Endless Night (11 page)

“Oh, that’s private stuff. Crow wasn’t gonna talk about that with me.”

“But you suspect?” he prompted.

“I
suspect
that Estelle got her hands on you the moment you popped out of your momma’s belly.” Coop shook his head. “Gabby was already long gone. Gone to visit her
relatives.
” Sarcasm laced his words.

“But I thought Gabrielle could not have children.”

Coop snorted. “Yup, that’s what Estelle would say. I’m pretty sure that the situation with you and Crow destroyed that woman. If you want to call that ‘barren’ as Estelle refers to it, so be it.”

Jake hefted his boot up on the rung of a barstool and cupped his hand around the back of his neck. “Why? Why did Estelle do that to them?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Because they weren’t married? Because Crow was blue-collar?”

Coop looked past him at the somber photograph and whispered roughly, “You know why.”

Following that glance, Jake stared at the photo again. He stared so hard that the figure on the dock nearly took on a three-dimensional form. The lobster boats bobbed behind him as he prepared to load his trap, but instead stood lost in thought. The man bore such a pensive expression that it made Jake stop and wonder what occupied his mind. What single thought made those brooding features so dark and grim?

The color of his skin.

He was Native American.

He was not white.

As Jake’s eyes slipped from the photo to his own reflection in the mirror, reality stared straight back at him.

“Never knew you were part Pasamaquoddy, did ya?”

Passama-what?

“No,” he said sullenly, “I never knew.”

In the background, the bar phone rang. Overhead, a commercial boasted a tonic guaranteed to prevent hair loss. Cooper was still talking, and Harriet still interrupted.

Jake didn’t hear any of it. He looked at himself in the mirror again. Did he feel different than he had ten minutes ago? Was he altered in some small way? Did foreign blood pump in his veins now—the blood of a tribe that forged this land?

No.

He felt the same.

“Jake?”

Splaying his hands out before him, Jake thought they looked tan, but never once had he considered—

“Jake?”

The soft voice cut in when the rest of the cacophony was still tuned out.

“Hmm?” Distracted, he looked up at Serena and tried to ignore the sympathy in her gaze.

“It’s for you.”

“What?” Had he suddenly lost his grasp of the English language? He barely understood the bartender.

“It’s Megan.”

Absorbed with the trauma of what he’d learned, the notification that Megan was on the phone channeled his jumbled thoughts into one concentrated notion. Megan needed him.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Crow Musgrave standing tall with his lobster trap in hand. That brooding expression meant more to him now. Maybe he understood a little better what lingered behind those troubled eyes.

The questions regarding his heritage were not gone. The painful curiosity still lingered, but it was newfound knowledge that had yet to root itself in his psyche. Inevitably, the quest for answers would continue, but for now, this information was all too fresh and foreign to concentrate on when the woman who had clung to him and kissed him with a passion laced with trust was on the phone.

Jake grabbed the phone and stared at it for a second before he hoisted it to his ear. “Meg?”

“Jake, I—I know I have no place in asking this—,” she fumbled over her own words until a deep breath seemed to steady her, “—especially after some of the things I said, but—”

“Are you okay?” Jake could read into the hitch in her throat.

“Jake.”

There was silence, and with it his concern mounted. But then her voice returned. “Could you—”

“I’m on my way,” he said roughly.

He barely heard her whispered thanks before he thrust the phone back at Serena.

“Mr. Grogan.” Harriet’s puffy hand brushed at his arm as he stormed by. “Where are you going? There’s probably more that Coop can tell you.”

Jake stopped. He turned around to face the curious stares of O’Flanagan’s patrons. Harriet, with her plump cheeks and sharp gaze, and Cooper with his permanent squint and flash of gold beneath a cagey grin. Serena, the pregnant bartender, whose eyes were full of compassion and whose stomach plumped up her O’Flanagan’s apron.

Jake had come to Victory Cove to learn who his biological parents were. What he learned was that there was some validity to the phrase,
ignorance is bliss.
As much as the information he had gathered here today troubled him, he was still grateful to these generous townsfolk for taking the time out to help a stranger.

His head dipped in a nod. “I’ll be back.”

So much for bravado.

Courage flew out the window by the second phone call. With the gun in one hand and the receiver in the other, Megan listened to the silence on the far end of the line. If she strained hard enough she could discern his breathing, and God help her, she thought she could smell his mint gum through the line.

She recalled an occasion when she had walked into Gordon’s office unannounced to find two men sitting before his desk, one in his twenties, the other much older. The elder spoke with a heavy Eastern European intonation. It was not the first time that Gordon had hosted foreign clientele, yet he never discussed any of their cases with her. She was curious, but only mildly. There simply was not enough time in the day to keep tabs on Gordon’s significant client list that bolstered their firm’s cash flow.

At the sound of her voice the two men wrenched around. For a fleeting second she thought the young man looked familiar, with his broad forehead, flat nose and cowlick-ridden blond hair. Her eyes jumped to the elder man with thinning gray hair, same ice-blue eyes and broad forehead, characteristics identifying him as the presumed father. That was about all she picked up in that brief analysis. Instead, she was rooted by the hatred glaring in Gordon’s expression. Not hatred. Accusation. Anger.

“Not now, Margaret.” His voice was glacial.

Were it not for his cagey reaction, Margaret wouldn’t have given the tableau much consideration, but the fact that he positioned his hip on the desk to conceal the printer only spurred her curiosity.

In some ways, since the night she had rejected him, Margaret had more liberties than anyone else who worked at Fortran and Rosenberg. She attributed that to the modicum of respect she felt Gordon possessed for her.

And now Margaret chose to abuse those liberties. She tipped her chin up, clutched the stack of folders close to her chest and took two bold steps into his office. The two men exchanged glances, the younger shifting uncomfortably in his seat. It struck her that the young man was exceptionally tall—tall enough to be seated with his knees higher than the desk.

Gordon arrested her attention. “Margaret, I am busy. Come back later.”

There was no denying the animosity there, but still the drone of the printer intrigued her—that, and the fact that Gordon’s normally unflappable disposition seemed frayed. Dare she even say that there was a hint of perspiration beneath his gelled hairline?

When Margaret openly gawked at the gangly young man with an overactive pituitary gland, Gordon managed a level command.

“Mr. Jones is a
client,
Margaret. He was under the impression that his meeting with me would be
confidential.
”

The reprimand stung and succeeded in making her retreat, but as soon as she was back in her office, she wasted no time checking the appointments for the day to determine who the enigmatic Mr. Jones and Mr. Jones Senior were.

Unremarkably, Mr.
Jones
was in fact listed for 11:00 a.m., but with no case reference, and as Margaret heard the thick accent resume behind her, she’d muttered,
Jones indeed.

The stillness at the other end of the line stirred.

“Margaret.”

Megan slammed the receiver down, but not before she recognized the tinny resonance of a cell phone. Gordon was on the move. Coming closer
.

On a clear day the bedroom window gave her a visual span of at least a mile of Grayson Path’s winding trail, allowing her to see right up to the ravine where the old bridge sat. The land itself cloaked the structure, but if a car approached, she was ready for an aerial assault.

God, what had she been reduced to?

Megan stared at the gun in her hand and felt a dizzy sense of displacement. When the time came, would she actually be able to use it? Would she be able to shoot to defend herself?

Thoughts roiled through her mind in chaotic dissonance. She wanted to call her mother, but couldn’t risk it. Generally they didn’t speak, in most part due to Megan’s preoccupation with her job, but more so the fact that her mother had started a different life half the country away.

Last week she needed to confirm that her mother was safe after Gordon’s first phone call, but the conversation was cut short because there was marching-band practice to dash off to and then a birthday party. Meredith Kincaid was happily married to a banker, and a busy stepmother to his teenage son, and though sometimes Megan wanted nothing more than to spill the events of the last year and cry on her mother’s shoulder, life and circumstances kept her from doing so. As far as Meredith Kincaid was concerned, Megan was in Maine to work in a small law practice and escape the city.

It was for the best though. She needed to remain alone in every facet.

Megan’s palm landed on the window in despair. She had achieved her goal. She was alone. And she couldn’t handle it. She needed Jake.

Retracting her hand from the frosted glass, away from the arctic wind that trickled through the poorly sealed window frame, for a brief second she thought she detected a glint of moonlight off a windshield. Rubbing a circle in the condensation, there was no trace of a vehicle, no sign of Jake.

Jake.

It was unfair of her to call him. Selfish to do so. But for the first time, Megan’s beleaguered mind was forced to accept one fact. She was afraid.

She fought that admission with spells of daring such as her target practice out back. An improvised shooting range was set up with tin cans lined atop the remains of a wooden fence, a flimsy barrier between the yard and a hundred-foot plunge down to the angry breakers. As well, there was the practiced adaptability through Wakefield House’s darkened halls, to the point that she could compete with a ninja in the stealth category. Her body was toned up from weightlifting and she had read everything she could find on the art of ninjitsu. Even this very perch served as her sniper tower, although her handgun would only be useful at close range.

All of these feats acknowledged, Megan feared that when the time came to meet her demon head-on she would fail.

Only one person came to mind to seek help from. Only one person had gained her trust at a time when trust was the last thing she sought to bestow. She wanted Jake here, not so much for protection, but for the stability he provided. She tried to convince herself she was prepared for a confrontation with Gordon, but the truth was that she felt only a step ahead of helpless.

Jake had embraced her as if hers was a life worth saving, and her selfishness could get him killed.

In haste, she’d dialed O’Flanagan’s number.

Now, she felt she had to reach Jake to retract the plea that had been uttered from her heart and not well conceived. If Jake came here he would be right in the line of fire. But over the phone, over the din of the bar, Serena reported that Jake left fifteen minutes ago.

What have I done?

Megan saw the lights of the Jeep climb nimbly up a grassy knoll, and a half second later she heard the rugged hum of its engine. Jake was a mile away. Tears started to mar her vision, but she blinked them back. Feeling so much older than thirty-two years of age, she pushed away from the window and started downstairs.

Jake wrenched the vehicle into Park. He didn’t take the time to kick the mud off the bottom of his boots as he climbed onto the porch. Two loud raps on the door and an urgent “Megan” produced no results.

He yanked the screen open and tried the brass handle, but it was locked. He pounded the mottled wood, and was nearly tempted to kick it in when a shadow passed by the single pane of glass. The handle clicked beneath his touch and on the screech of a hinge, the front door swung open.

The ghost of Wakefield House greeted him with ocean-blue eyes that could make a man believe in an afterlife.

Neither spoke. The exchange was much more vivid without words to diminish it. Megan stood at the door, much like the first time he’d seen her. An oversized sweater made her appear vulnerable, while her fingers clutched the doorframe with a tenacity that pained him. Although, this time her free hand was wrapped around the barrel of an automatic weapon.

Jake only briefly acknowledged these details before he returned to her eyes. They shined with recently shed tears and in those misty layers, he felt he could see directly into her soul.

For the longest time they stood there, locked in place by the power of this silent exchange. This look they shared said
, “Put your cards on the table. Now, are you going to fold, or are you going to up the ante?”

Never in his life had Jake experienced this type of connection with a woman. He thought he had been in love once. For a time that relationship was intense, maybe even briefly passionate, but this moment convinced him otherwise. Passion took on a whole new meaning. Not just a raw sexual urge, but an overwhelming longing for something that suddenly seemed attainable.

Under the scope of Megan’s gaze he felt naked and invincible at the same time. He could feel her inside of him as if they shared a body. They didn’t touch, but he sensed the quickened beat of her heart. He sensed the soft thud of her pulse at each wrist, and he heard Megan crying inside.

His glance fell to the gun clutched in her trembling hand. He stared at it blankly for a moment, and then looked up at her face again. Her skin was porcelain-white, nearly translucent to the point that shadows of exhaustion lurked beneath the flesh. The effect only heightened the vivid shade of her eyes. Long dark lashes fluttered over her cheeks, once—a quick blink, and then she had him again.

He took a step. His arm lifted. His fingers went into her hair, behind her neck, and then he kissed her.

Someone once wrote in a song, “If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”

Megan didn’t want to think anymore or be right. She just wanted to feel. Jake’s arms slipped around her. He drew her into him, as if he could protect her in this embrace, and indeed, she believed he could. With each sweep of his mouth, the fear numbed. With each touch of his lips, her awareness of him intensified.

Jake had not said one word. He had not asked a single question. He had just looked at her—into her, and knew what she needed, knew that she needed this.

Never was there a worse time for her to have these feelings, about a stranger, no less. But
it had happened, and it only solidified the need to end the oppression of Gordon Fortran.

Amazingly though, all her conviction grew fuzzy. Jake kissed her again and again, and her limbs felt heavy, blood pooling downward. Somewhere deep within, she had enough strength to release the door and loop her free arm around his neck. Gun still in hand, she lifted that arm and wound it around him until her body was arched in his embrace.

Jake wouldn’t stop. It was nothing invasive. Not a wild mating of mouths or a chaotic tangle of tongues. No, he just kissed her, and kissed her, and Megan thought she was drowning. She felt as if she had turned into rain and would pour right out of his grasp and spill onto the veranda.

Finally, mercifully, his head drew back.

“You called,” Jake whispered in a husky voice. His eyebrow arched. “Did you need something?”

Oh, yeah, that was it. She was in love. What man would accept a woman greeting him at the front door with a gun in hand, that same gun now wrapped around his neck, and ask,
did you need something?

“You.” It wrenched from so far deep in her throat, she wasn’t even sure the word had surfaced.

But the diverse colors in Jake’s eyes convened, and the corners pinched in pain as a soft breath passed over his lips. He gripped her shoulders and his eyebrows dipped, the stern set of his jaw so tense she could see a muscle pump beneath the tan flesh.

“Megan,” he began.

“Look.” She jolted out of his grip. “Sorry about that. I was just, I just—”

He moved so fast. His hands were up in her hair, and his mouth possessed her before she could even complete the thought.
Quick. Hot.
And then it was gone.

“Why don’t you just leave it at ‘you wanted me’?” he offered roughly.

“Why don’t you just—” Damn, he looked so good. Dark, strong and with eyes that burned like gold when the sun poked through a cloudbank, “—come inside.”

“Thank you for asking.”

Maybe his voice was glib, but every move Jake made was a concerto of taut muscles. As he entered the foyer, his head craned into the den and angled to the right to scope out the dining room and lastly, his gaze drilled forward into the thick shadows that obscured the rest of Wakefield House.

At length, his glance returned to Megan, and she felt it like a physical caress. “Something is going on between us,” he declared in a husky voice. The tone held her captive and she couldn’t move if her life depended on it. “If you dare stand there and deny it—”

“I don’t,” she rushed.

Some of the tension eased from his shoulders. He shrugged out of his jacket and stood before her in a black pullover sweater and worn jeans.

“Alright.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “Then it’s time for you to talk.”

Megan looked down at the gun in her hand. She felt disassociated from it, as if the GLOCK, and even her hand, belonged to someone else.

It did. Margaret Simmons.

Despondent, her eyes returned to Jake’s, but what she saw there made her hesitate.

“Jake.” She read the facial structure, the pinched mouth, the fatigue that clouded an expression she had come to consider devilishly handsome and dramatically intense. The cyclone of color in his eyes exposed a bevy of emotions. “What’s wrong?”

He laughed. It was forced. “Oh, no you don’t. Megan—Meg, it’s too late for diversions. I want to know what’s happening here. What’s happening to you?” The hand that had rubbed across his mouth dropped into a frustrated fist at his side. “Let me help. Trust me at least to do that.”

Megan stood rooted. Her feet felt leaden. The gun grew heavier. Tears inched their way behind her eyes again, obscuring her vision so that now the gun was merely a nebulous appendage, a caricature of her own hand. She blinked repeatedly and looked up toward the window so that the tears could slide back behind her eyes.