The Doctor's Surprise Family

Several seconds passed. No sound came from within. Even the forest had gone silent. She went down the path to her house.

He wore gloves. And black clothes.

A chill skittered across her skin. Was he into drugs? Was he a thief, a mobster on the run? Why wasn’t he staying with his parents on the other side of the island? Or at his sister’s apartment in the village?

Dozens of possibilities rushed through Kat’s mind—and none felt right. Behind that severe Clive Owen facade, Dane Rainhart exuded a soul-deep sadness. His eyes spoke of it whenever he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

At her own door, Kat paused. Through the trees, the cabin appeared the cozy getaway she’d always envisioned. Today, the structure resembled isolation and loneliness, two impressions she recognized better than any since Shaun’s death.

She went inside to continue her day, but her thoughts journeyed a thousand times to the cabin in the woods.

What made Dane Rainhart so unhappy? And why did she care?

And then there were the hot twinges deep in her core—those she didn’t understand at all.

Not when she still dreamed of her late husband.

The following Tuesday morning, the privacy sign no longer hung on the cabin’s doorknob. Did that mean he wasn’t home? Or was it a message for her to visit?

Twice in the past week, she had exchanged his soiled bedding for a laundered stack, hoping at the same time to catch a glimpse of him. So far, nada.

Emboldened by the sign’s absence, she tugged on a ratty blue cardigan hanging at the back door, and headed out.

Purple crocuses, daffodils and a medley of tulips—characteristic of Puget Sound’s mild winters—colored the dark, damp flowerbeds bordering her tiny backyard. On a whim, Kat hurried back into the mudroom and grabbed a pair of pruning shears she kept handy.

She cut a handful of waxy-leafed flowers before slipping the shears into the cardigan’s deep pocket and walking to the cabin. The day had dawned bright and clear, the temperature hovering around fifty-eight. March was entering like a lamb.

She knocked twice.

The door remained closed.

Her face warmed. What was she doing, bringing a man flowers, for God’s sake? Maybe he had allergies. Or hated flowers.

Before she could change her mind, she tried the knob. The door fell open several inches.

“Hello?” she called softly. “It’s me…Kat. I’ve brought you something…” No answer. “Dane?”

She nudged the door with a fingertip. The cabin lay empty. Crossing the threshold, she paused on the welcome mat to scan the great room/kitchenette.

Her guest was a neatnik. No shirt or jacket draped the jungle-green loveseat or the pair of big-cushioned chairs. No socks hid under the round coffee table in front of the river-rock fireplace. Beside her on the mat, footwear marched in military sync: the harness boots he’d worn on the bike, a pair of loafers and a pair of worn gray slippers.

Intrigued, she stepped out of her rubber boots. Didn’t bikers leave cigarette butts and beer cans, girlie magazines and hunting brochures all over? Shouldn’t clothes be strewn haphazardly across the furniture?

Why, Kat? Because Shaun used to toss his clothes around the house? A habit you hated, until that terrible moment when you’d give anything to have it back?

She scanned the rooms a second time. Tidy, neat. Everything had its place.

On the knotted-rag rug near the sofa, two big stones—where had they come from?—supported an array of books. Moving closer, Kat read titles on hiking, computers, philosophy and…. She tipped the lone magazine from its slot. Journal of the American Medical Association?

Something niggled in her mind. Something Lee mentioned years ago…Yes, that was it…Dane Rainhart had joined the service as a doctor. Kat hadn’t kept track; by then she’d been married.

“Can I help you?”

At the sound of his deep voice, she jumped on the spot. “Oh!” Spinning, she pressed her hand against her throat where her heart bounded like a deer in hunting season.

He stood in the doorway, a powerful silhouette against the morning light.

Kat swallowed. “I—I didn’t expect you.”

“Obviously.” Remaining on the threshold, he blocked her flight.

Her gaze darted past his shoulders, to the freedom of the outside world. What did she really know about this man? He’d rented her cabin, yet hadn’t welcomed her attempt at housekeeping. In reality, he could be a man hiding from the law, a killer on the loose.

Yes, she had known him more than twenty years ago, but people change. Life alters. For better and worse.

Shaun’s death proved that.

Looking at Dane Rainhart, she suspected he’d experienced worse as well. Had it changed him? Ignited anger? Prompted a vendetta mission?

Sadness, definitely. She recognized the emotion the moment he looked at her six days ago, amidst snow and rain.

Latching onto that recognition, she thrust out the flowers. “Something from my garden.” When he continued to bar the doorway, she babbled on. “If you’d like, I could put them in a glass…On second thought,” she tried to smile, “why don’t I set them on the coffee table and let you deal with them however you wish.” She laid the bundle down. “Okay, then. I’ll just get out of your way.” Avoiding eye contact, she barreled toward the door. One way or another, he would have to move.

“Kaitlin.”

She stood close enough that if he wanted he could reach out—

“I’m sorry I intruded, Dane. It won’t happen again.” Then with a force that surprised her, “Please, let me pass.” Come hell or high water, she was getting out of this cabin.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”

Within his space, she could finally see his face, those indigo eyes full of regret, that shockingly sensuous mouth. He’d been where the wind danced in his hair; locks tufted at his hairline and along the crown of his head. “Who said I’m afraid?” she asked.

A smile quirked. “It’s all over your face. Sometimes my height can intimidate.”

She folded her arms against her stomach. As a teenager, he’d been lean and wiry. At thirty-eight, he carried twenty extra pounds of muscle and sinew, and towered at least ten inches above Kat. Yet, gut instinct said he wasn’t a bad guy.

“Look,” he said. “I don’t know anything about flowers, but I’d hate for that nice bunch,” he nodded to the coffee table, “to wilt before the day is done. Would you show me what to do?”

Again his mouth tweaked, and a tremor of heat shot through her. What would it be like to have him kiss—

Lord, what was the matter with her? Turning on her heel, she hurried over, snatched up the bouquet and went to the kitchen sink. When he closed the door and removed his hiking boots, she pictured him setting the footwear on the mat, then slipping on the comfortable slippers.

She reached into the cupboard she’d stocked with chinaware, drew out a tall drinking glass, and filled the container with warm water.

“They’re very pretty.” He peered over her shoulder, igniting nerve endings she hadn’t realized she possessed.

Her fingers fumbled with the stems as she inserted them into the glass. Water sloshed onto the counter. She said, “You need to trim the ends each day and give them fresh warm water.”

“Trim the ends?”

“Yes. With a pair of scissors or a knife.”

She glanced over. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. The fact he had yet to remove his gloves puzzled rather than worried Kat. Was it possible he had an aversion to germs, or psoriasis?

She stepped toward the utility drawer next to his hip—and saw the knife sheathed on his belt.

Whoa. How had she missed that? Eight inches in length, the thing was a dragon slayer.

Her gaze snapped to his. “Do you always carry knives?”

His irises darkened. “Only when I go into the wilderness.”

“Wilderness?” She glanced toward the window and the wooded hills on her five-acre property. “Dane, have you forgotten this island has an area of only twenty square miles? We have chipmunks, squirrels and coyotes. And some deer. Firewood is not the Rockies, Alaska or the Everglades.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I haven’t forgotten what’s on this island.”

Their eyes held. And again she felt something primal sizzle between them, a lightning she had never experienced.

Catching the tang of the outdoors emanating from his green flannel shirt, she took in the mud-stained hiking boots positioned at the door, before she sized up his black cargo pants. Specks of mud and grass clung to his shins. Where had he gone?

“Kaitlin?”

Her head jerked.

A jagged dimple materialized above his scarred jaw. “The flowers?” Amusement lingering in his eyes, he opened the drawer, dug out a pair of scissors, then laid the instrument gently on the counter next to her posies.

Kat released an uneven breath. “Okay,” she began. “Each day you snip off the ends.” Demonstrating, she cut a half-inch off a tulip stem. “With fresh water, they should last five to seven days, depending on where you place them and the temperature of the cabin.”

God, how she could babble.

“How about the eating nook?” He nodded to the booth alcove separating kitchenette from living room. “It gets the morning sun.”

She imagined him drinking his first coffee of the day there, perhaps reading one of his magazines or books. She imagined him glancing at the blooms. Thinking of her.

“I’ll leave the decision to you,” she said, heading to the door. When had a man’s proximity jumbled her senses to the point of making her jittery as a silly schoolgirl? Not since you were a schoolgirl, Kat, and he was mooning over Lee.

“Who owns the property with the boatshed and fish shack down by the shoreline?”

The question slammed her to a stop. “That’s…They were my husband’s. He ran a small fishing business. Salmon, mostly.”

Dane remained against the counter. Eyes locked on her, he waited. Kat pushed at her shaggy bangs. “He—Shaun drowned four years ago.”

Across the room, the man dwarfing the kitchenette stayed silent. Suddenly she was grateful for that silence, appreciated the way he allowed her to tell what she wanted, when she wanted.

She shoved into her clogs. “In case you’re wondering, the boat inside the shed didn’t cause his death.” Turning for the door, she added, “If you need anything…”

“I’ll call.”

Of course, he wouldn’t, but she lifted a quick hand anyway. “Bye.” Pushing open the door, she nearly stumbled into her mother on the other side.

“Goodness, Kat, get hold of yourself.” Charmaine Wilson tugged the hem of her mocha-hued jacket straight.

“Mom. What are you doing here?”

The older woman’s gaze landed on the man behind Kat. “I might ask you the same thing,” she countered.

“Can I help?” Dane stepped onto the porch.

“No,” Kat blurted, then flushed with embarrassment. “Everything’s fine. Mom, do you remember Dane Rainhart? He was Lee’s…One of her school friends.”

Charmaine’s pupils pinpointed. “’Course, I remember. You’ve grown up some, Dane.”

Before he could respond, Kat snatched her mother’s arm and ushered her from the porch. “Why are you here?” she whispered.

Charmaine had a knack of showing up at the most awkward times. Yes, she’d retired from the hair salon, but that did not mean Kat was free whenever her mother had nothing to do. And this morning…Well. “I thought you were babysitting for Addie today.” Kat’s youngest sister had an eight-month-old son whom Charmaine cared for while Addie taught math part-time at Fire High.

“Alexander has a little cold,” the older woman explained, “so your sister called in a sub. Which brings us to why I’m here. I brought Blake home.”

Kat’s adrenaline spiked. “Why? Is he sick?”

“Seems he has the same bug as Alex.”

“Why didn’t the school call?”

“They did, but you weren’t answering.”

No, she was busy with her guest. Kat walked to the house.

In the comfort of her kitchen she called, “Blake?”

“Here,” came the hoarse reply from upstairs.

She hurried up the stairwell, down the hallway, to the first bedroom on the left. Her son lay on his side on top of the quilt.

“Hey, honey.” She walked over, sat on the bed, brushed a dark curly lock—so like his father’s—from his forehead. “Grams said you weren’t feeling well.”

“Throat hurts. The school said you weren’t home.” Accusation pinched the words.

“I was housekeeping at the cabin.” Warmth struck her skin. Liar. You were trying to get Dane Rainhart’s attention.

From the pillow, Blake gave her a one-eyed stare. “Thought the guy didn’t want housekeeping.”

As always, she had informed him about their guest. “The sign was down today.”

“Oh.”

Kat hated seeing her child in discomfort. “Want some chicken soup?”

“’Kay.”

Rising, she removed his sneakers, then tugged his pajamas from under the pillow. “Get into these and I’ll be back with the soup.”

She was almost at the door when he asked, “Is that guy staying here forever?” Blake rose into a sitting position, feet on the floor. Over the course of the last year he’d grown to equal her height.

“No,” she said, “just until June first.”

“I saw him sneaking around in the forest last Friday.”

“Sneaking around?”

“Yeah, like he was creeping up on something. He had on one of those army coats like you see on the news? And these big boots like Dad used to wear—you know, with the laces? Anyway, it looked like he was playing G.I. Joe or something.”

Kat frowned. Not thirty minutes ago, Dane had stood in the doorway of the cabin dressed exactly as Blake described. With a hunting knife strapped to his waist.

And he’d arrived without a sound.

She forced a smile. “Grown men don’t play G.I. Joe, Blake.”

“This one does,” he said hoarsely.

Pushing aside this morning’s imposing image, Kat advised, “Get under the covers and stay warm. I’ll be right back.”

Downstairs, Charmaine stirred a pot of chicken broth at the stove. She said, “I stopped at my place for some homemade.”

“Thanks.” Already the comforting scent of soup suffused the room. Kat prepared a tray. Beyond the corner window above the sink, bits of the cabin peeked through the leafless trees. The porch was once again empty, the door firmly shut, the sign in place.

Charmaine glanced over. “He stayed outside for a long time, you know.”

She didn’t have to ask who.

“Looked like one of those plantation overseers you read about in history books, standing on the porch, arms crossed, feet planted. Gave me the willies the way he stared straight at the house.”

“He’s probably interested in people from his past,” Kat said, recalling her own endless curiosity concerning the man who was her father, the man whose name Charmaine refused to disclose—no matter how much Kat begged, cajoled and argued. She tamped back her bitterness with a sigh. The disagreement would go on forever. “Anyway, it’s been years since he’s been on the island.”

“Well,” Charmaine continued, “why isn’t he staying with his family? His parents must be wondering, and his sister, too.”

The senior Rainharts worked at the Burnt Bend Medical Clinic, their daughter was the local social worker.

“Why is he hiding out here?” Charmaine asked.

Hiding out. Was that it? Kat wondered as the office telephone rang. Grateful for an excuse to escape her mother, she hurried to pick up the receiver. “Country Cabin, Kat O’Brien speaking.”

“Is the boy all right, Kaitlin?”

Dane. Her breath caught. “He’s fine,” she said, wariness surfacing. “How did you…?”

“I saw your mother pick him up from the elementary school when I was on the trail across the road.”

The eight-mile hiking trail circling forest and parkland and, at one point, paralleling the school grounds. The trail Blake mentioned two minutes ago. “I see.”

“I needed to clear my head. Walking helps.” Pause. “Is there anything I can do?”

You can stop making me wonder about you. “No,” she said. “But thanks for asking.”

After hanging up, she sank into her desk chair. Now what? Both her son and her mother questioned Dane’s motives. Still, intuition told Kat different. He’d erected an invisible wall, one, she suspected, that shielded his pain from the world. After Shaun died, she’d erected a similar barricade. So. Should she ask Dane to leave—or let him stay?

She was still weighing her options when a knock sounded on the mudroom door.

Charmaine frowned as Kat walked through the kitchen, nerves jittery at the prospect of seeing him again. But when she opened the door, no one stood on the back deck and the morning sun remained as bright as it had fifteen minutes earlier.

She looked toward the cabin, hoping to see something, anything, but all remained silent amidst the forest. Where had he gone—and so fast?

Forget him, Kat. Right now Blake needs you.

She was about to shut the door when a folded notebook page tucked under a corner of the outside mat caught her eye. Her heart kicked. Bending slowly, she retrieved the page.

Thanks for the flowers, he’d written in a tall, narrow scrawl. You’ve given me a different memory.

No signature. But then, none was needed.

Kat raised her head, gazed into the woods.

A different memory.

Deep in her soul she knew that it wasn’t the flowers, but her.

She was the memory, the difference. And, she sensed, neither held regret. Note secured in her shirt pocket, she turned back into the house wondering if he realized how often she would read his ten words before the day was done.

Chapter Three

The nightmare stampeded into Dane’s sleep with a vengeance.

Reaching. He was reaching again. Reaching to no avail, even though his hands closed over thin shoulders, shielded terrified dark eyes. Everywhere hung the stench of smoldering flesh. His own and Zaakir’s.

Still, he pretended. Lied. I’m here. I’ve got you. Help is coming. Except, wasn’t he the help? Wasn’t he the doctor?

He’d arrived too goddamned late. Again.

He wrenched upright. Struggled for air. Fought against smoke, against fire. Fought, fought, fought—No. No.

He was in bed. In the cabin he’d rented.

Gradually, his grip on the comforter eased. He was okay. It was just a dream.

His heartbeat leveled. The panting abated.

Another damn night shot. Two in the morning and he might as well rise and shine. Three, four hours sleep was his normal now.

Tossing back the quilt, he climbed naked from bed. Cool air struck his hot, damp skin like a blessing. He’d take a walk along the ocean, let the night wind sweep the mess from his brain.

Ten minutes later, dressed in a thick flannel shirt, jeans, army coat and hiking boots, he stepped out onto the cabin’s porch.

As always at this hour, the first thing he noticed was the chilly punch of winter and the raw spice of ocean on the breeze, so different from the desert sand. Tonight, no moon or stars cluttered the sky. Instead, he stood surrounded by inky darkness. Beyond the steps, the flagstones vanished into the woods, and above them cut the roofline of the house where Kat and her son slept.

Flicking his flashlight, he went into the forest, found the rough, overgrown trail he had discovered his first evening here. The one meandering down the slope, toward the shoreline and ending at the fish-and-tackle shack and weathered boatshed amidst the conifers. He had wandered around the shed on several occasions, tried the locked double doors at both ends, peered into its three grimy windows.

From his initial inspection that first night, he knew the old fishing trawler or lobster boat was constructed of wood—a beautiful wood, given the right TLC—and might have been built in Maine.

Tonight, he shone his light once more against the gray walls, the deadbolt locks, the windows. Barely visible through the dirty panes, he noted the peeling name on the rear of the boat: Kat Lady.

A name her husband conceived? And had she docked the craft after his death?

Dane itched to get inside the building, to assess what could be done to make the vessel viable in the ways his grandfather had taught when Dane was a kid and rode the Sound with the old man. He’d been thinking about scraping and varnishing and remodeling the craft since he’d made his discovery. Three months would get the job done. A perfect time frame.

Okay, his bent was selfish. He couldn’t help that. He needed a motive to get up every day, an objective to mull over at night, to dream about—and Kaitlin’s old trawler fit the bill.

He didn’t need to ask why she had locked the vessel away, why she hadn’t sold this part of her late husband’s life. Selling, he knew, would mean goodbye…forever. Something he’d had to do in an instant with his medical career, with Zaakir. And then there was his marriage—although that goodbye had happened in stages. Still, the sorrow and regret he’d felt when Phoebe left Iraq to live stateside had sometimes overwhelmed him. He’d let her down in so many ways. Sure, she’d remarried, but that didn’t negate the fact he’d been a lousy husband.

The briny-scented wind filled his lungs as he skirted the light along the rear window frame. Had he been a less decent man, he would break the pane, reach in, unlatch the window. Except, he wasn’t a burglar, or a destroyer of property. He was a healer. Or had been.

Damn it to hell. Quit letting those memories hound you. Quit letting them rule your life.

Wheeling around, he strode past the boatshed and down to the shore where a wooden pier thumbed forty feet into Admiralty Inlet. Against the planks his boots thudded like hollow shots as he walked to the end of the quay. An icy wind whipped drops of seawater against his face. He jacked his collar up to protect his ears. His hands found the carryall pockets of his jacket.

He shouldn’t care about her boat. He shouldn’t speculate about her reasons for leaving it to decay in that cavernous shed.

Tomorrow he’d knock on her door, ask if he could fix the vessel.

And if she tells you to go to hell?

If the shoe were on the other foot, wouldn’t he be tempted to tell her exactly that?

Restless, Dane strode off the pier and headed for the cluster of boulders a short distance away. Settling on top of the largest rock, he gazed at the night sea tossing its whitecaps ashore.

He tried not to think of the way she’d looked when she brought him that armful of flowers, or why he’d left a note on her doorstep. He tried not to remember Iraq, and the reason he was no longer a doctor. That his hands, his surgeon’s hands, were scarred and disfigured from a war which shattered the life he’d worked his guts out to attain. The life—when all was said and done—he’d loved more than his marriage. And he tried not to mull over his own skewed logic for ignoring his parents and sister.

In the end, he thought of them all. And when he finally returned to the cabin, his brain was in a worse muddle than before.

Until he spotted the flash and color of the bouquet on his table and recognized Kat O’Brien as the one quiet element in his mind.

His lifeline.

Three nights later, he heard the creak of a twig to the right of the porch where he sat in a wicker chair enjoying the evening quiet. Something stole through the forest. Ears straining for the slightest sound, Dane remained motionless, two traits he’d learned in Iraq when darkness closed in and rebels prowled villages, on the hunt for drugs brought along by medical teams.

These days on Firewood Island, night fell around five p.m., obliterating shadows and outlines and things that moved in the trees.

Several silent moments passed. Then…a soft crunch, as though someone stepped on a thick carpet of dead leaves.

Dane’s body tensed. Had the person noticed him on the porch?