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Emma’s head comes bolt upright. “Oh my goodness, you scared me!” She places a hand on her palpitating heart.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’m also sorry that Hemingway barged in on you.”

  Hemingway’s thick tail thumps like an overactive metronome at their exchange.

  “We were just discussing that,” Emma says, stroking the lanky dog’s wiry coat. She turns to Hemingway. “I haven’t figured out how you got in here, mister.” Her impish grin tears Mick’s insides, making something crack open.

  Mick slips off his shoes and socks and steps inside the cottage. A cool snake of evening air wraps around his ankles. As he walks toward her, he nods toward Emma’s wheelchair folded next to the nightstand. “May I sit down?”

  “Sure,” she says, smiling with appreciation as she watches him open the chair with expertise.

  The vision that meets his eyes is breathtaking. Propped by a mountain of pillows in the sage-colored bedding, auburn hair shimmering in the lamplight that casts its glow across the now-forgotten book she’d been reading, Emma returns his look with inquisitive eyes.

  Hemingway, satisfied they’re going to stay a while, lays on the floor next to the bed and rests his bearded chin on top of his massive front paws.

  “I lived in this cottage while recuperating from an accident,” Mick says. “From puppyhood, as soon as he was tall enough, Niall taught Hemingway how to operate the door-activation button with his nose. He came and went as he pleased. It’s obvious he’s smitten with you.” He’s not the only one.

  “Please tell me about your accident. What happened?” Emma asks.

  Mick turns his pained expression toward the sliding glass doors and rubs the back of his neck as if reliving the fatal impact. Minutes pass lost in contemplation.

  Emma waits in companionable silence while he gathers his thoughts.

  “Five years ago, I was on the police force. Sam, my partner and I, were in a high-speed chase. We’d just radioed for backup when our windshield shattered. Sam lost control of the squad car, and we smashed head-on into a bridge embankment.

  “When I came out of a coma a few weeks later, the first thing I learned was that Sam had been shot between the eyes by a sniper from the bridge. We’d been partners for over five years. He left behind a wife and two small children. The second thing I learned was that I was paralyzed, but they couldn’t know the extent of the damage until I was conscious and could go through a battery of tests.”

  “Oh, my God,” Emma whispers, pressing a hand against her throat. “Did they ever find the person who shot Sam? Did they ever find out why he was shot? I can’t begin to imagine the heartbreak for Sam’s wife and family, and then what you went through. But you’re out of a wheelchair now, how did that happen?”

  “The accident initiated a widespread response from law enforcement agencies and an exhaustive manhunt. A special crime unit followed hundreds of tips that failed to produce solid leads. As time wore on, the search scaled down and dwindled to nothing. Sam’s assassin was never found.

  “As it turns out, it wasn’t Sam—specifically—that the elusive sniper was after. He could have shot any police officer. The high-speed car chase was a diversionary tactic to draw a squad car to the bridge so that a police officer could be killed. The sniper took out the driver, Sam. I was the collateral damage.”

  “The title of your book,” Emma whispers in understanding as her moss-green eyes melt with emotion.

  Mick nods and continues. “When backup arrived on the scene, they called in ‘Officer down!’ drawing just about every law enforcement officer on duty and within radio range. Not only police officers on patrol, but also deputy sheriffs, showing a united front and turning up even though the location is out of their jurisdiction.

  “With an almost-empty stationhouse, a huge cache of heroin that had been seized from an expansive crime-ring bust was stolen out of lockup. The street value was well over ten million dollars.

  “That seven-month investigation culminated in the arrest of eleven people, including one of two ringleaders. Fraternal twins. Since then, three of the eleven have died in jail. One was killed in the yard, another in the cafeteria, and a third, one of the twins, was found hanging in his cell. From the bruising and other marks on his body, it doesn’t appear to be suicide.

  “The brothers’ rap sheets are a mile long. The charges include murder, aggravated assault, and conspiracy to transport, sell, and dispose of firearms. Added to that there’s failure to appear, witness tampering, conspiracy to possess and distribute a variety of drugs including heroin and cocaine, and conspiracy to organize, finance, and manage a narcotics trafficking network.

  “What makes this even more difficult is that the remaining twin is unknown. Their birth records were destroyed, and there are no fingerprints or DNA for him on file.

  “The undercover operation determined that no one on the outside could have orchestrated this by themselves. They had to have help from the inside—a dirty cop. Unfortunately, the case has gone cold.”

  To lighten the mood, Mick pretends to look around, then slides Emma a sideways glance. In mock warning, he whispers, “I know you think that Libby and Niall are sweet, loving, kind, and thoughtful people. But let me tell you, they moved heaven, earth, and a little bit of hell, to get me well again. Sometimes their methods were downright vicious.”

  His voice returns to normal. “But as Libby will tell you, it’s because I deserved it. They told me that I not only wallowed in my sorrow, but I also wasn’t as cooperative as I could have been.” He gives Emma a sheepish grin.

  “Libby assures me that working and living here in the ‘Zen-like energy,’” he says, making air quotes with his hands, “of Pines & Quill is therapeutic. Don’t tell her, or I’ll never hear the end of it, but it’s breathed life back into my soul. Now it’s your turn. Tell me your story.”

  Emma looks into Mick’s eyes, a darker shade now, forest green. They’d changed with the low light of the evening. “I’m a potter. Last year I showed my work at a two-day, outdoor event. Because pottery is so heavy, my best friend, Sally, helped me pack all of the materials in and back out of the venue. My dad and brothers were on their annual fishing trip in Canada, or they would have done it. After the event, Sally and I lugged the boxes back into my studio, ate Chinese takeout, and then we crashed. When I woke up in the morning, I was paralyzed.

  “After many tests, the doctors discovered that I have Transverse myelitis, a neurologic symptom caused by inflammation of the spinal cord.”

  Mick leans forward. “What is your prognosis? Will you ever walk again?”

  “Every case is different. The doctors say that recovery may be absent, partial, or complete. At thirty-five, I’m still considered young. And aside from this,” she says, patting the tops of her thighs, “I’m healthy and have a positive outlook.” She smiles.

  I want to touch that beautiful mouth so I can feel her smile.

  “So far, I’ve regained some feeling in my limbs, and I’m able stand long enough to transfer myself into a car, chair, or bed without collapsing. My current goal is to be able to stand and lean against the sink long enough to brush my teeth. After that, I’ll move on to a walker.” She fist-punches the air for emphasis.

  “Then I hope you’ll come to tai chi in the morning,” Mick says. “It was, and continues to be, a great part of my recovery. Libby’s a terrific teacher. She has the patience of a saint. She has to deal with me.” He smiles to encourage her.

  “Isn’t tai chi a whole-body exercise?” Emma asks.

  “Yes, though when I started, I was in a wheelchair, like you are, and could only do the arm portion of each form. After I got that part down, it made it all the easier when I could add the leg movements,” Mick says, in earnest, trying to convince her.

  The eyelet trim around the scooped neckline of her white cotton nightie is like a magnet, drawing Mick’s eyes first to the soft swell of her breasts under the sheer fabric, then to the delicate, pin-tucked bodic
e that seems to point to what lies hidden beneath the covers. He looks at her beautiful hands with their long, slender fingers now at rest on the thick sage-colored comforter.

  Unbidden, the erotic potter’s wheel scene with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze in Ghost bursts in technicolor on the forefront of his mind, causing the fabric of his Levi 501’s to pull taut against a burgeoning bulge in his pelvic region. Oh, God! He picks up her book from the bedside table, opens it in his lap, and asks, “What are you reading?” feigning great interest in the now-open pages.

  “Dinner with Anna Karenina. It’s about a group of six diverse women in a book club who are bonded by their love of literature. Do you like to read?” she asks.

  “I do. In fact, this big lummox and I should go so I can get some in this evening.” He nudges the sleeping dog with his toe. “I want to apologize again for Hemingway barging in on you, and now me disturbing your reading time as well.”

  “I enjoyed visiting with both of you,” Emma says, looking first at Hemingway, now sitting up by the side of the bed, tail pounding the floor with glee at the mention of his name. Then she looks at his tall, handsome companion.

  Mick bows from the waist, pretends to tip a nonexistent cap, and with a thick Irish brogue, says, “Promise me that once we leave, you’ll throw the deadbolt on the door. Pines & Quill is safe, but once a cop always a cop, lass.”

  “So McPherson and MacCullough are Irish then?” Emma asks, laughing.

  Her laugh is like sunshine.

  “Well,” he muses with a playful grin. “It’s clear Libby’s gone over to the other side. The general rule of thumb is that Mc’s are Irish, and Mac’s are Scottish. But there’s always an exception to the rule. Remember that,” he says, waggling his dark eyebrows as he backs toward the door.

  When Emma reaches down to pet Hemingway’s enormous head, she looks into his deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry, big guy, but you have to go now.”

  Hemingway looks at her for a second, stands up, and pads toward Mick. He stops and looks over his shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Go on home, now.”

  “See you at tai chi in the morning,” Mick calls out before pulling the door shut. Then he and Hemingway step into the ink-black night.

  Limp notwithstanding, Mick has a decided bounce in his step as he walks, dark hair ruffled by the cool breeze, to his log cabin on the southeast side of the property.

  A pale moon illuminates the now-heavy mist, softening the silhouette of his cabin. “You deserve a treat, Hemingway.”

  The big dog barks his agreement and starts frisking beside Mick’s leg in anticipation. Neither of them hears the quick crackling of dry branches snapping under solid weight.

  Mick opens his cabin door. Its interior is welcoming with soft, worn leather furnishings, and natural, unrefined elements. His smile is slow, deliberate, and delightful. “If I had a tail,” he says to Hemingway, “I’d wag it!”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.

  —NATALIE GOLDBERG

  The interior of Thoreau cottage is in shadows as the first tongues of morning light filter through the wall of glass. Jason wakes in a cloud of invective as he remembers last night’s intent to kill Mick was thwarted by Hemingway’s unexpected presence.

  After a quick shower, Jason heads out to do reconnaissance. Aware that perception is often more important than reality, he takes his camera. In the event he encounters anyone who’s suspicious of his activity, he does a quick mental rehearsal. I’m a photography buff. I’ve learned that outdoor shots are best when the sun isn’t bright—early morning or late afternoon is ideal.

  He’s also learned that a powerful zoom lens proves almost as effective as binoculars without raising any suspicion. His excuse for not having his nose to the grindstone at work on his manuscript? I shipped my manuscript so I wouldn’t have to carry it on the plane. It should arrive today.

  Jason’s shark-like gray eyes consume the details of his surroundings. The smell of wet earth, heavy with dew, assaults his nostrils as he creeps through thick woods. Simple young flowers, their blue heads still bent in the predawn light, add random flecks of color in nature’s otherwise green and brown carpet. His ears are alert as he keeps well off the pathway.

  No stranger to stealth, he chooses his steps with care. Snapping a twig, like he did last evening, would sound like a shot in the pre-dawn quiet. Similar to long sleeves, dark green moss with a faint hint of yellow envelops the surface roots of trees, and lichen covers jutting rocks with crust-like caps of pale grayish green.

  Intent on the task at hand, the breeze, just a shimmering ripple on the air, carries a noise to his attentive ears. He freezes in mid-step. What the hell? With his head cocked like a dog, he turns to catch the sound. There it is again.

  Jason eases his way toward the source of the sound and realizes that it’s soft, contemplative music. Not wanting to give himself away, he crouches behind bushes and peeks through the thick foliage. In the distance, he sees a large, raised pavilion. It has a pagoda-style copper roof, patinated with age, and corners that flare out over Chinese-red supports. Its design is distinctly Asian.

  As the sky grows lighter with the birth of a new day, Jason can just make out the silhouettes of five people, one in a wheelchair, in the spacious structure. He lifts the camera to his eye and zooms in for a closer look. What he sees reminds him of a trip he and his twin took to China to employ “mules”—couriers who smuggle narcotics—to avoid getting caught themselves.

  He sees Libby, with her back toward the others, at the front of the group in loose-fitting, white silk pants and matching jacket. Jason remembers his brother snickering in derision at similar clothing with odd-looking front closures called “frog buttons,” and short, unfolded fabric at the neck called a “mandarin collar.”

  Libby radiates confidence and control. Her color is high and her skin smooth, as she moves through the tai chi forms with graceful energy.

  Jason can see her lips moving, but she’s too far away for him to hear her voice.

  Cynthia, Fran, and Emma are imitating Libby’s lithe movements—Emma, using only her arms.

  In the back of the group, Mick wears garb similar to Libby’s, except his is black. His slow movements are impeccable.

  Jason’s attention is caught by a line of shoes next to the ramped entrance. He looks back at the group and sees that they’re all barefoot.

  This crack of dawn bullshit is going to cramp my style. That damn dog must be with Niall. He peers through the lens one last time. Jason gives the group a withering look before turning away, no longer careful with his tread. When he passes the garden area, he hears Niall’s voice. “I’m going to the butcher shop this afternoon, Hemingway. I’ll pick you up a nice big femur bone while I’m there.”

  Jason pauses behind a fifteen-foot wall of late spring, pink rhododendron, but doesn’t hear anything further. Curious, he separates the dark green, oblong-shaped leaves for a better look and meets a pair of menacing eyes.

  Hemingway lets out a deep-throated growl.

  “Hey, what’s the matter, boy?” Niall asks.

  Smokey-blue eyes replace Hemingway’s as Niall looks to find the cause of irritation.

  “It’s just me,” Jason says, careful to erase the annoyance in his voice. He lifts his camera. “I’m trying to capture a few shots before my manuscript arrives this afternoon.”

  “Hold on a second. I’ll come around.”

  Niall’s easy smile and his firm grip on Hemingway’s leather collar go a long way toward reassuring Jason.

  “I guess you were admiring these ‘rhodies,’” Niall says, nodding toward the giant shrub. “Coast rhododendron is the state flower.”

  Like Eddie Haskell—Wally’s smooth-talking friend on the old Leave it to Beaver television show—Jason shifts gears to insincere charm. “I didn’t know that, but I’ll make a note. By t
he way, I’m heading to town to pick up a few supplies and take more photos. I’m glad I ran into you. Which way is it?” He feigns ignorance.

  “We keep a full assortment of office supplies right here.”

  “Oh no. It’s not those type of supplies I’m after.”

  “I’m heading into town later. I’d be happy to give you a lift,” Niall offers.

  “Thanks, but no. I’d like to get some photographs on the way,” Jason says, raising his camera again.

  “Would you like to take a bicycle? It’s only five minutes by bike, but it’ll take you fifteen on foot.”

  “No thanks, I’d prefer to walk.”

  “Well then, follow me,” Niall says, then taps his thigh for Hemingway to come along.

  Niall lifts the lid on one of the saddle-style bicycle baskets, pulls out a map, and hands it to Jason. “Magdalena’s Creperie on Tenth Street has great food and coffee. If you stop in, tell Maggie I sent you.”

  “I’ll remember that, thank you.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind putting the map back when you return, I’d appreciate it,” Niall says, nodding at the map. “Enjoy your walk. Come on, Hemingway, we’ve got work to do.” And with that, the pair return to the garden.

  “God-damned dog,” Jason mumbles under his breath. As he turns toward town, aggravation glints in his moody gray eyes. Once again, he finds himself no longer wanting a drink, but needing one.

  He gives a wide berth to the off-leash dog park and crosses Fourth Street to catch the Larrabee Trail. Fog hangs heavy on the path and the foliage framing it. The map shows that the trail cuts through the Dirty Dan Harris homestead where it connects with Harris Avenue. Once he turns right, the Visitor Information Center will be less than a block further on the left-hand side. Fueled by need, Jason makes quick work of the route.

  He grasps the handle of The Farthing Bar & Grill while shouldering the door. It takes a moment for him to realize that the entrance is locked. Anger mounting, Jason spots the posted hours and checks his watch, painfully aware that it isn’t yet seven in the morning. Where the hell is that creperie? It’s got to be somewhere in this God-forsaken town! He yanks the map out of his pocket and recalculates his bearings.