Blood Kin (10 page)

Whoa, boy, back off,
he thought.
This is definitely not a woman you want to get messed up with.
For a lot of reasons . . . her connection to Will Tawes number one on the list.

“Why weren't you drawn to the church?” Bailey teased. “Matthew told me that your father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all ministers.”

“I always was the odd man out in the family.” He concentrated on his salad, stabbing at an olive, missing, and pinning it against the side of the bowl.
Hell
, he thought. He hadn't been this nervous around a pretty girl since he was fifteen. “My arrival was something of an embarrassment to my parents. Matt is more than twenty years older than I am, and my mother assumed she was past childbearing.”

“Mother and Dad were in their forties when they adopted me. Everyone always asked me if they were my grandparents.” She took a bite of the chicken. “Delicious. But then, everything Emma cooks is terrific.”

“It's why I haven't moved out to the cabin,” he admitted. “I can cook well enough to keep body and soul together, but Emma is a master chef.”

“Ah,” she teased. “So you admit you have a soul?”

“It's an old saying. Tawes is full of clichés.”

“You wiggled out of that nicely. I can believe you worked for the government. Never giving a straight answer must be a requirement for the job.” She dabbed at her lower lip with her napkin.

Apparently she wasn't wearing lipstick, because none came off on the cloth. That peach color must be natural, he thought.

“Part of the reason I changed careers.”

Bailey was sharp, with a mischievous sense of humor and a lively curiosity. In spite of himself, he was intrigued. If she were anyone else he would have been interested . . . more than interested. He would have suggested they dig out a bottle of Emma's best wine
and take it upstairs, where they could be more comfortable. But this wasn't any woman . . . this was Beth Tawes's daughter.

As they shared the meal, he found himself talking much more than he normally did, telling her stories about his childhood on the island and her great-aunt Elizabeth. “She was a teacher too. We knocked heads more times than I can count.” He grimaced. “I was a handful, but she didn't give an inch. She wouldn't let me get away without doing my best. For all her toughness, the kids loved her. I usually had the job of unsaddling her horse before school and—”

“Her horse? She rode? I love horses. I used to beg for one every birthday and Christmas, but the closest I ever got was riding lessons one summer at camp.”

“Elizabeth was a fantastic rider. She rode to school every day from the farm, snow, rain, or sun. And when she decided that her horses needed more than a lean-to shelter here in town, she threatened to quit if the board didn't build her a proper stable.”

“Did they?”

He nodded. “They did. A nice box stall and an enclosed area where the horse could graze. I think they have sheep in the pasture now.”

Daniel had meant to minimize the contact between them, see that she had a decent meal, and make himself scarce, but it didn't turn out that way. After supper they shared the chores, cleaning up the kitchen, and doing the dishes. And somehow he found himself sharing the front porch swing with Bailey as the long summer evening slowly slipped into purple dusk.

“I'm surprised,” Bailey said softly as they watched the first lightning bugs of the season blink on and off in
the yard. “Somehow I'd thought of Elizabeth Tawes as a sick old lady.”

“Elizabeth? Hardly.” He laughed. “She rode into town to pick up her groceries the day before the accident. As far as I know, she was never sick a day in her life.”

“I'm sorry I didn't get to meet her.”

“Me too. She was one of a kind.”

“Obviously much more pleasant than her brother.”

Daniel pushed off with his foot and set the porch swing rocking. Bailey was sitting close enough that he could slip his arm around her shoulders, but instead he held tight to the back rail. “Will's had a lot to make him what he is.”

“He's an aging man who served time in prison. That doesn't make him Blackbeard the pirate. I don't know why everyone's afraid of him.”

“Will's a hard man. Some have reason to fear him.” He paused. “Still, if you decide to sell Elizabeth's farm, you might ask Forest, to give him first chance to make an offer.”

“A recluse who lives out in the woods? You think he'd have the kind of money the land is worth?”

“If not Will, some other people on the island. Nothing's ever been sold to mainlanders, as far as I know. Emma said you didn't feel very welcome here. Some are bound to think you'd bring developers in, tear down the old homestead, and put up condos.”

“It's not mine yet,” she said. “I can hardly decide what I want to do with property I don't own. But one way or another, I will certainly be selling. What would I do with a farm?”

Bailey wished she'd been a little more discreet about her intentions of selling the farm, she thought later as
she made ready for bed. Alone. Daniel's demeanor had turned cooler after that statement. Before that, she'd thought he was going to kiss her . . . hoped he was going to kiss her. Hell, she'd almost made the first move and kissed him. But obviously she'd either misread his body language or offended him.

For a few seconds she wondered if she'd been way off. She'd thought the air between them had sizzled. He'd been a perfect gentleman, but her intuition told her that beneath that country-boy charm and easy smile lurked a rascal with a dangerous streak more in common with an eighteenth-century highwayman than a simple country carpenter. Something elusive and almost scary.

Damn, but she'd been reading too many historical romances. She tossed the paperback she'd brought with her onto the nightstand. No more Scottish lairds and kidnapped lasses for her tonight.

She woke once in the middle of the night and sat bolt upright, breathing hard, certain that she'd heard the eerie whistling outside her window again. But as she lay there, heart racing, fingers gripping the cotton coverlet, only the rustle of the wind in the trees disturbed the deep quiet. “A dream,” she muttered, “only a dream.” She covered her head with her pillow and didn't open her eyes again until morning.

By nine thirty Friday morning, after sharing breakfast with a cheerful Emma, Bailey struck a deal with a sober but unshaven and obviously hungover Creed Somers to take her sightseeing around the perimeter of the island in his boat.

“Have to have cash up front,” the waterman warned her. “Gas costs money, and they won't give me credit at the dock. Tight as washed-wool trousers, the lot of them.
Lived here all my life. Never stole a cent from nobody, and I can't get gas for my boat without hard money.”

Murmuring sympathetically, Bailey had handed over fifty dollars in cash, Creed had gassed up his boat, and they'd set out. The weather was cooler than the day before, cloudy with the threat of rain and with a slight chop to the waves, but Bailey was determined. If she waited, she might chicken out, and if she did that, she knew she'd always regret not trying.

Even if she hadn't had ulterior motives, she would have enjoyed the morning on the water. Although they passed a few crabbing boats and a larger vessel that Creed said belonged to State Fish and Wildlife, most of the time they were alone with stunning views of woods, stretches of beach, and pastureland. Now and then Bailey spied farmhouses or smaller cottages nestled into the forest or sheltered by rolling terrain.

“The far side of the island's mostly marsh and wetland,” Creed said, “good duck and goose hunting. That's where Daniel discovered the senator's body.”

She didn't answer. She'd almost but not quite forgotten the news stories about the gruesome find. Apparently Joseph Marshall, the senior senator from Maryland and the chair of House Appropriations, one of the most powerful committees in Congress, had been frozen faceup in the ice. The image that rose in her mind gave her goose bumps. She swallowed, trying to ease the constriction in her throat. She remembered that Joseph Marshall had been suggested by some as strong vice presidential material. So powerful and wealthy a man with so much ambition cut down in his prime. She hadn't realized that Daniel was the one who'd found him.

“Nobody knows exactly what happened.” Creed leaned over the side and spit a wad of tobacco. “Went
out by hisself duck hunting and never come back alive. Found his dogs, though. Safe and sound. They wandered up to Allan Goldsborough's farm. Nice Labs they were. Golden. Don't know what happened to the dogs after that. I suppose the family sent somebody for them.” He pointed. “There's your aunt Elizabeth's place. See it, through the trees there?”

“Yes, yes, I do. Where's Uncle Will's home? Is it nearby?”

“Near enough.” Creed turned the bow of the skiff out away from the shoreline.

“I want to talk to him. Can you take me there? To his house?”

“Nope. Not goin' anywhere near'm.” Creed's accent seemed to thicken, and she thought she read something like fear in his eyes.

“I'll give you twenty dollars more. Just let me off on the beach.”

“Not for two hundred greenbacks. Not for a thousand.”

“Wait, please. Can you let me get off on Aunt Elizabeth's dock? Just tell me what direction his house is in, and I'll find it myself.”

Creed shook his head.

Bailey fished in her wallet and came out with a new fifty-dollar bill. “No one will know. Just pull up to Elizabeth's dock. You don't have to wait for me.”

“Are you out of your head, girl? You don't know what you're messin'with. Will Tawes is meaner than a constipated snake—beggin' your pardon.”

“I've already met him—talked to him. He isn't going to hurt me. I'm his great-niece. Either let me off, or . . . or I'll jump off.”

“Damn fool woman,” he muttered, but he turned the bow back toward the creek mouth. “Serves you right if he does shoot you. Damned mainlanders. Think we're stupid.”

Bailey didn't hand over the fifty-dollar bill until the bow of the skiff nudged against the dock. “Which way to his house?”

Creed scowled and pointed. “It's not far. Just follow the shoreline. Call out before you come up on him. He carries a rifle wherever he goes, and people say it don't take much to set him off.”

As Creed's boat pulled away, Bailey wondered if she'd made a mistake. If her great-uncle's behavior in the house had been any indication of his temperament, he might take a shot at her. But she didn't think so. Forest McCready had vouched for him. And Will Tawes was her relative. They shared Tawes blood, if what everyone said was true. She couldn't miss this chance to question him about her mother. If she went back to Newark without knowing the answers to her questions, she might never find out.

From the dock, Elizabeth's farmhouse looked even bigger and grander than it had from the land. There was a whole brick story-and-a-half wing on this side that she hadn't noticed before. Surely somebody would pay a fortune for this view.

Walking along the beach, she found an overgrown lane through the woods that led in the direction Creed had pointed. She followed it, dodging briars and what looked like poison ivy for several hundred yards. Then through the thick foliage she smelled wood smoke and spotted one corner of the roof of a house.

Ahead, a dog's warning bark brought Bailey to an abrupt, heart-pounding halt. Immediately from the shoreline on her right came a guttural baying. Then a third dog sounded in the underbrush to her left. Bailey's knees turned to water. Dogs were her greatest weakness. Since kindergarten, when she'd been attacked and severely bitten by a stray on her way home, she'd suffered a deep and persistent fear of dogs. Frantically she grabbed a fallen branch to defend herself and backed against the nearest tree.

A massive red dog burst from the underbrush. Bailey raised the stick over her head.

“Hold it right there!” Ax in hand, Will Tawes stepped out of the trees and onto the path directly in front of her. “You're trespassing.”

Bailey's gaze flicked from the man with the ax to the enormous Chesapeake Bay retriever that materialized out of the thick cedars. It padded forward, hackles raised, teeth bared, and yellow-golden eyes locked on her.

Beads of sweat ran down the outside of Bailey's throat to trickle between her breasts.
Dogs. Why did there have to be dogs?

The first animal, the one that had startled her by leaping out of the undergrowth, moved to stand between her and Will. The dog's lips were drawn back over ivory fangs, ears pressed tight to the head. Both dogs had ceased barking, but their unnatural silence seemed even more lethal.

Black specks danced before Bailey's eyes, and an odd buzzing sounded in her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a small gasp.

“Hell and damnation. Put down that branch. You're scaring my dogs.”

Scaring his dogs? Her stomach clenched as it had
the morning after she and Elliott had finished a bottle of cheap tequila. Her vision blurred as she lowered the stick, swallowed, and managed, “Call them off. Please.”

Will made a slight gesture with his right hand. Instantly both dogs dropped onto their bellies. The fiercest-looking one, a male with a huge head and a scar across his muzzle, emitted a deep rumble low in his throat.

“Hush, now.”

The animal lowered his head to rest his muzzle on paws half the size of Bailey's hands, but continued to stare at her. She suspected that if she made a move toward his master, those gleaming teeth would find her . . . would clamp and tear through flesh and bone. People said that animals could smell fear, but she didn't possess the strength to control hers or to keep from trembling.