Holidays at Crescent Cove (10 page)

It was enough to bring her squatter upright. Her first response was to scream. It looked like one of those Halloween coffins where the skeleton popped up and let out a maniacal laugh. The sound this guy made was more like an elephant grunt. And he looked like a yeti, encased in a dark green jacket. A black knit hat was pulled down over his forehead; the rest of his face was hidden behind an incipient beard.

“Sorry,” he grunted out in a gravelly voice.

Bri clutched the pitchfork and tried to think.

“Sorry,” he repeated. “I'm leaving.” He pulled both arms out of the sleeping bag and lifted them, hands by his ears. “I'm harmless. Just needed a place to sleep.”

He didn't sound like a derelict or an ax murderer. His voice, as it recovered from sleep, sounded more human, even friendly. And the thought of him sleeping in her barn all night dug at her sense of compassion. A bad thing. She steeled her heart. Brandished her pitchfork.

“Then you'd better get going. Or I'll have to call the police,” she added for good measure.

The man scrambled to his feet. Then stopped, turned to look at her.

“I mean it.” She jerked the pitchfork for emphasis. How stupid could she be? Standing here holding a stranger at bay with a pitchfork. It was too much, her mouth curved into a grin. It seemed to frighten her intruder. Well, good.

He inched away from her. “Actually, maybe that would be a good idea. I'm not dangerous, not a felon. I just couldn't find a motel between here and the highway. The police might be willing to give me a ride to Crescent Cove. Is it very far?”

“A couple of miles, but I don't know if—” She broke off. She'd almost told him that the roads wouldn't be cleared yet. Which meant she'd be stuck in the barn with this man and totally at his mercy.

“Or maybe you could just help me with some information. I'm looking for a guy named Nick Prescott. I was told he lived in Crescent Cove.”

He was looking for Nick? For what?

“Do you know anybody by that name?”

“What do you want with him?”

“You do know him.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Look, I've come halfway across the country to find this guy. Can you just tell me if he's here or not?”

Bri deliberated. “He's the chief of police.”

He expelled a deep breath that created a cloud in front of his face. “Is there another one? This man's a history professor. Or at least he was. I had his address in Denver. His college said he'd moved to Crescent Cove, but they wouldn't give me his new address.”

“Nick was a professor. He's the interim chief. Why do you want to find him?”

He scowled beneath his knit hat. “I have a letter for him.”

“A letter,” she said incredulously. “Why didn't you just mail it?”

There was silence, then he said, “It's not that kind of letter.”

A dozen things flashed across Bri's mind. Bill collector? Police business? Something about Connor, Nick's nephew, whom he and Margaux were in the process of adopting. Should she tell him where to find Nick?

She shivered and realized she was getting cold. The guy was shivering, too. It was damn cold, even in the barn. She wanted a nice hot cup of coffee. She did not want to be standing in the semidarkness of the barn, verbally fencing with a stranger.

She gripped the pitchfork, shifted her weight to both feet.

The stranger sighed. “It's from his brother.”

“Ben?”

“Yes.” He stepped forward.

Bri brandished the pitchfork but felt a little foolish. This man knew Ben—had known Ben. Ben was dead. Killed in Afghanistan.

“What's your name?”

“David. David Henderson. Do you mind if I put my boots on, my toes are getting numb.”

Bri glanced down at his feet. Gray socks, a hole in the toe. He'd get a blister for sure if he walked very far with that rubbing his skin.

“Go ahead.” Bri shifted the pitchfork. She really wanted to put it down and call Nick. The guy knelt down, pulled his gloves off and went about pulling on his boots. He had trouble getting the laces tied. His fingers were probably stiff from sleeping all night in the cold. Could you get frostbite sleeping in a barn in a sleeping bag?

He finally finished and stumbled to his feet. “Could you make that call? I'm kind of cold and a heated squad car is looking like the Ritz about now.”

She could make the call, but she'd have to go back to the house to make it, she'd left her cell phone inside. She didn't exactly need it while she was feeding and watering the animals. And she still had the chickens to do.

But to do that she had to turn her back on him. Hell, how had this happened? She should put a lock on her barn. And she would first thing tomorrow. But for now . . .

“Stay right where you are. I have to feed the chickens, then I'll call.”

He crossed his arms, she was pretty sure she could hear his teeth chattering.

“Don't move.” Keeping him in her sight, she made a crazy sideways walk to the feed box. She needed both hands to open the box and scoop out the chicken feed. She glanced back, making sure he was right where she left him, deliberated for a second, then reluctantly put down the pitchfork.

Chapter Two

D
AVID WATCHED THE
woman move across the barn. She was tall; at first he thought she was a man. Once he got over the pitchfork aimed at him, he realized it was a woman's face nestled between those earflaps. And a damn good-looking one from what he could see. Of course looks could be deceiving. Which was beside the point.

She had to turn her back to him to open the feed box, and if he'd been thinking with half a brain, he would have made his escape then. But he wasn't. His brain was frozen along with the rest of him. He wanted heat, breakfast, a strong cup of coffee, a bathroom. As soon as he delivered this damn letter to Nick Prescott, he'd find a hotel room and sleep until he woke up. Then he'd decide where he was going next.

She finally relinquished the pitchfork and braced it against a wooden paddock. The barn was large, had several stalls, and must have housed a stable full of horses at one time. Now there only seemed to be a goat and a few chickens that he could here rustling and squawking at the other end of the barn.

She scooped up a pan of feed and hurried toward the chickens. And that's when he noticed the slight hitch to her walk. Where was her husband while she was out here doing chores? Sleeping? Working in town? Deployed? Dead? Divorced? Or just plain lazy and waiting for David with a shotgun at the door?

He shook himself, his mind was wandering, from cold, fatigue, from lack of sleep, from hunger. He shivered violently. “Y-Y-You need help?”

“No. Just stay there.” Her voice echoed from the shadows. It was deep and throaty. A voice that could make you forget your manners. He wondered what she looked like beneath all that padding.

He clamped down on that thought.
Remember the husband with the shotgun.

She finished up her chores then started back toward him. Stopped, turned around and grabbed her pitchfork. And he got a flash of American Gothic and decided he probably shouldn't wait around to see what she was married to.

But damn, he was cold. And he could barely feel his feet. He could die of exposure waiting here for her to finish her chores.

“L-Listen,” he said through chattering teeth. Suddenly he was shivering uncontrollably. At least ten hours in subfreezing temperature, sleeping bag or no, had not been good.

“Jesus, you're freezing.” She looked concerned but still wary.

“If you could just call the cops. I could use a warm place to stay even if it's a cell.” He tried to smile, to reassure her, but he couldn't make his mouth move.

“Oh, crap,” she said, her eyebrows frowning beneath her hat. “Can you promise me you're not crazy or a psychopath or anything?”

“I promise.”

“Ridiculous, I know. If you are a psychopath you'd have no compunction about lying.”

“Wh-Where did you get this f-fascination with psychopaths?” he asked. “There are not as many as television would lead you to believe.”

“How would you know?”

“Statistics. But you don't have to believe me. Just make that call so I can leave you in peace. I'd walk into town but I can't feel my feet.”

“Oh shit.” She walked up to him, her limp less pronounced now, and gestured with that damn pitchfork. “You can wait in the mudroom while I call.” She pushed that pitchfork at him again and he had to resist the temptation to pull it out of her hand. She was afraid and he didn't want to frighten her more. Maybe there was no husband waiting in the house. Maybe she was alone. She had every right to be afraid. But not of him.

“Thanks.” He quickly shoved his sleeping bag into his backpack and threw it over one shoulder.

“Go out the side door.” She motioned with the pitchfork. If he hadn't been so cold, he would have been offended. He headed toward the side door, pushed it open and stepped out into sun. He blinked against the glare off the snow, then shut his eyes, opening them little by little until he could stand the light.

And the snow. There had to be two feet of it. His kingdom for a warm bed and a hearty meal that didn't include yams, goat, or barley water. A gust of wind kicked snow in his face. The house looked a hundred miles away. He could barely make out footprints as the top layer of snow swirled with the wind like a living organism.

“Head for the side door,” she said.

He started off toward an SUV parked by the side of the house. She stayed behind him like some dumb cowboy in a old television show. He was beginning to get annoyed. He glanced back.

She'd fallen behind a bit and was having difficulty getting through the drifts. He considered going back to help but decided not to tempt getting pitchforked. It might rip his field jacket. Or part of him.

Her head was down. All her attention was focused on making it through the snow.

He saw it coming and couldn't do a thing about it. Her foot slipped and after a wild moment of trying to regain her balance, she fell head first into the snow, still holding the pitchfork. Luckily it missed its owner.

For an instant he considered leaving her there long enough to ransack her kitchen for food and get the hell down the road. But his better self reined him in and he made the slow ponderous turn back to where she was struggling to get up.

As he reached for the pitchfork, she looked up at him, a zap of energy from clear blue eyes, full of challenge, anger, though whether at him or herself was hard to tell. And along with those two emotions, he saw something else, a flicker of fear.

He hesitated. “Hey,” he said. “I'm one of the good guys.” At least he'd tried to be.

He held out a hand to help her up. She just looked at it for a moment and finally took it. With David pulling and his captor pushing with the pitchfork, they managed to get her to her feet. He suddenly noticed how rosy her complexion was. Probably from exertion or embarrassment.

She was tall, David was taller. And he was getting tired of being prodded with an oversized fork. He extricated it from her hand and struck off toward the house and warmth.

“Hey,” she yelled, fighting to keep up with him. “You have to wait for me.”

David would have smiled if he could get his lips to move. As it was, he just kept trudging onward.

She lunged after him, pitched forward again. David gave it up. He tossed the pitchfork and his backpack onto the porch and went back to help her.

This time when he pulled her to her feet, he didn't let go. While she was getting her balance, he threw her over his shoulder and plodded toward the house.

“Put me down. Are you nuts?” She squirmed and kicked and they both nearly went down.

“No, but I might be a soprano if you keep kicking like that.”

Her boots stilled. A few ponderously heavy yards later he deposited her on the kitchen porch.

“Thank you,” she said between clenched teeth, but he thought she did that to keep them for chattering. He knew he was losing enamel, the way his were banging together.

“And if you'll call off your dogs, or husband, or both, I think it would at least be a nice show of appreciation to offer me a cup of coffee.”

He reached for the door and was startled to see two little Asian faces peering out the glass window at him.

The woman pushed past him and called out something that surprised him. She spoke in Mandarin or at least her version of it. The faces moved away. She opened the door and gestured him in.

David entered the house, and the heat that hit him was almost painful, but it was a blessed pain. He let out a relieved sigh as he stood at the threshold and looked around. The children had disappeared.

“Do you mind if I get out of these shoes and coat?”

The woman was already shedding her jacket to reveal a pink flannel pajama top. “Crap,” she said as she realized he was watching her. She quickly shed her boots, revealing red and white striped socks with toes. She yanked off her hat, and long blond hair fell past her shoulders.

Damn. Damn and damn.

“You can take them off but don't leave this room.”

“Yes ma'am.”

She ran past him still wearing her snow pants, which he surmised covered pink flannel pajama bottoms. He began removing his gloves; heard more execrable Chinese from the other room. He removed the rest of his outerwear and found a bathroom where he cleaned up the best he could and went back into the kitchen to find a coffeepot. Hopefully, she'd let him have a cup before the police came.

He searched the fridge and cabinets while his toes and fingers burned as the circulation returned. He found a fine grind espresso in the fridge and was dumping it into a coffeemaker, finally feeling warmer than he had in the last twenty-four hours, when he heard someone behind him.

He turned, the coffee scoop arrested in air. Christ Almighty, she was beautiful. She'd tied that amazing hair back into a low ponytail. In jeans and a sweatshirt, she appeared incredibly tall and thin. He frowned at her, trying to figure out if she was really the same woman who'd held him hostage in the barn.

“I, um—” He held up the coffee scoop as explanation. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. Probably an early symptom of frostbite—or stupidity.

She came into the room, moving slowly, her gait smooth now. Gait? Hell, she wasn't a horse, she was a beguiling woman who exuded a kind of bewitching presence, like an actress or something. She was in her thirties, he guessed, though he'd never been that good at guessing women's ages. She didn't appear to be wearing makeup, but it didn't matter in the least, she had close to perfect features. Hell, except for that slight limp, she could have been a model.

“I see you've made yourself at home,” she said.

“Sorry, I thought you could probably use a cup of coffee. I know I could.”

She curled her lip at him. Ironically, it made her look more alluring.

He turned back to the pot and began dumping coffee into the filter. Poured water and turned the coffeemaker on. He knew he was taking a lot for granted from this woman. But he was cold, hungry, and just too tired of the whole mess to care.

He was like a horse sensing the stable, rushing to get this last duty fulfilled and head for home. Only he didn't have a home, just a barn for the night and a woman with a pitchfork.

The coffee started hissing.

“Did you get someone on the phone?”

“Yes. They're all busy. Bunch of downed power lines. Hell, you'd think it never snowed in Connecticut.”