Retribution

Now that the daylight was fading to dusk, he decided to grab a camera and try for a few shots of the nearby forest at sunset. If nothing else, it would take his mind off his pain and boredom.

Sidney alternately watched the antics of the duck family and lowered her head to return her attention to her canvas, perfectly capturing the line, the form, the symmetry of each of her models.

In early spring she’d watched this pair of proud mallards bring their six babies to the water and hover over them as they’d taken their first swim near shore. Now the six were as big as their parents, and ready for the flight south with other migrating flocks. To prepare for the grueling trip, they were driven to search out as much food as their bodies could hold. Tipping upside down to feed on the bottom of the shallows, only their tail feathers were visible. It was a sight she always found endearing. She’d already thought of the title for the painting. Bottom’s Up. That had her grinning.

Though the earlier afternoon sunshine had caused her to discard her corduroy jacket and roll her sleeves, she now shivered in the gathering shadows as she struggled to put this entire scene on canvas before the duck family decided to depart for warmer climates.

Picasso lay at her feet, panting from his romp in the woods, his fur matted with burrs that would take most of the evening to remove. Toulouse was nowhere to be seen, but Sidney wasn’t worried. Even if he stayed out all day stalking field mice, that cat was smart enough to show up at her door in time for dinner. Toulouse never missed a meal or a chance to curl up before the fire.

She added a dab of paint to her palette, mixed it and bent to her work.

Picasso’s ears lifted. He sprang to his feet, a low warning growl issuing from his throat.

Surprised, Sidney turned in time to see a shadow emerging from the cover of the woods. As the shadow separated itself from the others, she realized it was a man. At first, judging by his rough beard and even rougher garb, she thought he might be a hunter, until she realized that he was carrying, not a rifle, but a camera. A second camera hung from a strap around his neck.

He paused, allowing the dog to get close enough to take his scent.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice was deep, the words spoken abruptly, as though he resented having to speak at all.

Sidney set aside her brush and wiped her hands on a rag before getting to her feet. “We don’t see too many people out here.”

“I didn’t expect to run into anybody.” He glanced around. “I don’t see a car or a boat. How’d you get here?”

“I live over there.” She pointed to the forest at his back.

“In those woods?” He shot her a look of surprise. “I was told this was federally protected land.”

“It is. Or at least most of it is. My property was grandfathered in before the government bought the surrounding land. It’s been owned by the same family since the turn of the century, so it remained private property. When it went on the market, I liked the idea of a guarantee that there would never be any neighbors.”

She could feel him studying her a little too intensely. When an uncomfortable silence stretched between them she tried a smile. “How about you? I don’t believe I’ve seen you around Devil’s Cove before.”

He didn’t return the smile. “Just moved in.” He watched the way the dog moved to stand protectively beside Sidney. “I’m staying in the lighthouse.”

“Really?” She turned to study the tower that could be seen above the tree line. “How did you manage that? I thought it was an historic building now, and off-limits to the public.”

“Just lucky, I guess. The historical society asked me to photograph the area for their almanac. In exchange, I get to stay there until next spring.”

“Then you’re a professional photographer?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at the canvas. “And from the look of that, I’d guess I’m in the company of a professional artist.”

When he made no move to introduce himself, Sidney offered her hand. “I’m Sidney Brennan.”

He seemed to pause a beat before saying gruffly, “I think I’ve seen some of your work. Wildlife?”

She nodded.

“Adam Morgan.”

He had a strong, firm handshake, she noted. And his eyes stayed steady on hers until she withdrew her hand and motioned toward the dog at her feet. “This is Picasso.”

When he looked down, the dog cocked his head to one side and regarded him. “A good watchdog.”

She laughed. “He knows who feeds him.”

“Lucky dog. Since I have to feed myself, I’m about to head back and see about dinner.”

“Dinner?” Sidney glanced up at the sky, noting for the first time that the sun had begun to slip below the horizon. “I had no idea it was so late.”

“That must mean you were having a good day.”

She nodded, surprised that he understood. “That’s right. I get so lost in my work, I forget everything. I even forget to eat.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling.” He turned toward the lighthouse in the distance. “Good night.”

“Nice to meet you, Adam. Maybe I’ll see you again some time.” Sidney began to pack up her paints.

Seeing her fold up her easel and camp stool to pack them in the wagon, he paused, taking her measure. She was no bigger than a minnow and couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds. “You sure you can handle all that?”

“Don’t worry. I haul it all the time.”

She’d gone only a few paces when he fell into step beside her.

At her arched eyebrow he merely took the handle from her hands. “Sorry. I’ve forgotten my manners. Living alone does that. I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me pull this.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse. She didn’t know this man, and wasn’t sure she wanted to get to know him. But she was feeling the effects of working all day without eating. Not really weak so much as light-headed. The thought of having help hauling this equipment home was comforting. “Thanks.”

As they followed the path deeper into the woods, Sidney looked up at the canopy of fiery autumn foliage. “You picked a great time of year to visit.”

When he didn’t reply, she added, “This is my favorite season.”

“For the color?”

“There’s that, of course. But it’s more. The tourists are gone, a lot of the trendy shops are closed until next summer, and there’s this wonderful feeling of anticipation.”

He turned to her. “What is it you’re anticipating?”

She shrugged. “Slowing down, I guess. Settling in for the winter. Have you ever spent a winter in Michigan?”

“No. Tell me what I’m in for.”

She laughed. “Snow. Mountains of it. I hope you like skiing, sledding and ice fishing.”

“I’ll let you know after I’ve tried my hand at all of them.”

“Where are you from?”

Again that pause, as though reluctant to reveal anything about himself. “Florida, originally. But it’s been years since I’ve been back.”

“Where do you live when you’re not here photographing nature?”

“Wherever an assignment takes me.”

“Assignment?”

“I’m a photojournalist with WNN.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? I’ve never met anyone who actually worked for television news before. I suppose you’ve been all over the world.”

He merely gave a shrug of his shoulders, as though reluctant to talk about his work. And though it was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he was here in Devil’s Cove, instead of some exotic location, there was something about his closed, shuttered look that told her he wouldn’t be comfortable answering any more of her questions.

They came up over a rise and Adam stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the cabin. “Talk about isolation.”

Sidney couldn’t decide if he was impressed or dismayed. “I guess I’m just comfortable with my own company. I knew the minute I saw it that it had to be mine.”

He shot her a sideways glance as she opened the door and held it while he stepped past her. Once inside he handed her the easel and stool, and she set them in a corner of the room, along with her paints and canvas.

When she turned, she saw him rubbing his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” He lowered his hand. “Just nursing an injury.”

“You should have told me.”

He shook his head. “Nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

Sensing that he was uncomfortable talking about it, she quickly changed the subject. “How about some cider before you go?”

“Cider?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never tried our Michigan cider?” Sidney opened the refrigerator and removed a jug. “Apple cider. Made just outside of town at the Devil’s Cove Orchard and Old Mill.” She nodded toward the great room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring you a mug. You’re in for a treat.”

“I’ll stay here.” He remained by the door. “My boots would track dirt on your floor.”

“You could take them off.”

“I’d rather not.”

When he didn’t move, Sidney filled two mugs with cider and handed him one before crossing to the fireplace, where she held a match to kindling. Within minutes a cozy fire was burning on the hearth.

She looked at the window with a laugh. “I see Toulouse is back.”

While Adam watched with interest, she walked over, reached around him and opened the door. The black-and-white cat bounded inside and crossed the room to settle on a rug in front of the fire, where he began grooming himself.

“Another one of yours?” Adam asked.

She nodded. “Toulouse found us about six months ago. Just wandered in and never left.”

“Smart cat.” Adam sipped his cider and looked around the cozy cabin, letting the warmth of the fire soothe his aching shoulder. The place smelled of cedar, apples and faintly of linseed oil. A bowl of apples adorned the coffee table set in front of the sofa. He looked up, admiring the rugged cedar beams overhead. Spying the loft he tilted his head for a better look. “Your studio?”

“Yes. It’s perfect under the skylights. I usually work there only when I can’t paint outside. But I much prefer working in the fresh air, with my models posing in the water close to shore.”

“Models?”

She laughed. “Ducks. Geese. All kinds of waterfowl. They’re my specialty.”

“I see.” He noted the number of canvases, stacked in no apparent order along the wooden railing, and the easel positioned directly under the skylights. “I guess I’ll need some models, too. Deer and foxes, and whatever else I can scare up in these woods.”

“You’ll be amazed at how much wildlife you’ll see. This forest is alive with some wonderful creatures.”

He heard the warmth in her tone. “I’m counting on it. I’m hoping to put together a workable darkroom at the lighthouse, so I won’t have to send my work to an outside lab. There’s a fairly good-size utility room on the lower level that I think might work. It has a small sink and several long cabinets connected by a countertop. I think it’ll give me the room I need to develop my prints.”

It was, Sidney realized, the most he’d said since they’d met. “It’s so nice to be able to work at home. If you’re like me, you’re going to like living and working in the same space.” She settled herself on the raised hearth and absently ran a hand over Toulouse’s back. The cat closed his eyes and purred contentedly.

“Yeah, there’s something to be said for that.” Adam found himself watching the cat with envy. Sometimes when Marcella Trowbridge, his physical therapist, whom he’d silently dubbed The Dominatrix, was pushing him to the limits of endurance, he wanted to ask her to stop and just massage his shoulder instead. Of course, Marcella wasn’t being paid to soothe him. Her job was to get him back to normal, or as close to normal as possible, in the shortest amount of time. And she did that by beating him up on a regular basis, until he wanted to beg for mercy. Each time their therapy session ended, he felt like a whipped dog. He was intelligent enough to know it was necessary, and that it was, indeed, getting the job done. Without the therapy, he’d never be allowed back to work. But he couldn’t help wishing for it to be over sooner rather than later.

To keep from thinking about what it would be like to be the one getting a back rub, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. The walls were hung with paintings of waterfowl. Some were sweet. Families of ducks or geese swimming in perfect formation, mother in front, young in the middle, the father taking up the rear, head lifted to guard against predators. Some were poignant, like the one of a pair of ducks anxiously guiding their lone baby into the water for a first swim.

He stepped closer, careful to keep his muddy boots on the small square of rug at the door. “Those are wonderful. Are you able to make a living with your art?”

Sidney nodded. “I consider myself lucky. Several galleries carry my work. And since my sister Courtney came back to Devil’s Cove and opened her shop, I haven’t been able to keep up with the demand.” She laughed. “My grandfather likes to say that Courtney could sell sand in the desert.”

“I know the kind. A real people person. But I’m betting she doesn’t have to twist any arms to sell this. You have an amazing talent.”

“Thank you.” She heard the wind pick up outside and glanced at the window where red-and-gold leaves tumbled in a wild dance. The air had grown considerably colder now that the sun had set. On impulse she said, “I’m thinking of making an omelette for dinner. Would you like to stay?”

He gave a quick shake of his head and drained his mug before setting it on the kitchen table. “Sorry. I’ve got to go. But you were right. The cider was great.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

That wasn’t all he liked. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he had just stumbled into some sort of enchanted cottage. And the red-haired woman with the soft green eyes was either a witch or a goddess.

He resolutely turned the knob and pulled open the door, absorbing a blast of chilly wind. “Good night.”

Sidney hurried across the room and stood in the doorway, the dog and cat at her feet. “Good night, Adam. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

Not likely, he thought as he started toward the beacon of light in the distance. The last thing he needed was a female cluttering up his already messed-up life. Especially one that smelled of evergreen and had hair the color of autumn leaves, not to mention eyes all soft and deep and green. Eyes that a man could drown in.

He’d already made up his mind to carefully keep his distance from Sidney Brennan.

Chapter 2

Adam carefully looked around the grounds of the lighthouse for signs that anyone had been here while he’d been gone. Confident that nothing had been disturbed, he shoved open the door and set his camera on a nearby table. Since the explosion, and subsequent attempts on his life, extreme caution had become second nature to him.

Not that he’d ever been careless. His work had taken him to some of the most dangerous hot spots in the world. He’d covered wars, revolutions, uprisings and rebellions for WNN. Life in a war zone had taught him many things. Among them, to trust his instincts, to know not only where he was headed, but how to escape a trap. His associates used to boast that he had eyes in the back of his head. How ironic that it had been here at home, with his guard down, that he’d found himself in the greatest peril of his life.

He started toward the kitchen, thinking about the day he’d put in. He’d just spent hours on a trek through the woods, capturing the spirit of northern Michigan in autumn. Though he’d seen deer before, it was different watching them in their natural habitat. They were careful animals, he’d noted. Heads lifted often to catch any strange scent. The buck standing guard while the herd feasted on the tender branches of low-hanging trees. Not so different from people, he realized. Always looking out for any danger that might threaten. By the time they’d finally caught his scent and melted into the forest, he’d used up an entire roll of film.

There had been humor in the forest, as well as beauty. A squirrel, busy storing acorns in the hollow of a giant oak, had been his first model. Then he’d come across a spider spinning a web, intricate as finest lace, damp with dew and glistening in the thin rays of sunlight that filtered through the branches of towering evergreens. Next he’d spotted a flock of geese honking as they flew overhead in perfect formation on the first leg of their southward journey. No sooner had they passed than he’d come upon two chipmunks that performed a comedy routine by leaping into a mound of red-and-gold leaves, then leaping out again with their precious store of nuts puffing out their tiny faces. They’d managed to entertain him for an hour or more.

Odd, he thought, how much vibrant life he’d discovered in these woods. He’d come here expecting to be bored. After a lifetime spent covering wars and terrorist uprisings, recording the range of human emotion from despair to euphoria, from depravity to heroism, he wouldn’t have believed he could be amused, entertained and thrilled, all in a matter of hours merely by tramping through a Michigan forest. What’s more, he was learning to look at life on a smaller scale rather than the large canvas he’d been using for most of his adult life. When he took the time to look, really look, he’d managed to find beauty, humor and even drama alive and well in the seclusion of the forest.

Idly rubbing his shoulder he heated up the last of the morning’s coffee. After two sips he nearly gagged before tossing the rest down the drain and turning away. He promised to treat himself to a fresh cup in town after another therapy session with The Dominatrix.

If he was making any improvement, he couldn’t see or feel it. The pain never left him, and the range of movement seemed unchanged since he’d first begun therapy. If it wasn’t for the fact that he needed this therapist’s signature, as well as his surgeon’s, on a set of discharge documents required by WNN, he would simply forego any future torture. Still, Marcella The Dominatrix insisted he was showing definite improvement. And this was, he knew, more than just a chance to heal. It had been singled out as the perfect refuge from an assassin bent on eliminating any witnesses to his crime. The authorities were convinced that no one could penetrate their secrecy and locate their witness in this wilderness.

Adam was hoping they were right. But he wasn’t about to let down his guard.

He walked outside, climbed into his Jeep and headed for town.

The afternoon was bathed in sunlight and warm enough to be sultry, but he wasn’t fooled. The nights had become increasingly cooler, with a hint of frost. And though the waters of Lake Michigan were placid enough today, he’d seen angry whitecaps whipping the waters into foam that sent a spray hundreds of feet into the air as the surge of water thrashed against the base of the lighthouse.

He followed the narrow trail that led to the highway, until he caught sight of a figure hauling a wagon and moving away from the water’s edge, trailed by a dog and cat. Just seeing Sidney had him frowning. He’d worked very hard these last couple of days to avoid going near the area where he’d first seen her sitting at her easel.

The authorities might believe he was safely hidden away here, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He had no right to involve an innocent bystander in the danger and chaos that had become his life.

At some other time, in some other place, it would have been an interesting challenge to get to know the sweet, pretty artist. As usual, the timing was all wrong.

He could certainly keep his distance for six months. After all, he’d managed to keep any serious commitments at bay for years now while he pursued this career that was as demanding as any mistress.

Sidney glanced at the lighthouse towering above the line of trees, before reluctantly heading toward her cabin. She found herself wondering, as she had all week, about the man who was now living there.

His brief visit had been an unexpected treat. Though she enjoyed her solitude and never tired of her own company, there was no denying that she’d been curious about Adam Morgan ever since their meeting.

It had been too long since she’d allowed anyone other than family to invade her privacy. Adam’s brief presence hadn’t felt like an invasion. He’d been oddly distant, but also quiet and respectful of her work. Being an artist himself, he understood her need for solitude and seemed to share her work ethic. That appealed to her on so many levels. She missed having someone to talk to about her work. Not the technique, which she’d mastered at a very young age, but the passionate love of the work itself. There were times, when a painting was finished, that it felt like pure magic. As though someone else had taken over her body and mind and soul, and had created something out of nothing. She had never been able to explain the feeling of transforming a blank canvas into color and form and the living, breathing creatures looking out at her from her paintings.

With Adam, she hadn’t needed to explain. She’d sensed that he knew exactly what it was she did and how she did it. What’s more, he shared that artist’s eye for the interesting and intriguing.

She shoved a tangle of hair from her eyes and paused to study the day’s work. She’d captured a pair of old-squaws that had flown into the shallows several days ago. There was no telling how long they would stay before continuing their southward migration. Their color wasn’t spectacular. Both male and female were dull brown and white. But the male’s bill was tinged with bright orange, and his tail a long wisp that fluttered like a ship’s sail in the breeze. They’d been delightful subjects for her canvas.

When Picasso had decided to cool off in the shallows, the pair of ducks, angry at this intrusion, took refuge on shore, giving Sidney a chance to see their feathers at closer range. Working quickly she’d added depth and texture to the painting. By the time the dog had returned to lie at her feet, and the ducks were safely back in the water, she’d been lost in her work, and had remained so for hours.

Now it was time to head home. She’d promised her grandparents a visit, and she would use the visit to town to stock up on some supplies, as well. As she followed the familiar trail, she was struck by the beauty of the day. Sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, casting the ground in light and shadow. The air was so mild she’d been forced to remove her sweater and roll the sleeves of her shirt.

At the cabin she stowed her canvas and equipment, leaving the wagon just outside the door. Then she took the time to feed Picasso and Toulouse. That done, she tucked her shopping list in her backpack, tied the sleeves of her sweater around her waist and headed for the log building out back that served as both storage shed and garage. Because the day was so lovely, she decided to forego the Land Rover in favor of her bike.

As she climbed aboard and began peddling past the cabin, she found herself laughing at the forlorn sight of her dog and cat watching from the window.

“Sorry, babies. Maybe next time.”

The dog set up a loud yapping, while the cat turned his back on her, as though giving her the cold shoulder.

That only had her laughing harder. The poor little things had no idea why they were being excluded from this latest adventure. All they knew was that they were being left behind, and were doing their best to let her know how bitterly disappointed they were.

“I’ll see you Tuesday. One o’clock all right for you?” Marcella Trowbridge waited, pen poised over her appointment book, while Adam buttoned his shirt.

“That’s fine.”

“Good.” She filled in the time, added it to an appointment card and handed it to him before snapping the book shut.

He tucked his shirt into his jeans and studied the woman who, though no more than five-and-a-half feet tall, had hands strong enough to make him want to whimper in pain every time she touched him. “Seems like everyone in this clinic is a native of Devil’s Cove. Are you one of them?”