Wild: Whispering Cove, Book 1 Read online

  Dedication

  To Cathryn Fox and Nikki Duncan for asking me to participate in this fun anthology. You ladies rock!

  Prologue

  “I’ll be seeing your bet.” Harold Adair slammed a dollar bill in the middle of the table making a loud booming sound. “And raise you another fifty cents.”

  With three deuces and two face cards in his hand, he tossed two more coins into the pot. Inhaling the salty sea air wafting through the open window, he waited for the two men sitting around his kitchen table to respond. The soft breeze stirred the curtains and he glanced at the photo that sat below the windowsill. The pretty little redhead made him smile.

  Stubborn and willful, she be just like her father.

  The thought of his son brought a tear to Harold’s weathered eyes. He coughed into his hand trying to mask the emotion tightening his throat. Of course, if his pain was still raw after all this time, he could only imagine how Andrea felt losing both her parents in that dreadful boat accident.

  He raked trembling fingers through his thick gray hair. His numerous requests for the lass to return home had failed. Even dangling her ten-year class reunion did not encourage her to bury the memories and come back to visit old friends and her only living relative.

  “You listening, you bloated, barnacle plucking ol’ goat?” Errol Wilson’s scratchy voice cut through Harold’s woolgathering.

  Harold’s bushy brows shot upward as he pinned the aging man with a steely glare. “Bloated?” Laying his cards down, he placed his laced fingers on his extended belly and cocked his head. “Barnacle plucking ol’ goat, ye say?” He slid his narrow gaze toward Byron Mitchell, another dear friend, and then winked. “I’ll ’ave ye know ’tis better than bein’ a pond suckin’, baldin’ beachcomber, who hasn’t seen the bottom of a boat in over a decade.”

  Errol’s whiskered jaw dropped and he scowled. Slowly, he reached up to touch the sliver of thin hair plastered across the top of his shiny head. For a moment, silence reigned. Then the tall, slender man patted his head before his frown dissolved and he burst into laughter. “I’ll be damned if he isn’t right.”

  Harold and Byron joined him, their deep guffawing filling the room.

  When their chuckling died, Harold glanced back and forth between his friends and retrieved his cards. “So where are we?”

  Byron, with his arthritic fingers gnarled and knobby, laid his cards before him. “I fold.” He looked up at Harold, sympathy softening his cloudy blue eyes. “It’s Andie, isn’t it?”

  Harold quietly nodded. “Short of me heart stop beatin’, the lass may never return to Whispering Cove.”

  Byron cleared his throat. “You know, it’s not a bad idea.”

  Errol’s eyes widened. “Byron!” He tossed his cards on the table with something akin to disgust furrowing his forehead. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  Byron waved a shaky hand, dismissing Errol. “Braydon wasn’t coming home either, until I dropped a few hints that I was having health problems.”

  The pit of Harold’s stomach knotted. The three of them had been friends since he had left Ireland and arrived on the rocky shores of Maine. Fear almost caused him not to ask, but in the end he did. “You okay?”

  Byron raised a hand before him. “If not for this rheumatoid, I’d be fit as a fiddle, but my grandson doesn’t need to know that.” Lowering his arm to the table, he continued. “My wife refuses to play along. Ruth says, ‘I shouldn’t get involved.’ But the boy is almost twenty-nine, unmarried. He needs to settle down.”

  “The hell you say?” Errol pursed his lips, nodding his head. “My Katy is unmarried, as well.”

  Harold didn’t need to say it, but marriage had eluded Andie too. Before she left town she had been engaged to a young man who had later become Whispering Cove’s sheriff. Their relationship was a storybook romance, until the accident. Then his loving granddaughter had moved away, disassociating herself with anyone from the past. Yes, she wrote on occasions, but he missed her, wanted her back where she belonged.

  A big Cheshire grin spread across Byron’s face. “Braydon arrives next week, and I have just the right woman picked out for him.”

  “Why ye conniving old windbag,” Harold barked, unable to stifle his surprise.

  “What?” If innocence was what Byron was fishing for, he was casting without bait.

  “You know, every time my granddaughter writes home she asks about Trent Parker.” The gleam in Errol’s eyes brightened. “He’s never married.” He thrummed his fingers on the table several times and then they stilled. “Maybe we should try our hand at matchmaking.”

  Without a word, Byron reached into his pocket and extracted a twenty dollar bill. He slapped it in the middle of the table, turning his attention to Errol. His chin rose in challenge. “Bet I can get Braydon to the altar before your Katy.”

  Errol reach for his wallet sitting next to the half empty bottle of rum he had brought to share. “You’re on.” Digging out two tens, he put them atop Byron’s twenty, before he began to pour each of them a shot of the dark liquor. “How about you, Harold?”

  “I’ll take that bet, but only if I can get the lass home for the reunion.” Harold raised his shot glass into the air before him. “Here’s to marriage, family, and great-grandchildren.”

  Chapter One

  Andrea Adair’s paralegal popped her head and her unruly mop of blonde hair around the door. “All work and no play makes Andie a dull girl.”

  The twenty-two-year-old’s carefree laughter and obvious happiness in her light tone was the last thing Andrea needed right now. In fact, one more joke like that and Sharon might end up being her ex-paralegal.

  Andrea rolled her head side to side, tendons stretching and joints popping as she attempted to ease the tension. It was Friday afternoon and she was still hard at work while everyone else was leaving early to start their weekend per a corporate edict for a job well done. Of course, it was by choice the stack of case files in her inbox rivaled those in her outbox. She subscribed to the notion that a rolling stone gathered no moss. Besides, if she kept busy there was no time to think.

  Glancing up from the stack of papers and photographs before her, she murmured, “Have a good weekend.”

  Before she could refocus on the folder in front of her, Sharon stepped into the room, smiling. “No date?”

  Andrea raised an auburn brow that matched her shoulder-length hair. “Yeah. I’ve got them lined up for the weekend.” A little too much sarcasm bled through her words. She regretted it immediately when she saw Sharon’s chagrined expression.

  “I’m sorry, Andie. I just meant—”

  “No, Sharon. It’s me who should apologize.” Andrea rubbed her tired eyes. It wasn’t for a lack of invitations. She could have had a date tonight. Hell. She was pretty enough with a more than acceptable physique the gym had helped to carve into shape. But she deliberately shied away from men, as well as relationships. Sharon had worked for her over a year now and she knew nothing about the paralegal. Sad, but true.

  Andrea gazed around her office devoid of any personal memorabilia. If it wasn’t for the nameplate on her desk and its messy contents, no one would have known someone occupied the space.

  “I said, ‘Yes’ to the Broman’s case,” Andrea explained, “and now I’m fixating on how to approach it.” A ride at one of their client’s California theme parks had malfunctioned. It had taken almost two hours to get all the passengers down to safety. The Broman boy hadn’t been physically hurt, but he was having nightmares. His parents were suing for mental duress, one count for the boy, another for the child’s hysterical mother.

  “You should just say no.” Sharon sounded like a com
mercial for the war on drugs. When Andrea didn’t reply, the woman shifted her feet. “Well…I guess there is no rest for the weary.”

  Andrea gritted her teeth to keep from biting back a nasty response. What was wrong with her today?

  “Do you want me to stay and help you?”

  Andrea didn’t miss Sharon’s crestfallen expression. “Thanks, but no. You have a great weekend.” She pulled her attention back to the documents on her desk and began to thumb through them.

  “If you’re sure?” The spark in Sharon’s voice had returned.

  Without looking up, Andrea jokingly waved a hand through the air. “Go. Get out of here. Have fun.”

  And she meant it until her assistant closed the door softly behind her. Then the walls in the room seemed to move, closing in on Andrea. It was her imagination. It was always her mind screwing with her. Inhaling a deep breath, she scented the tropical room freshener and trapped it in her lungs, waiting for the burn before she released the air in one steady stream.

  Fun?

  What kind of woman forgot how to enjoy herself or what friends were for? Because that’s the kind of woman Andrea had become. Work was what she lived for, exercising, eating and sleeping only when it was absolutely necessary. Some of it was self-induced while other times were mandated by nightmares. No amount of distance or counseling erased the events of the dreadful evening she lost her parents in a tragic boating accident.

  Ten years. Why couldn’t she put the incident behind her? And why was she asking when she already knew the answer?

  Andrea glanced at her laptop containing her response to the email she received regarding her ten-year high school reunion. Using a single finger, she drew the cursor over the send button and paused, re-reading the words she had written earlier.

  Thank you for the invitation. I’m sorry to inform you that my current schedule will not allow my attendance at this year’s reunion. Please give everyone my best.

  It was the same excuse she had given her grandfather each time he had called. Taking a deep breath, she clicked the mouse. The deed was done.

  Tears suddenly welled in her eyes.

  Dammit.

  What was wrong with her? She didn’t want to attend the reunion. There wasn’t anything on God’s green earth that could get her back to Whispering Cove. The place held nothing but bad memories.

  Taking a breath to steady herself, she picked up Mrs. Broman’s affidavit and started to read. Halfway through the first page her cell phone rang. The abrupt interruption startled her, jerking her from her thoughts. Frustrated, she glanced at the caller I.D. and her shoulders drooped.

  “Not again.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. This would be the second call today from her grandfather. Perhaps she wouldn’t answer, but that would be childish. She loved the old man.

  No. This time she would be firm with him about not returning to Maine. Pressing the call button, she raised the telephone to her ear.

  Silence greeted her, except for some scuffling and buzzers going off in the background. “Grandpa?” When no response came, concern slithered across her arms, raising goose bumps. “Grandpa? Are you there?”

  “L-Laaa-ssie?” He sounded breathless with the effort it took him to call her by the endearment.

  As she moved to the edge of her seat, tension crawled across her shoulders cramping her tendons and muscles. “Grandpa. What’s wrong?”

  “H-hossss…pital,” he slurred. “But don’t be wah-wah-worrying yourself.”

  The knot in her throat thickened. “Hospital?” Even as she repeated the word, she knew the signs of a stroke. Her grandfather hadn’t slurred a single word in his lifetime. Her fingers tightened around the phone. “Why are you in the hospital?”

  More frustrating, nerve-wracking silence ensued. The longer it went on, the more her skin tightened with anxiety.

  Oh God. A flood of uncontrollable tears began to stream down her cheeks. Don’t you do this to me. “Grandpa,” she choked.

  “Andie, is that you?” Relief soared straight to her core when she heard Byron’s voice. Byron Mitchell was a member of her grandfather’s gruesome threesome. Along with Errol Wilson, the three men were inseparable and incorrigible. They’d be a menace to Whispering Cove, but everyone loved them and their antics, including Andrea.

  She swallowed hard, fighting emotion that threatened to strangle her. “Is Grandpa okay?”

  “Your grandfather needs you.”

  Her grasp on the telephone tightened. “But is he okay?”

  “They just took him in for more tests.” He spoke in a clipped, rushed manner. “I have to go.”

  “Wait? Byron? Answer me first—”

  Click.

  The dial tone blaring in her ear was the last thing Andrea wanted or needed to hear. Pulse racing like a freight train roaring down the track, she tried to gather her senses. Her hands shook as she pressed the end call button. Surely if Byron knew anything he would have said something. If they were waiting for test results it wouldn’t do any good to call the hospital and speak to a doctor or nurse. Should she wait for another call? And what if the news was bad?

  No. She couldn’t think that way.

  Even still, she found herself pulling her laptop in front of her. Fingers flew over the keys as she typed in the city codes to search for the fastest way to get to Whispering Cove, Maine.

  Ten minutes later she had booked a flight into Bar Harbor. Whispering Cove was an hour-plus trip by car, half the time if she chartered a boat. The mere thought of stepping onto a watercraft sent a tremor throughout her body that chilled her to the bone.

  What would thirty minutes mean?

  Possibly the difference between life or death.

  Palm to her mouth, she sucked back an unexpected sob. She was being foolish. Boat. She would take a boat.

  The one-way flight leaving from Los Angeles was scheduled to depart in two hours. The other attorneys in the firm would have to take several of her cases, some she could take with her. How much time should she plan for? Several days? A week, maybe two? Two weeks, she decided. Adjustments could be made after she knew more about her grandfather’s condition.

  Chapter Two

  Beneath a lamppost, Andrea stood in a small patch of light that bathed the edge of the pier. Swaying, she fought to find her land legs, which were like two stilts of rubber threatening to give way. While she white-knuckled one suitcase, a briefcase containing her laptop and files, and her purse, she gazed out over the inky black water. No matter how hard she tried to ignore the ocean’s magnetic pull or the fact she heard her name whistling on the wind calling her home, she couldn’t.

  Yes. Andrea Adair had returned, but Whispering Cove wasn’t home—not anymore.

  A gust of wind swirled around her ankles. The cool night breeze stung her bare legs. There had been no time to change out of her pinstripe suit and flimsy silk shirt. Hell. She hadn’t had the time to do much more than throw several changes of clothes in her suitcase, before it was time to leave for the airport.

  The abrupt roar of the boat heading back out to sea startled her. She jumped, losing her balance and striking her hip against the railing. The reverberation from the engine, the crashing of the waves against the rocks, pulsated in her ears creating a wind tunnel in her head that began to suck her into a dreamlike state. She had stood in this exact spot waving that night. Happiness had filled her with anticipation of meeting her fiancé later. Not once had she imagined that she was saying good-bye to her parents for the last time.

  Before Andrea could prepare herself she was thrust violently through time. Pulse racing, she closed her eyes, but the ghosts from the past unmercifully attacked her from all sides. Teeth clenched. Every muscle and tendon tensed. Her body jerked with the imaginary explosion. The vibrant burst of flames blinded her. She could almost smell the oily, gassy scent, feel heat licking across her skin, and hear the crackle and hiss of the fire as it began to consume everything it touched. Then the horrific screams started
and were followed by a deafening silence that swallowed Andrea up, pulling her under, deeper into to the abyss.

  A pang in the center of her chest stole her breath. The sharp, intense stab cut like a knife, ripping her heart wide open. Staggering, she fought to keep her footing, but failed. Knees buckled. Tender skin struck the deck, hard. Splintering pain erupted. Then her baggage scattered across the wooden surface.

  One minute she was wide-eyed, watching smoke and fire spiraling into the sky, the next she threw back her head and released a gut-wrenching shriek that tore from the very roots of her soul. Her anguish was only gagged by the sounds of sobbing.

  Andrea gasped, choking on tears, before coughing. When her eyelids sprung wide, she found her hands wrapped around her neck. A moan vibrated in her raw throat. She released her hold, rocking back on knees that ached. A palm to the small of her back helped to ease the twinge radiating there.

  How long had she knelt on the rough, wooden deck?

  How long had she cried?

  Man, she felt like crap. Eyes swollen, her mouth dry, she didn’t know whether she could move. Inhaling a shuddering breath that burned deep inside, she knew she couldn’t live like this anymore. Somehow she had to move past the sorrow, the guilt.

  But how?

  On trembling legs, she pushed to her feet. The line of beach houses along the coastline appeared blurry through her tearstained eyes. A soft cry of a sandpiper made her look skyward. The bird’s shadowy figure swooped down and made a distinctive stiff-winged flight low over the capping waves. The sun would be rising soon. Before long there would be a flock of the grayish brown and white scavengers running through the shallow waters on dark, yellowish legs, foraging for insects, crustaceans and other invertebrates.

  Life would begin anew, but not for Andrea.

  Her hands shook so badly, it took her two attempts to gather her bags and take that first step. When she did, her heels echoed rapidly across the weathered wood as if the demons of her past chased her. Halfway down the beach she paused, bending at the waist to catch her breath.