Daring The Moon. Sherrill Quinn

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      “It was necessary,” Cobb said in loyal support. “Always following you around, demanding to be just like you.” He scowled and dabbed at his lips with his own piece of burgundy linen. “He’s from your mother’s side of the family, not the Merrick side, so of course he couldn’t emulate you. He should have counted himself lucky your father left him the inheritance he did.”

      Ryder swiveled in his chair and stared out at glittering ocean waves he could see beyond the edge of the bluff. “Miles was only four when he came to live with us. Mother and Father treated him like their own son from day one, which I didn’t have a problem with. It was nice not being the only child.” His throat tightened with sorrow over things lost, regret over things that would never be. He closed his eyes briefly and then turned back toward his employee. “And Mother was glad to have a piece of her sister still with us. So it was only natural for Father to remember him in his will.”

      “But it wasn’t enough, was it?” Cobb stood and began clearing the lunch items. “Miles wanted it all.”

      Cobb wasn’t wrong. Miles had alternated between begging and demanding to be given his due, given what he felt should be his birthright, too. Ryder had never understood that. Being a Merrick was what had made his father take the drastic steps he had. Why would anyone willingly take that on?

      Finally exasperated to the point of almost losing control, Ryder had told the nineteen-year-old to get out. Now, thinking back on it, he still didn’t see any other course of action. The inheritance Miles had received had been close to seventy-five thousand pounds. Twenty years ago, that was a good amount of money. Ryder knew that letting his cousin stay could have proven to be too dangerous. To both of them. “I lost track of him after he moved to the States. He stayed in New York for a while, I know, but I don’t think he’s still there.”

      “Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. Nothing but trouble was that young man.” Cobb picked up the tray and turned toward the door. “Is there anything else you need, sir?” At Ryder’s negative gesture, he murmured, “I shall be in the kitchen if you need me.” He closed the door softly behind him.

      Ryder heaved a sigh and moved his laptop back to the middle of the desk. He cracked his knuckles. “Just type something,” he muttered. “You can always go back and fix it.” Fingers back on the keyboard, he began to type.

      Drivel. It was all pure drivel.

      Damn. What was wrong with him today? He felt on edge, disturbed on an elemental level. He wasn’t an inordinately superstitious man, but this restlessness suggested something was going on. Perhaps the change in atmosphere in front of the upcoming storm was responsible.

      Perhaps it was something else.

      Whatever it was, it was obvious he was done with work for the moment. He wouldn’t waste any more time putting such dismally written words on the screen. He saved the document and then turned off the laptop. Pushing back from the desk, he stood and stretched. The bones along his spine popped, and the pressure from sitting hunched over the keyboard lessened immediately.

      Ryder left the study and went in search of Cobb. He found the older man in the immaculate kitchen, wiping down the counters. Ryder grabbed his rain slicker from a peg by the back door. “I’m heading out for a walk,” he told Cobb. “Hopefully it’ll clear my head.”

      “Be careful.” Cobb gave his usual response.

      When Ryder opened the door and the wind blew leaves into the room, Cobb turned without a word and headed into the hallway. Ryder knew he was going after a broom. “Sorry,” he called out.

      “Not to worry, sir,” said Cobb cheerily as he walked back into the kitchen, push broom in hand. “Devil’s playground and all that.”

      Ryder grinned. He walked outside and made his way through the small side garden, now mostly dormant except for a few late blooms. He followed the meandering cobbled path until he reached the woods. There the cobblestones ended, and the path was a hard-packed trail forged over time.

      As he made his way across the island, heading down toward the water on a natural incline, insects chirped and various small creatures rustled in the undergrowth. Part of him longed to break into a run to try to chase away the demons that continually plagued him, but he knew it wouldn’t work. It never did. He’d content himself with listening to the rush of the sea against the rocks as a way to calmness.

      Within ten minutes he’d reached the caves. He slowed, then stopped. His heart rate increased and sweat popped up on his skin. The old fear resurfaced. He clenched his jaw and took a step forward. Then another. And another.

      He froze. He couldn’t do it.

      It didn’t matter that he was no longer that eight-year-old boy who’d been trapped for two days in the cold, damp darkness. It didn’t matter that, three and a half decades later, he knew his phobia was irrational.

      He could not make himself go into that cave.

      Unlike when he’d been a boy and compelled by curiosity and the hope of finding long-forgotten pirate treasure, he was a man now and able to control his tendency to snoop. He didn’t need to put himself in danger to satisfy his natural inquisitiveness.

      His writing was his outlet.

      Ryder swallowed, staring into the darkness of the mouth of the cave. His pulse hammered in his throat. “This is completely asinine,” he muttered. It was just a fucking cave. After taking a deep breath and holding it a moment, he exhaled and strode forward to meet his fear.

      About four meters inside the cave he faltered. Irrational fear chilled his skin, but he kept going. After two more meters, with the darkness closing in on him, he stopped. Sweat made his shirt stick to his chest and back, and dripped down the side of his face.

      Memories slammed into him, of rocks and dirt crashing down on him, of Miles crying out that it wasn’t his fault. Ryder remembered the total, absolute pitch blackness. Legs pinned by rocks, knowing he was bleeding, terrified he would die. Wondering if Miles had gone for help or had simply run off.

      The recollections still much too intense, within seconds Ryder was outside once more, bent over, bracing his palms on his knees as he fought to control his erratic breathing. He muttered a curse at his own cowardice. Straightening, he stared toward the pile of hewn rock and vowed, “One day I’ll conquer you, you bastard.”

      That whole ordeal as a youngster was what had started his misgivings about cousin Miles. But he’d dismissed it as his imagination. Even now he had a hard time believing that a five-year-old boy could be so wicked as to try to murder his playmate, his own cousin.

      Unless he was twisted enough to have wanted Ryder’s parents all to himself…

      No. Ryder refused to believe it. Miles had had adjustments to make, to be sure, but he’d been such an effervescent boy—there was no way he could have hidden such a dark soul.

      Ryder went on, stopping for a few moments in his favorite cove. Hands in his pockets, he sat on a fallen tree and listened to the waves crash against the rocks. He inhaled, slow and deep, dragging the refreshing salty air into his lungs. It was at times like these, when he was alone—just him and nature—that he could almost block out the troubles that were associated with his family.

      Almost.

      His gaze went upward, where the СКАЧАТЬ