to a more open area of dull dry grass dotted with scrub alders and willows. Liam stopped once, to supervise her scramble over a derelict wooden fence, which she managed—gracefully, she thought—then forged ahead with her close behind him.

Charlotte heard dogs barking before she saw the house, a two-story cedar-shingled frame building with a big wraparound veranda and a darling cupola on top, complete with battered widow’s walk. The style, more commonly without the cupola, was popular along the coast. Supposedly, a seafarer’s wife could stand on the tiny balcony and gaze out to sea to spy her spouse as he sailed into harbor.

Whether that was so she could put a cake in the oven or chase the gardener out of her bed, Charlotte didn’t know, but cupolas were a charming addition to any dwelling, and she’d always wanted to sit in one, maybe take up a book to read.

Liam’s house was much grander than she’d expected it to be, even needing a coat of paint as it did and some attention to the landscaping. There were trees and bushes—a crab apple, two lilacs and several escallonias—that looked as though they’d once been productive but had been allowed to grow wild and unpruned. Everything seemed a bit run-down, a bit neglected.

“How many more dogs do you have?” she asked as she hurried to catch up to him.

“Twelve right now, not counting a new litter a month ago,” he replied, reaching for the latch that opened the wooden gate. An ancient sumac, its branches laden with candelabras of scarlet cone-shaped fruit, guarded the entrance path.

“Puppies! How lovely,” Charlotte said, trying to be conversational. Liam didn’t respond. He was a singularly uncommunicative man. Thank goodness she had Maggie with her, as a pretext for conversation once they sorted out the introductions. She could hardly imagine what she’d have come up with if she’d just located him in the phone book and called. Knowing her, she’d have blurted out something about the crush she’d had on him when she was eleven and when could they get together to discuss it.

A waist-high white picket fence surrounded the house, each post surmounted by ornamental wood-carvings in a last-century style. Charlotte noted the detail avidly. Folk art of all kinds, from architecture to furniture and the decorative arts: these were the passions she’d turned into a livelihood over the past few years.

Completing the quaint domestic picture—forest to one side, open shore and sea to the other, with the sun suddenly breaking through—wood smoke poured from a brick chimney. Of course! Liam Connery didn’t live alone. Twelve dogs. Plus puppies. What was that—another five or six? And no doubt a wife, kids, mortgage and a big feed bill. After all, if Charlotte was twenty-eight, he had to be at least thirty-three or -four by now.

A family man. What an unsettling thought. So far, Charlotte had not factored a wife and children into the mental picture she’d formed. He seemed so…remote. Detached. Self-sufficient. So—how had Sid put it?—ornery.

They entered a small linoleum-floored anteroom full of coats and boots, and smelling slightly of dog. The dog with him—she still hadn’t heard Liam call it by name—settled with a sigh into a blanket-lined wicker basket. She didn’t know whether or not to slip off her sneakers, deciding, in the end, that she’d keep them on, considering she wasn’t wearing any socks. She wiped the soles carefully on the mat beside the door, noting that she was desecrating a traditional hooked mat, faded but sturdy, that would probably bring seventy-five dollars at an auction in Toronto. Collectors snapped up mats like these.

Liam, she was relieved to see, walked to a glass-fronted cabinet that contained several guns and deposited the one he’d had slung over his shoulder, locking the door and pocketing the key.

“Why do you have the gun?” she asked, unable to resist.

“To shoot ducks,” he said. “You want to keep the coat on for now?”

He moved to the door that separated the vestibule from the rest of the house and paused, less than a yard away from her, waiting for her response.

Charlotte searched his gaze for a clue as to the situation—and saw nothing but an odd wariness. Beneath that scruffy beard, he’d grown up to be a handsome man, in his rough way. And yet he struck her as…almost scary. She decided to stay wrapped up in the jacket, if for no other reason than that she was suddenly embarrassed at the prospect of exposing herself in her damp, no doubt revealing, T-shirt. She nodded.

Modesty, thy name is Woman, she thought, mangling the half-remembered phrase.

He opened the door and gestured her forward into a kitchen. There were no lights on in the room, and it seemed a little gloomy, if delightfully warm.

Liam flipped a wall switch to turn on a light.

“Liam? That you?” came a thin voice from one corner of the room. Charlotte’s gaze settled on an elderly woman, probably in her early seventies, her hands occupied with yarn and knitting needles, and accompanied by a cat that perched on the upholstered back of her chair. The woman looked toward them but there was something unusual in her flat gaze.

“I’m home, Ma. Brought company. She got her clothes wet down at the shore and she could use a cup of tea and a warm-up.”

“Oh? Any luck?”

Liam, who’d taken off his boots, picked up a teakettle that was sitting on a gleaming modern commercial range and went to the sink. “Nope. Scout wasn’t in the mood. He had other things on his mind.” He glanced at Charlotte and she felt herself flush.

The whole kitchen was furnished in a surprisingly up-to-date fashion, with a large refrigerator, a dishwasher and double stainless steel sinks. The appliances appeared to be about ten years old. Somehow, she hadn’t expected a modern kitchen. An older woodstove was in one corner, near the woman’s chair, and was probably the source of the wood smoke she’d noticed. That suited the room.

“Stay there, Ma,” he said, although the woman had made no effort to get up. “I’ll make the tea.” He ran some water into the kettle.

“Where’s Davy’s boy?”

Liam looked toward his mother. “He’ll be along shortly. He’s got Scout.”

The woman chuckled and put her knitting aside. “That Scout is quite a rapscallion.” She shook her head, smiling. Charlotte got the impression that she was pleased to hear about Scout’s hijinks. “He sure doesn’t take after his daddy, does he? Old Jimbo. Now, there’s a dog who’s all business. Did you say you’d brought someone, Liam?”

Charlotte stared at the older woman, shocked. Hadn’t she seen her? She glanced at Liam. He had set the kettle on the stove. He shot her a warning look that she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Yes. This is—I never did ask your name, ma’am.” He actually smiled slightly. It made a huge difference to what Charlotte had come to believe was a perpetually grim expression.

“Charlotte,” she said, stepping forward and rather foolishly holding out her hand. “Charlotte Moore. From Toronto.”

He frowned. “I’m Liam Connery—”

“I know who you are.” She desperately wanted to set the record straight. About Maggie. About Laurel. About herself.

“You do?”

“Actually, believe it or not, I was more or less on my way here, to your place. To drop off a dog—”

“That Labrador?” He was still frowning.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I understand that you made some arrangements with my sister Laurel to have Maggie bred here….”

“You’re Laurel Moore’s sister?” He seemed completely taken aback.

“I am. Her younger sister. I remember you but—” she laughed nervously “—I don’t suppose you remember me.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t. And I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” He turned toward his mother again without explaining. “This is my mother, Ada Connery.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Connery?” Charlotte said formally. “Thank you for letting me stop in to warm up.”

The older woman nodded and smiled. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you, dear. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. It must be dark in here. Come in, sit yourself down. Liam, there’s some of that date cake in the bread box. Cut a slice for our guest, Mrs. Moore—”

“Oh, I’m not married.”

“Miss Moore. Get her a cup of tea, Liam.”

“Please, call me Charlotte.” She looked helplessly at Liam. He pointed at his own eyes with both forefingers, then gave her a thumbs-down gesture, both hands. Blind?

Her dismay must have been obvious. He nodded and walked toward her. “That sweater okay to go in the dryer?” It was on the kitchen table, along with her balled-up jacket.