Two Hearts, Slightly Used. Dixie Browning

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      Standing forlornly on the pier, surrounded by her assorted belongings, Frances was sorely tempted to toss it all into the boat and go back with him. She could spend the night at a motel on Hatteras. Things were bound to look better in the morning. They could hardly look worse.

      “Jerry, do you think—” she began, just as he opened the throttle and flipped her a jaunty salute.

      “See you later, ma’am! Gotta go pick up my date!”

      “Oh, for pity’s sake! If that’s Southern hospitality, they can just—just stuff it!” she muttered as the roar of the outboard diminished in the distance.

      The first indication that she was not alone came when she felt the vibration of heavy footsteps on the sturdy wooden pier.

      “If you’re looking for the Keegans, they’re not here. If you’re looking for a motel, we don’t have any. If you’re looking for hospitality, Southern or otherwise, we’re fresh out of that, too. Sorry, lady. You got off at the wrong stop.”

      Her first impression was of a tall man who could easily have carried another fifteen or twenty pounds on his rangy frame. A nondescript sweatshirt hung from a set of wide, square shoulders. Worn jeans loosely covered lean hips and long legs. His boots, the thick-soled, step-in variety, showed signs of long, hard wear. Even without the extra weight he needed, he was a big man, towering over her own five foot eight, which had recently gone from slender to downright skinny.

      A matched pair of Jack Spratts, she thought, with a wild urge to giggle. Frances had never giggled in her life. At least, not since she’d left the third grade. “The Keegans? Would that, by any chance, include a Maudie?”

      He was closer now. The light was at his back, but what she could see of his expression was definitely not encouraging. Ignoring her perfectly civil question, he said, “I told you, lady, this place is battened down for the winter. No phones, no power, no people. You want to try again after Memorial Day, you might get a better reception.”

      It could hardly be worse. The thought echoed again in her aching head. The raw wind that had followed her all the way down the narrow strip of barrier islands had diminished somewhat with the setting of the sun, but the cold had long since penetrated her layers of spray-damp clothing. Her nose had probably turned blue to match the circles under her eyes. Nothing like making a good first impression.

      “And how do you propose I leave?” she inquired sweetly. To anyone who knew her, such a reckless disregard for danger would be a sure tip-off of how near the end of her rope she was. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to direct me to the nearest bus stop?”

      He didn’t know her, and obviously didn’t care to. His response was brief, rude and unhelpful. In the rapidly fading light, Frances couldn’t tell much about his face, except that it reminded her of the chunk of petrified wood her grandmother used to use as a doorstop.

      “Sorry to disappoint you, but I have no intention of doing any such thing,” she said, her attempt at firmness largely ruined by the chattering of her teeth. “If you’ll just point me in the right direction, I’ll find the place, myself.”

      When he continued to stand there, arms crossed over his broad chest, she said, “It’s the Seymore cottage. It’s called Blackbeard’s Hole. It’s the one with the green-striped shutters!”

      Exasperated beyond bearing, she reached down and began gathering up her assorted baggage. “Oh, forget it! I’ll just—”

      “Storm blinds.”

      “What? Oh, never mind, I’ll find it myself!” she snapped. Her head ached, she was cold, hungry, discouraged and bone tired after two and a half days of traveling. It had been a real bitch of a week.

      A real bitch of a decade, actually, but she had made up her mind to leave the past behind her and look ahead to the next forty years. They were going to be terrific! She owed herself that much.

      Gathering up her computer and her suitcase, Frances eyed the lumpy sacks of groceries, glanced at the sky and prayed for the rain to hold off until she had everything under cover. Her unwelcoming committee obviously had no intention of helping her.

      So be it. Brushing past him, she set out up the sloping beach toward the narrow path Jerry had pointed out. If the cottages were on the other side of the island, why the dickens hadn’t he driven his blooming boat around there and parked it closer to her doorstep?

      The owners liked their privacy, he’d said. Well, if she had any choice in the matter, they could keep their darned privacy! Not even a decent sidewalk! Her shoes were filled with sand before she’d gone a hundred feet, and there was no telling how much farther she still had to go.

      “You really intend to go through with it, huh?”

      At the sound of that gravelly voice right behind her, Frances almost walked into a tree. And that was another thing about sand she hated! A body could sneak up on you and you wouldn’t even hear him!

      Trudging onward, she made up her mind to ignore him, but the temptation was too great. She stole a glance over her shoulder and then had the grace to feel ashamed when she saw that he was carrying the two largest of her six sacks of groceries. They were heavy, too. Five pounds of this, five pounds of that, not to mention all the canned goods—she’d had to start from scratch and stock up on everything.

      He moved up beside her, crowding her between the dark, encroaching bushes. “How do you intend to get in?” he asked.

      Frances tried to ignore the feeling of being trapped in the forest with a hungry predator. She refused to be intimidated. She’d come too far for that. “I’ll pick the lock, of course. Or if I can’t find my trusty lock picker, I’ll just toss a brick through a window.” A streak of reckless perversity that was totally out of character kept her from mentioning the key her uncle had mailed her.

      “That’s what storm blinds are for.”

      “Oh? Then it’ll have to be lock-picking. I always hate picking strange locks in the dark, but at least it’s neater than using explosives.”

      Explosives? The closest she’d ever come to using explosives was when she’d microwaved her first egg. She was running on adrenaline, practically begging for trouble from a stranger who looked as if he’d invented trouble and still held the patent.

      But anger served to keep her going, and she was afraid if she slowed down for so much as a minute, she might collapse like a punctured balloon.

      “Look, I have a key from the owner, all right?” she cried, exasperated. “I’m not trespassing, so you can just knock off the watchdog routine!”

      He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Might as well warn you, though, if you’re looking for a cozy place to crash—the generator tank probably needs filling, and without that, you won’t have lights, heat or running water. You might find a candle or two, but that’s about all.”

      “Fine! Just give me the luxuries of life, and I’ll do without the necessities.” The only luxury she wanted at the moment was a bed and a roof over her head, and even the roof was optional as long as it didn’t rain. “I’ll figure it all out tomorrow.” Fumbling in her shoulder bag, she came up with the door key and prayed it was the right one. Knowing Uncle Seymore, it could just as easily be the key to his own basement. Poor Uncle Seymore wasn’t quite as sharp as he used to СКАЧАТЬ