LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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