Читать книгу Charlotte Moore - Judith Bowen - Страница 8

“MAGGIE!” Charlotte shaded her eyes and stared at the rocky headland several hundred yards in front of her.

Then she turned and gazed back down the long curve of the bay, toward where she’d left her vehicle, almost hidden in the tall grass. Each individual footprint she’d made in the cool, firm sand as she’d rounded the bay was in sharp focus. A third of the way back to the Suburban, she could see the windbreaker and sweater she’d discarded, along with her socks and shoes. She was still hot, even though clouds had scudded in from somewhere to partially block the sun and a steady breeze had sprung up.

Charlotte frowned. Maybe Maggie had backtracked behind her while she was running? They’d played at the edge of the water for a while and then shared lunch—an apple, a bag of Doritos and some beef jerky, plus kibble for Maggie, sitting on the grass beside the truck. Then Charlotte had decided to go for a run. She was in no hurry to leave, although she’d considered going on to Charlottetown that afternoon.

“Maggie!” No answering bark. Annoyed, Charlotte tried whistling—a faint, ineffective sound whipped away by the rising wind. The tide had turned when they’d arrived but was still a long way out on the shallow sandy tidal flats. Charlotte had spent a good hour tossing a stick in the surf, laughing as the retriever leaped into the rolling waves time and again, before they’d returned to the shore for their lunch.

She gazed back toward the sea. The tide had come in considerably. No sign of a dog, but that was to be expected. Maggie wouldn’t have gone out to the water by herself. Maggie never wandered—never.

But there was no big black dog now. Charlotte broke into a slow, cool-down lope. She wasn’t really worried. Ten more minutes and she’d make her goal, the rocks that marked the headland, then go back. Maggie was bound to show up by the time she reached the Suburban.

Whoa. Charlotte stopped dead. She tilted her head slightly, listening. A dog? On the land side? Toward that straggle of trees on the other side of the dunes? She remained still, aware of her heavy breathing and the pounding of her pulse. Now that she wasn’t running, she felt chilled in her loose cotton cargo pants and perspiration-soaked T-shirt.

There! A chorus of barking followed by a single, excited bark. More like a yip. Maggie?

“Maggie!” Charlotte tried the whistle again, but her lips were so stiff that no sound emerged. Her teeth chattered.

Damn that dog, anyway! So much for blue ribbons in obedience. Charlotte veered toward the dunes, which blocked her view of the land, toward the steep hill that rose from the shore. This was totally unlike Maggie! It wasn’t as though she was a terrier, following her nose after mice. Or a spaniel, snuffling around in the underbrush for birds. She was a retriever. So what was she doing in the woods, barking after squirrels or chasing rabbits?

Charlotte reached the top of the dune and peered toward the copse of trees where she’d heard the barking. “Maggie! Yoo-hoo! Come, Mag-gie, come!”

No sign of Maggie, but Charlotte heard something that alarmed her. Another dog? The deeper tones didn’t sound right. She squinted at the dark trees, eyes shaded, willing Maggie to appear. The prospect of having to go after her, to navigate clumps of saw-edged grass and broken sticks and dead sea things did not appeal.

“Ma’am?”

Charlotte shrieked and felt the goosebumps double in size all over her shivering body. “Omigosh! I didn’t hear you coming!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” A boy of thirteen or fourteen had emerged over the side of the dune from the north. He turned red as a beet. “You lookin’ for something, ma’am?”

“My dog. She’s—” Charlotte waved in the general direction of the woods “—in there somewhere.”

“Your dog?” The boy seemed puzzled. He put two fingers to his mouth and let fly a piercing whistle, one long and two short.

To Charlotte’s amazement, a dog shot out of the trees. Maggie! Oh, no—there was another black dog, right behind the first one. They ran together, occasionally turning to nip playfully and to paw each other with their front feet, then run side by side again. Neither animal headed their way.

“Y-yours?” Charlotte was befuddled.

“Liam’s.” The boy looked over his shoulder, then glanced at her again. He seemed worried. “My dad’s cousin.”

Liam Connery? No. She wasn’t ready to meet him; she wasn’t dressed properly. She hadn’t thought of what she was going to say yet. She had a definite, much-tweaked plan for their first meeting, and this wasn’t it. But it had to be him—how many Liams could there be in this tiny corner of the island?

The boy sent her another look. He was handsome, with fair skin and piercing blue eyes and a few freckles still left from childhood. “Liam’s right mad about Scout going over the side like that….”

He stared toward the two dogs, now running in a madcap manner along the line where the grass met the trees, his expression about as helpless as Charlotte felt. Then she saw him glance over his shoulder.

“Scout’s here, Liam, just like you figured,” he said. “He’s goin’ after another dog. I called him but he’s a bad old boy and he won’t come.”

To her horror, Charlotte saw a man striding toward them up the same side of the dune the boy had taken, dressed in a camouflage jacket and carrying a—a big gun! He had another dog with him, a large brown dog with a coarse-looking coat, wavy along the back.

The ominous comments she’d heard at the diner, about Liam Connery not taking to strangers, skipped through her mind.

This was Liam Connery? The man approaching didn’t resemble the boy of her memories. He was tall and powerful looking. Dark hair—that was as she remembered—dark eyes, what she could see of them. What color had his eyes been—brown? Green? She couldn’t recall. A three-day growth of beard gave him a dangerous, lawless air. Scuffed lace-up work boots, a faded plaid shirt under the open jacket. The gun slung over his shoulder. Hair in need of a trim.

He stood beside the boy—ignoring her completely—and gazed out at the dogs frolicking halfway up the side of the hill.

“Well, Goddammit. Would you look at that.”

That was all he said, in a low, forceful tone that made her skin crawl. Charlotte was shivering uncontrollably. She wished she’d tied her windbreaker around her waist instead of dropping it on the sand several hundred yards back. The brown dog sat attentively at the man’s side, ears alert, but showing no sign of joining the other two dogs.

“Your bitch, ma’am?” He finally glanced her way. The drawled query shocked her. She wasn’t used to calling Maggie a bitch, even though she knew that was the proper name for a female dog.

“Y-yes,” she managed to say. “M-my sister’s, actually.” She turned to him, but his attention was back on the hillside.

“She wouldn’t be in heat, would she?”

He looked directly at her without a trace of recognition in his eyes. They were brown—a very dark brown—shot with gold and green. She shook her head. “No—at least, I don’t think so.”

“Good,” he continued flatly. “Most people would have the sense not to let loose a bitch in heat.”

“It’s my sister’s dog,” Charlotte answered, her voice small. She decided this definitely wasn’t the time to tell him she was delivering Maggie to his kennel.

Liam frowned, put his fingers to his mouth, as the boy had, and let loose an ear-splitting whistle, gazing intently toward the hill. Then he swore again.

“I have no idea why she won’t listen. She’s usually obedient,” Charlotte said, then, irked by the man’s disdain, added proudly, “She’s a champion, after all.”

He threw her a quick glance, eyes narrowed, interested—the first time, Charlotte suspected, that her presence had actually registered with him.

“Champion?”

“Show champ. Many times over.” Maybe she ought to sing Maggie’s praises a little. The Lab had not made a good first impression by running off and not coming back when she was called. “Lots of ribbons. Obedience trophies, too.”

Liam Connery made a nasty noise in his throat, and the boy glanced at him. “You want me to go get ’em, Liam?”

“Better do that, Jamie. Scout’s got one thing on his mind right now, and it isn’t his dinner.”

He turned and stared at her finally, sizing her up—a little rudely, in Charlotte’s opinion. In the past five minutes, she’d had second thoughts about everything. First love! This man was a lout. A hunter, from the looks of the gun, even though she didn’t see any ducks or anything. But the gun had to be for something. He wasn’t even polite. He was rude, he was bossy—and she didn’t like the way he referred to Maggie as a bitch in heat, even if she was.

Charlotte was doing some serious readjusting. So much for the romantic first-crush reunion story— Zoey and Lydia would die laughing when they heard about this.

The boy began to slide down the hummock toward the dogs. She stepped forward, anxious to take some kind of action, too. “Wait! I’ll go with you.”

“Ma’am—?”

Charlotte glanced back. Liam stood silhouetted against the sky, holding out his jacket, which he’d taken off.

“Better wear this.” He hitched one shoulder toward the beach, and Charlotte automatically looked that way.

Her clothes! The tide had inched in far enough now that the water had reached her sweater and jacket. As she watched, an incoming wave slurped up the sand, smoothly covered her clothes, released them and then slipped back down the sand into the sea. Charlotte could have wept. Everything—everything!—was going wrong.

She might as well accept his offer. Her teeth were chattering. As she walked toward him, his eyes narrowed again, focusing on her face. Recognition? A hint? No way. She’d never have known him if the boy hadn’t mentioned his name, and fifteen years ago he hadn’t even been aware she existed.

He held the garment, and she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Without a word, he pulled it up on her shoulders and around her neck. She avoided his eyes. The dog by his side never missed a move, watching everything Charlotte did, every gesture. He had yellow eyes—kind of creepy.

“Th-thanks,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself in the cozy flannel lining. It was an oddly intimate thing to do: give her his coat, which was huge on her and still warm from his body. A very generous gesture. She took back her first impression.

Okay. Still rude, maybe. But generous.

“You stay here. I’ll go get your stuff.”

Still bossy, too. Charlotte opened her mouth to say she’d go get her clothes herself, but he started toward the beach before she could speak. The brown dog followed him. She clamped her lips shut and stared miserably in the direction the boy had taken. Jamie reached down and grasped Scout by the scruff of the neck. He snapped on a leash and made a grab for Maggie, who danced around them both, tail high. Scout shook himself vigorously then barked, straining to get free again. Jamie hung on tightly, thank heavens.

“Maggie!” She thought she’d try again, to no effect. “Come!” Maggie didn’t even look her way.

Charlotte noticed that Liam had picked up her clothes but, instead of walking back to join her, was heading toward the boy. The wind had come up. She couldn’t hear anything they said but saw Liam dig into the pocket of her jacket and extract something shiny, which he handed over.

Her car keys!

He talked to Jamie for another minute or so, then strode toward her, while his young cousin began to drag Scout down the beach in the direction of her vehicle, with Maggie happily cavorting behind, showing off for her new boyfriend, who tugged enthusiastically at his leash. Both dogs were yipping and whining with excitement.

Charlotte felt faint. Maggie had abandoned her without even a backward glance. Where was Jamie taking them?

She was freezing, but she felt she had to make some kind of move. She took a few steps forward and nearly fell down. Her legs were stiff, her lips numb.

Liam hiked the gun he still carried higher on his shoulder and tossed something up the dune toward her. Ugh, her wet sneakers. She stuck her sandy feet in them, grimacing at the unpleasant sensation.

“This way,” he called, and veered to the north, gesturing to her to follow him. The brown dog fell into step at his left side.

She planted her feet firmly. She wasn’t going anywhere, not until she knew what was happening.

He glanced over his shoulder and with an expression of pure annoyance turned around and walked back.

“Problems?” he asked from a distance of about twenty feet, at the base of the dune.

She gazed down at him, thinking he looked like he’d stepped out of an outfitter’s catalog, with his hunting clothes, his sturdy boots, his gun, his windblown hair. “Uh, what did you do with my car keys? And where’s my dog? Where are we—?”

“You can warm up at my place.” He waved an impatient hand in the direction he’d been walking. “Ten minutes on the other side of this headland. It’s cold, and your clothes are wet,” he went on, frowning. “Okay? Jamie will drive. He knows a shortcut that—”

“Does he have a driver’s license?”

Liam sighed loudly. “He’s been driving since he was twelve. He’s taking a back lane through the fields,” he explained slowly, as though he were dealing with a simpleton. “A private road. Perfectly legal. He’ll meet us at the house. Now, are you coming?”

What choice did she have? She could have stayed where she was and—and what? She had no dog, no keys, no car, and her sopping wet windbreaker and sweater were still in his hand. What was she going to do—wrestle them away from him and run? Run where? And why? She was wearing his jacket. He was just being hospitable, offering her a place to warm up out of the wind and the cold, maybe even a cup of tea. Jamie would be there in a few minutes; it wasn’t as though she’d be alone with this rather intimidating man and…what if she was? She was twenty-eight years old, well able to take care of herself.

For pity’s sake, what did she think might happen?

“Okay. I—I’m coming,” she called out, hoping it sounded fairly ordinary, or at least as though she’d just had a cramp in her foot or a stone in her shoe or there’d been some equally good reason that had prevented her from following him immediately.

She stumbled down the dune, keeping her arms around herself to hold the jacket, which reached past her hips, against her skin. The wind had increased, whipping her hair across her face, and the clouds had darkened. A serious storm coming? She was chilled to the bone.

Liam, as expected, was no gentleman. He strode ahead, his dog at his side, obviously familiar with the lay of the dunes and, when they entered the woods, each twist and turn of the path. Only occasionally did he glance back.

She did her best to keep up. She had a sudden giddy vision of Hansel, with her as Gretel scurrying behind him, two children lost in the magical dark woods, scattering bread to mark their way, crumbs that were immediately gobbled up by the birds.

She might well be Gretel, blindly stumbling along, but the analogy stopped there: Liam Connery knew exactly where he was headed. All she had to do was follow him.