Книга - Rainbow’s End

Rainbow's End
Irene Hannon


To lessen the pain of his wife's death, Keith Michaels headed cross-country. Yet though he had reached the Pacific Northwest, he still felt broken, empty and alone. When a sudden storm stranded him on Orcas Island, he sought refuge with the local widow, who was no elderly matron, but a reclusive young woman.What was it about shy Jill Whelan and her charming cottage that made Keith want to stop his wandering ways? Did faith and love await him at Rainbow's End?









“The woman in Eastsound told me there was a cabin on the property that might be available for the night.


“Everything else on the island is booked. She tried to call, but your phone seems to be out. I could sure use a place to stay. The storm’s bad.”

A jagged flash of lightning strobed the sky, followed by a boom of thunder that rattled the window beside Jill. The rain intensified, water beading on the man’s leather jacket. He turned up his collar, but didn’t step closer.

The notion of having this strange man on her property was disconcerting, but Jill saw no recourse. She couldn’t very well send him back into the storm. That would go against every principle of her faith. Still, she hesitated.

The man tried again. “Could you make an exception for just one night? I’m willing to pay whatever you think is fair.”

Praying that she was making the right decision, Jill spoke at last. “Yes, you can stay there. But there’s no charge. You’re welcome to use the cabin for the night.”




IRENE HANNON


is an award-winning author of more than twenty novels, including fourteen for Steeple Hill Books. Her books have been honored with a coveted RITA


Award from Romance Writers of America and a Reviewer’s Choice Award from Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine. Irene, who spent many years in an executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company, now devotes herself full-time to her writing career.

In her spare time, she enjoys performing in community musical theater productions, singing in the church choir, gardening, cooking and spending time with family and friends. She and her husband—an ordained cleric who juggles ecclesiastical duties with a career in international sales—make their home in Missouri.

Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.




Rainbow’s End

Irene Hannon








And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.

And death shall be no more; neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.

—Revelation 21:4


To my parents, James and Dorothy Hannon

…traveling companions extraordinaire…

who brighten all of my journeys




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion




Chapter One


The little boy was watching her.

Startled, Jill Whelan froze. She had no idea how long her young visitor had been crouched in the shadows of the large boulders that separated her sunny meadow from the dark woods beyond, but she sensed that he’d been there quite a while. If he hadn’t shifted position to keep her in sight as she moved across the field, she doubted whether his presence would ever have registered in her peripheral vision. Now that it had, however, the tense lines of his body warned her that he was poised to run at the slightest hint of detection.

Instead of making eye contact she resumed gathering wildflowers, salvaging as many of the profuse July blooms as her large basket would hold before the angry clouds sweeping across the sea battered the island with a flattening torrent of rain and wind. So far, she’d gone about her task with the same singular focus and intensity she brought to her painting, which also helped explain why the solemn-eyed, brown-haired little boy hadn’t caught her attention before. Now, she was acutely conscious of his scrutiny.

As she bent, reached and clipped, savoring the vivid colors of the perfect blossoms, he continued to stare. That didn’t surprise her. She was used to people gawking. She was also used to people keeping their distance. Her appearance made adults uncomfortable and, on a couple of occasions, had even frightened small children.

This little boy, however, seemed more cautious than scared. As if he wanted to communicate with her. Yet something was holding him back. And for once she didn’t think it was the disfiguring scars that covered most of the right side of her face.

But then, what did she know? After two years of self-imposed isolation on this outcrop of rock in the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington State, her once-keen people skills were rusty, at best. Still, she knew all about loneliness. And she could feel it emanating from the little boy in an almost tangible way that tugged at her heart.

With slow, deliberate steps, she eased closer to him. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted the grimy, oversize T-shirt that hung on his thin frame. His unkempt hair didn’t look as if it had seen a comb in weeks. And a large smudge of dirt on his face obscured the sprinkling of freckles that spilled across the bridge of his nose and onto his cheeks. He was about six, maybe seven, she estimated.

Odd that she’d never seen him before. The adjacent property, which abutted Moran State Park on the less-populated eastern wing of butterfly-shaped Orcas Island, had never shown any sign of habitation. Unless, of course, you counted the occasional black-tailed deer that wandered onto her property to see if she’d replaced any of her deer-resistant plants with something more suited to their tastes, or the raccoons that came to forage in her trash bin. But Mary Lynn, at the tiny grocery store a few miles down the road, had mentioned once that an old hermit lived there. If so, he’d earned that label, because Jill had never seen any evidence of his existence. So who was the little boy? Could he be lost? Hungry? Injured? Did he need help?

Her nurturing instincts kicked in, and she set the basket on the ground, then slid her clippers into the back pocket of her jeans. After dropping to one knee, she adjusted the brim of her hat to better shade her face, then turned toward the boy.

His eyes, blue as the summer sky, widened in alarm when they met hers. For a second he froze, much like the deer she often startled on her twilight walks to the shore, a quarter of a mile away. Then he half rose from his crouched stance, prepared to run. When Jill remained motionless, however, he held his position and stared back at her.

“Hello there. My name is Jill. What’s yours?”

Sometimes the husky quality of her once-soprano voice still surprised her—especially after she hadn’t used it for a few days. It occurred to her as she spoke that she hadn’t had any contact with another human being since her once-a-month shopping trip into Eastsound to stock up on essentials, and that had been…how long ago now? Five days, maybe?

Instead of responding, the boy stood and, with one more fearful glance in her direction, took off at a run into the deep woods behind him, where the shadows of the firs and cedars quickly swallowed him up.

Sighing, Jill reached for her basket and rose. It seemed the skittish little boy didn’t need her, after all. Perhaps he’d just been shocked—and curious—about her appearance. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d drawn that kind of unwelcome attention.

Nor, unfortunately, would it be the last.



The lashing rain slammed against the windshield of Keith Michaels’s older-model compact car with enough force to render the wipers almost useless despite their valiant effort to keep up. And the waves pounding the jagged shore just a few feet below the narrow, dark road did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. With each mile that passed, he was sorrier that he hadn’t thought ahead and realized how difficult it would be to find a place to stay over the Fourth of July weekend. Except the imminent holiday hadn’t even registered in his consciousness. For the past year, the days and weeks had blended together in one long, gray blur. Weary now after months on the road, he’d hoped the San Juan Islands would offer him a quiet, out-of-the-way spot in which to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

Well, Orcas Island might be about as far away from Ohio as he could get in the contiguous—more or less—forty-eight states, but this remote speck of land was way more populous than he’d expected. When he’d seen the congestion in tiny Orcas Village as he’d driven off the ferry, he’d been tempted to turn around and get back on. Except his had been the last boat of the day. Meaning he was stuck here overnight.

And now he was driving the back roads on what could very well turn out to be a wild-goose chase. Still, it was his best hope of finding a place to sleep tonight. He wasn’t about to try and set up his tent in this torrential downpour. And every single inn and bed-and-breakfast he’d passed had displayed No Vacancy signs. Considering the pricey tabs and the sad state of his finances, he supposed that was a blessing in disguise.

In any case, a garrulous checker at the grocery store in Eastsound, where he’d stopped to buy a deli sandwich, had picked up on his plight in no time. She’d suggested that a “widow lady” she knew of might be willing to give him the use of a small cottage on her property for one night.

“I live down her way, and I try to chat with her a bit when she comes in here every few weeks,” the woman explained. “She doesn’t rent the cottage out as a rule, and mostly keeps to herself. But I expect she might give you shelter from this storm that’s brewing. She’s always taking in stray critters.” The woman had laughed and planted her hands on her ample hips. “She’s got an account here, so we have her number. Shall I give her a call?”

A widow lady who took in strays. She was probably one of those eccentric old women who had forty cats on the property and kept newspapers from ten years ago piled up in a spare room, Keith mused. But what choice did he have? “Sure. Why not?” he’d responded.

“Hey, Beth, cover for me a minute, will you? I need to call out to the Whelan place.”

A perky young woman with long blond hair, wearing a cropped shirt that skimmed the waistband of her low-cut jeans, came up behind the woman. “Sure thing.” She gave Keith a smile that could be just friendly…or inviting. He didn’t trust himself to make that judgment anymore. But he figured it must be the former. After all, he hadn’t shaved in several days, his own jeans were threadbare and faded, and his black leather jacket was scuffed and worn. He didn’t see how any woman could find him attractive. Then again, considering the current Hollywood heartthrobs, maybe the dangerous, bad-boy image was a turn-on.

Best not to take chances. He stepped back and turned away to stare out of the store’s plate glass window. Large drops of rain were already darkening the pavement, and lightning slashed across the sky, branding an angry streak onto the inky blackness and outlining the looming profile of a nearby mountain. The mood could only be described as ominous—and depressing. Which somehow seemed fitting for this last stop on his year-long journey. A journey he’d hoped would lead him to answers, to healing, to resolution—even back to God.

Instead, he felt just as lost, just as empty, just as broken as he had twelve months before when he’d set out on his quest. All he had to show for his travels was a bunch of photographs stuffed in a box in the back of his car. At first, he’d snapped dozens of images a week. But as the months had worn on, he’d taken fewer and fewer pictures. He’d stopped developing even those three months ago. The film from his recent efforts was still wound in tight coils, hidden inside a handful of dark spools he’d tossed into an empty fast-food bag.

Where did he go from here? he wondered. The answer was elusive, and despair swamped him, much as the sudden torrent of rain was flooding the streets. He’d reached the end of the line. Literally. There was nowhere else to run.

“Looks like the phone’s out over at the Whelan place.” The older woman’s voice intruded on his thoughts and he turned, grateful for the interruption that gave him an excuse to delay the tough questions for another day. “But you could ride on out there. She’ll be home.”

“How far is it?”

“Twelve, fourteen miles.”

His spirits took another dive. The last thing he wanted to do was drive more than a dozen miles in this storm. “You’re sure there’s nothing closer?”

“Sorry. Every place is full. A lot of mainlanders come for the Fourth. Make their reservations months ahead. There’s not a camping site or room to be had anywhere this weekend on the San Juan Islands. You can trust me on that.”

He didn’t need to trust her. He’d seen the No Vacancy signs himself. He supposed he should be grateful the woman had come up with the “widow lady’s” cottage. Except gratitude wasn’t something that came easily to him anymore. Or at all.

“Okay. Thanks.” He dredged up the words from somewhere. “Can you tell me how to get there?”

A few minutes later, his sandwich in one hand and scribbled directions in the other, he’d stepped into the rain and dashed for his car. Now, after thirty minutes of snail-paced, white-knuckle driving, he figured he must be getting close. Although his stomach was rumbling, his sandwich lay uneaten on the seat beside him. Navigating the pitch-dark road required his full attention. More so as he approached his destination, when the pavement narrowed and the center line disappeared.

The woman at the store had said to watch for a blue mailbox with a sign underneath that said Rainbow’s End. Up to this point, he’d seen very few mailboxes—and none that matched the woman’s description. Of course, he might have missed it. His headlights could barely illuminate the deserted road, let alone pick out the occasional side road that branched off. And he wasn’t about to retrace his steps. Worst case, he’d ease onto the shoulder—if he could find one—recline his seat, and catch what sleep he could right there. In some ways, that might be preferable to staying in some hermit’s cottage, anyway. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more appealing…

All at once, a small deer darted in front of the car, no more than a flash across his headlights. Shocked, Keith slammed on the brakes and yanked the wheel to the left, skidding to a stop at the edge of the pavement, mere inches above the flooded ravine that ran alongside the road. As he stared at the turbulent, dark water, waiting for the pounding of his heart to subside, he drew a shaky breath. Talk about close calls. He might not be all that excited about life anymore, but he sure didn’t want his to end in a drainage ditch.

When at last his pulse slowed and he raised his head, his eyes widened in surprise. A few feet in front of him was a washed-out blue mailbox and a chipped, peeling sign. Though the letters were faded, the words were discernable: Rainbow’s End. If his headlights hadn’t been angled in this exact direction, he’d have missed it.

Once upon a time, Keith would have attributed such a coincidence to Providence. Now, he just considered it good luck. Or perhaps bad, depending on what he found at the end of the rutted gravel lane beside the mailbox, he amended. But he was bone-weary. And at least the steep, tiny byway that wound up into the woods held out the hope of shelter from the storm. At this point, he didn’t even care about eccentric widows, stray cats or old newspapers. All he cared about was a protected place to wait out the storm.

He just hoped it was dry.



At first, Jill didn’t notice the thumping sound that blended in with the unremitting rumble of the thunder. But when thumping turned to pounding, she realized that there was a person on the other side of her front door. An impatient person, if the increasingly aggressive banging was any indication.

Considering her scarcity of visitors, Jill could only stare at the door, dumbfounded. Madeleine from the art gallery had stopped by two weeks before, but no one had set foot on her property since. Unless you counted the little boy earlier today. But he hardly qualified as a visitor, considering he’d stayed on the perimeter of her land and avoided contact. Unlike the person on the other side of her door, who was making it clear that contact was his or her precise intent.

Another crash of thunder boomed through the dark house, and Jill jerked, sending a beam from the flashlight in her hand bouncing off the opposite wall. Without electricity, the warm, comforting home she’d created was dim and shadowy. She’d put a battery-operated torch on the kitchen table, and another on the table at the base of the stairs. But they didn’t provide enough light to dispel the gloom, or make her feel very secure.

This sense of edginess, of unease, was new. Despite her isolated location, she’d never worried about her safety. Not once in her two years on the island. Then again, she’d never had a visitor at night in the middle of a raging storm. But her caller was knocking, she reminded herself. People who were up to no good wouldn’t announce their presence.

Her concern abating, Jill walked to the door, pausing to peer through the sheer curtains that hung at the window beside it. The visitor standing on the porch was hidden from her view, but she could see the blurred outlines of a car pulled up beside the steps. As she reached for the lock, she tried to think of some reason why anyone in their right mind would drive all the way out to her place in this kind of weather. When she couldn’t come up with even one, her hand faltered.

All at once the pounding started again. “Hey, if you can hear me in there, please answer the door!”

A man’s voice. An irritated man’s voice. Jill’s hand fell to her side and she took a quick step back. Perhaps she should just ignore him. If she didn’t respond, he’d assume no one was home and go away, wouldn’t he? Then she’d be safe. Holding her breath, she leaned closer, listening for evidence of retreat.

Instead, as the silence lengthened, she heard a heavy sigh of frustration—audible even over the sounds of the storm.

“Look, a woman at the grocery store in Eastsound said you might have a cabin I could rent for the night,” the man called out. “She tried to phone, but your line is out. I really need a place to stay.”

This time, Jill heard the weariness in his voice. The I’ve-had-about-all-I-can-take-before-I-fold tone. Only someone who’d been there would discern it beneath the thick coating of frustration.

Closing her eyes, she sent a plea heavenward. Lord, my heart tells me to help this man. He sounds like he’s in need of kindness. Please keep me safe as I follow the example of the Good Samaritan.

With sudden resolve, Jill tucked the flashlight under her arm and flipped back the dead bolt. But she kept the chain in place, cracking the door no more than the sturdy links would allow. Since the man on the other side was in shadows, she aimed the flashlight at his face.

Muttering something she couldn’t make out, he threw up his hands to deflect the intense beam of light. “Could you lower that a little? Try aiming at my chest.” His tone was gruff, but he sounded more relieved than angry.

A flush rose on Jill’s cheeks as she complied with the stranger’s request. “Sorry.”

A couple of beats ticked by before he moved his hands aside, as if he was afraid she might pin him with the light again. Then he stared back at her with wary, watchful, cobalt-blue eyes that seemed as uncertain about her as she was about him.

And that was plenty uncertain. Because once Jill got past his eyes, the rest of him scared her to death. Even in daylight, the man on the other side of the door would have made her nervous. His shaggy dark hair was damp and disheveled, and the stubble on his jaw was so thick she wondered if he was just unkempt—or trying to grow a beard. A leather jacket that had logged more than its share of miles sat on his broad, powerful shoulders, gapping open to reveal a chest-hugging T-shirt.

An alarm went off in her mind, and she reduced the crack in the door by the barest margin. But the man noticed. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment Jill was afraid he might try to force his way inside. Her grip tightened on the handle as she prepared to slam the door if he made one wrong move.

The tension emanating from the woman in the house was palpable, and Keith knew he had but a few heartbeats to put her at ease before she shut the door—and left him to face the raging storm with nothing but his car for shelter. Not an appealing prospect. Not when he was this close to a real roof and a dry bed. Yet he couldn’t fault her caution—or her alarm. Considering her remote location, she was wise to be careful with strangers. And he didn’t exactly look like the boy next door.

As for what she looked like—he had no idea. Although his eyes were starting to return to normal after being seared by that blinding light, all he could see through the thin crack in the door was a shadowy form. Not that her appearance mattered. The important thing was that she was his ticket to shelter…if he played his cards right. Hoping that she wasn’t too spooked by his appearance to listen to his story, he stuck his hands in his pockets and took a step back, keeping his posture as nonthreatening as possible.

“Like I said, the woman in Eastsound told me there was a cabin on the property that might be available for the night.” He did his best to sound conversational rather than desperate. “Everything else on the island is booked because of the holiday. She tried to call, but your phone seems to be out. I could sure use a place to stay. The storm’s bad.”

As if to reinforce his comment, a jagged flash of lightning strobed the sky, followed by a boom of thunder that rattled the window beside Jill. In the wake of that aerial display, the rain intensified. The wind was sweeping sheets of it over the porch railing. Beads of water glistened on the man’s leather jacket, and he took his hands out of his pockets to turn up the collar. Yet he didn’t step closer, even though such a move would have offered him more protection from the rain.

The notion of having this strange man on her property was disconcerting, but Jill saw no recourse. She couldn’t send him back into the storm. That would go against every principle of her faith. And the cabin was on the other side of the meadow, after all. It wasn’t as if she was opening her door and bringing a stranger under her own roof. Still, she hesitated.

When the woman didn’t react to his first entreaty, Keith tried again. “I know you don’t usually rent the cabin, but could you make an exception for one night? I’m willing to pay whatever you think is fair.”

Taking a deep breath, and praying that she was making the right decision, Jill spoke at last. “No…I mean, yes, you can stay there. But there’s no charge. You’re welcome to use it for the night. I’ll get the key.”

Before he could respond, the door shut and Keith heard the lock click back into place. Surprised by her sudden acquiescence, he stared at the closed door, letting his good luck sink in. He had a place to stay. A haven from the storm. The tense muscles in his shoulders began to ease, and he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The woman who lived in this house might be eccentric, but she had compassion. Bless her for her kindness, Lord.

Twin furrows appeared on Keith’s brow. Now where had that come from? Although such blessings had once been routine for him, he hadn’t offered one for two long years. Yet the request had slipped out. Force of habit, no doubt. A result of weariness and relief rather than a firm belief that the Lord might listen—let alone answer.

The lock rattled again, and once more the door opened no farther than the chain would allow. A hand slipped through, holding a key, and Keith reached for it.

“The cabin’s about a hundred yards east of the house at the far side of the meadow. It’s rustic, but it does have running water. There’s a narrow, overgrown graveled track that leads to it across the edge of the field, off the driveway. If you need…” As their fingers brushed, Jill’s words trailed off. The man’s hands were like ice! One thing she’d discovered since coming to the island—even nice summer evenings could be cool, and stormy nights were apt to be downright chilly. This man hadn’t learned that yet. She cleared her throat and retracted her hand. “There’s a portable propane heater in the closet if you get cold.”

“Thanks. Are there candles out there?”

“I don’t keep candles on the property.” She turned away briefly, then her hand reappeared through the crack, clutching a large flashlight. “This should get you through the night. I expect the power will be back on by morning.”

The husky quality of the woman’s voice intrigued him. She didn’t sound old. But it wasn’t a young voice, either. Curiosity about his temporary landlady warred with the need for shelter. Shelter won. Besides, it was obvious that he wasn’t going to get more than a shadowy glimpse of her tonight.

“Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

As he took the flashlight and turned away, directing the beam on the path in front of him, he sensed that she was watching him. Making sure, perhaps, that he followed her instructions and went on his way. And that was fine by him. He’d much rather have a woman intent on getting rid of him than one who…

Unbidden, an image of Susan Reynolds flashed across his mind. Blond, vivacious, attractive—and lethal as a viper. Keith’s mouth settled into a thin, grim line as he slid behind the wheel. He’d never known hate until she’d swept through his life like a hurricane, leaving death and destruction in her wake. Never known the kind of all-consuming rage that could rip a man’s heart to shreds and leave him helpless and bereft and destroyed, railing against the God who had once been the center of his world. Crying “Why?” into the black void that had become his life, with only the hollow echo of his question coming back in response.

A crash of thunder boomed across the meadow as his headlights tried with limited success to pierce the gloom. The rain beat against the roof of his car in an incessant, pounding, staccato beat. Gusts of wind buffeted the vehicle as he struggled to stay on the obscured, overgrown track, and find his way in the darkness when all the forces of nature seemed to be conspiring against him.

But Keith knew he was close to his destination. That if he persevered, in a couple more minutes he’d find physical refuge from the storm around him.

He just wished a reprieve from the storm within was as close at hand.




Chapter Two


It wasn’t noise that roused Keith from a deep slumber the next morning. In fact, the stillness was absolute. Instead, the culprit was a cheery beam of sunlight that danced across his face and tickled his eyes until he finally gave in and opened them.

For a few seconds, he lay motionless, taking stock of his surroundings—his usual orientation ritual after a year of waking up in a new environment on a sometimes-daily basis. What wasn’t usual, however, was the odd sense of…peace, was the word that came to mind…that enveloped him, like the cozy, soothing warmth of a downy comforter on a cold winter night. Calm had replaced the restlessness that had been his constant companion for more months than he cared to remember. The question was, why?

His mind went into rewind. He was on Orcas Island, in the widow woman’s cottage where he’d taken refuge from last night’s raging storm. A storm which had now blown out to sea, if the rays of sunlight slanting through the grimy windows of the tiny cottage were any indication. His location didn’t seem to offer the answer he sought, however. But whatever the cause, this sense of serenity was a balm to his soul. Instead of trying to analyze it, he’d just enjoy it while it lasted.

Throwing back the patchwork quilt on the double bed that was crammed into the miniscule, spartan bedroom, Keith rose and stretched muscles stiff from too many hours behind the wheel. His wet jeans and shirt lay on the floor where he’d dropped them the night before, when he’d been too weary to do more than kick them into a soggy heap. Stepping over the limp pile, he padded into the only other room in the structure—a combination living-eating area that was furnished with an eclectic mix of odds and ends. A tiny galley kitchen was tucked into a corner alcove, the door to a bare-bones bathroom beside it. Not quite the Ritz—but at least it was dry.

Cleanliness was another story. When he bent to pick up his bag from the floor, then dropped it onto a dated plaid couch, a puff of dust rose, generating two monumental sneezes. His landlady might be charitable, but her housekeeping skills seemed rusty, at best.

Fifteen minutes later, however, fortified by a hot shower and clean clothes, Keith took a better look at his temporary home and revised his assessment. This didn’t seem to be the sort of place that required housekeeping. Although the cottage was furnished, suggesting that someone had lived here at one time, it now seemed to be used more as a storage shed. Several wicker baskets were piled on the kitchen counter beside the crumpled paper from the sandwich he’d wolfed down last night. A stack of boxes labeled Miscellaneous Kitchen Items stood beside the couch. And artist supplies were piled in one corner. An easel, blank canvases, brushes of different sizes, a bag of rags, some well-used palettes. Had the previous tenant been a painter, he wondered?

A sudden, loud rumble from his stomach distracted Keith, reminding him that his eating habits of late had been dicey, at best. His appetite had vanished along with the life he’d once known, and these days he only thought about food when meals were long overdue and his body began to protest. Considering that his diet yesterday had consisted of a doughnut and a deli sandwich, the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t surprising.

A quick inspection of the cabinets in the tiny kitchen and the refrigerator yielded nothing edible, as he expected. Why should an unused cottage be stocked with food? He’d been lucky to find a dry—albeit dusty—place to lay his head.

Shoving his palms into the back pockets of his jeans, he wandered over to the window and looked across the field toward the widow’s house. The compact two-story structure looked far more trim and tidy than his humble abode, and a lush, well-tended garden edged the foundation. Except for a missing piece of light gray siding on the second level—storm damage, he speculated—it seemed to be in pristine condition.

As if to confirm his theory, a figure in a bulky jacket and wide-brimmed hat, wielding a large ladder, appeared around the corner of the house. From his distant vantage point, it was hard to determine the age, weight or even gender of the person, though he or she was struggling a bit with the awkward piece of equipment. Was it the widow? he wondered. But when the ladder was turned, lifted and propped against the house with minimal effort, he dismissed that notion. Most older women wouldn’t have that kind of strength. Still, he’d gotten the impression that the widow lived here alone. And there was a certain grace of movement, an inherent lithe fluidness in the person’s posture, that suggested femininity. Perhaps the figure in the distance was, indeed, his landlady. If so, she seemed quite capable in the handyman role.

Another rumble from his stomach reminded him that he needed to scrounge up some food. But his conscience nagged at him. The woman had, after all, given him shelter from the storm—at no charge. The least he could do was repay her kindness by taking care of the siding problem. His father had instilled good carpentry skills in him, and he could bang out that job in ten minutes. Maybe that wasn’t the way he’d planned to start his day, but it was the right way.

Trying to ignore his protesting stomach, he slid his arms into his jacket and stepped out into the cool, clear morning air. As he set off down the gravel path—road was way too generous a term for the narrow, overgrown lane he’d negotiated across the field last night—the world seemed somehow fresh and renewed. The still-damp leaves of the trees glistened in the morning sun, and the song of the birds was the only sound echoing across the quiet air.

At least it was until the woman began to hammer. As the discordant pounding reverberated across the tranquil stillness, shattering the contemplative mood, Keith increased his pace. The sooner he offered his services, the sooner he could restore the peace that had soothed his soul.



So intent was Jill on her task that she was oblivious to her guest’s approach until he called out to her from the foot of the ladder.

“I’d be happy to lend a hand with that.”

Startled, she lost her grip on the hammer, then watched in horror as it plummeted toward the ground, heading straight for her visitor’s head. If he’d been less alert, the results could have been nasty. As it was, he jumped back and it landed with a dull, innocuous thud on the wet ground.

A warm flush crept up Jill’s neck as she tucked her head into the collar of her jacket and stared down at the man. In the light of day, his presence was even more disconcerting—and unsettling—than it had been last night. With the golden morning glow illuminating his upturned face, there was no question that underneath the stubble and shaggy hair, he was a good-looking man. Close to forty, she estimated, though she couldn’t tell if the lines on his face were the result of age or weariness. As he raked his fingers through his hair, she realized that it was much lighter now that it was dry. A medium, sun-streaked brown. His striking, cobalt-blue eyes were vivid in the daylight, though there was a dullness in their depths that spoke of defeat and disillusionment. Right now, however, they were regarding her with a wariness that suggested he wasn’t sure whether or not she’d dropped the hammer on purpose.

“Sorry. You startled me.” She set the record straight.

The tension in his features eased. “Then I’m the one who should apologize. Why don’t you let me take care of that for you?”

“Thanks, but I can handle it.”

“I owe you for last night. Besides, I’m a carpenter, so a job like that is a piece of cake for me.”

The man didn’t seem in the least inclined to budge. But Jill was used to handling maintenance on her own. She didn’t need his help. Yet despite the extensive rehabbing she’d done on her house, she wasn’t all that fond of ladders. Or heights. Sensing her indecision, the man grasped the ladder to steady it.

“I’m sure you have better things to do than deal with storm damage. Come on down and let me take care of it.”

Capitulating seemed the quickest way to end the conversation, and once on the ground she could make a fast break for the house, Jill reasoned. With sudden decision, she climbed down in silence.

Back on solid earth, she stuck her hands in her pockets and buried her chin deep into the collar of her coat, keeping her face averted. At five foot six, Jill wasn’t short. But the man beside her was a good five or six inches taller. “Thanks. I do have some things to attend to in the house,” she murmured.

As she turned to go, a capricious gust of wind snatched her weathered, wide-brimmed hat, tossing it into the sky. With a gasp of surprise, Jill lifted her head and attempted to grab it, but it was already beyond her reach. As she watched, the man’s hand shot out and his sun-browned fingers closed over the brim, retrieving it from the wind’s grasp. Then he turned to her.

“Looks like the wind…” The words faded from Keith’s lips as he stared at his landlady, stunned. Up to this point, she’d given him no more than a shadowed glimpse of her countenance. Now, though her face remained in profile, he realized that the old, wizened widow he’d expected couldn’t be more than thirty-five. Fiery highlights in her wavy, light brown hair sparked in the morning sun, calling attention to the long, lustrous tresses that had tumbled from beneath her hat. Wispy bangs brushed her forehead above wide, hazel eyes flecked with gold, and below a straight nose her lips were full and slightly parted. If the voice didn’t match the woman from last night, Keith would never have believed that this was the eccentric widow the storekeeper in Eastsound had described.

Yet there was a different quality about her. She hadn’t yet established eye contact with him. In fact, she was doing her best to keep her face averted. Why?

Curious, he held the hat out to her, letting it slip from his fingers as she reached for it—forcing her to angle his direction as she bent down to grab for it. That move bought him only a quick glimpse of her face. But he saw enough to get his answer. One that shocked him to the very core of his being.

The woman’s flawless beauty, which he’d admired in profile, was marred almost beyond recognition on the right side of her face by a large, angry scar that started at her temple, nipped close to her eye, then followed the line of her cheekbone south, catching the very corner of her mouth as it trailed down to her chin.

Before he could mask his shock, the woman straightened. Jamming the hat back on her head, she stared at him for several long beats of silence. Then her expression shifted in some subtle, but disturbing way. It was as if something had shattered inside her. Not in a dramatic way, like a crystal vase smashing into pieces on the floor. It was more like the network of fine cracks that spread across the surface of a piece of pottery when the protective glaze becomes crazed.

Whatever it was, Keith didn’t have a chance to analyze it because she turned with an abrupt move and almost ran toward the back of the house. As she disappeared around the corner, her hurried footsteps sounded across a wooden surface before a door was opened—and closed.

At one time in his life, Keith had been good at dealing with distraught people. They’d sought him out for his compassion, his understanding, his sensitivity. Well, those skills had deserted him today. He’d gawked at the woman, stared at her as if she was some freak in a circus sideshow. He’d been rude, tactless, inconsiderate, thoughtless…in other words, a jerk. Of all people, he should know better. He had plenty of scars of his own. They just weren’t visible. But if they were, they’d be as disfiguring as his landlady’s. Maybe more so. And how would he like it if they drew the kind of look he’d given her?

The short answer was, he wouldn’t.

The bigger question was, how did he make amends?

It had been a long while since Keith had interacted enough with another human being to risk hurting their feelings. And longer still since he’d cared if he did. Yet for some reason this woman had breached the defenses he’d constructed around his heart. Perhaps because she seemed so…solitary. So alone and isolated. Not just in a geographic sense, but at a deeper, more fundamental level. As if she lived in the world but wasn’t part of it.

For the past two years, Keith had felt as alone as he’d thought a person could feel. Angry and lost, he’d turned his back on a world and a God that had betrayed him. Yet he had a feeling that this woman, living in this isolated place apart from society, was even lonelier than he was. He also sensed at some intuitive level that she had accepted her solitary existence, knowing that her physical scars would never heal, shunning a world that looked on her with morbid curiosity and pity—much as he had done moments ago.

That was the difference between them, he mused. When Keith had set out on his trek, he’d hoped his travels would help him discover a way to pick up the pieces and start over, healed and made new again. Although that hadn’t happened yet, deep inside he held on to the hope that it would. It was the only thing that kept him going. The notion of spending his remaining years in a vacuum devoid of all the things that had once made his life rich and full and satisfying was too terrifying. Yet he had a feeling the woman inside this house didn’t have that hope. But how in the world did she go on, day after day, without it?

She wasn’t his problem, of course. He was just passing through, a stranger who knew nothing about her except her last name and marital status. And given her reticence, he doubted whether he’d learn any more. He ought to forget about her.

Yet, as he picked up the hammer, climbed the ladder and set to work on the errant piece of siding, he felt a need to apologize. Trouble was, he didn’t have a clue how to do that without calling more attention to her scar and making the whole thing worse.

Years ago, he would have prayed for guidance in a situation like this. But he didn’t have that option anymore. Instead, all Keith had to rely on were his own instincts. And considering how they’d failed him two years before, he had no confidence that they would help him rectify this situation.

But as an image of the woman’s shattered face flashed once again across his mind, he knew he had to at least try.



Inside the house, Jill stirred the simmering pot of soup she’d made at the crack of dawn, struggling to contain the tears that threatened to leak out the corners of her eyes. Don’t cry! she admonished herself fiercely. As her sister, Deb, used to say, she’d already cried enough tears to sink a ship. Too bad Deb wasn’t here now. In her no-nonsense way, she’d always helped Jill regain her balance when the world began to tilt. She’d done that a lot during the weeks and months after the fire, through the surgeries and treatments and rehab, always an anchor to hold on to when the pain and the grief became unbearable. If it hadn’t been for her older sister, Jill was sure she’d have given up and let the suffocating sense of loss overwhelm and destroy her.

She tried to imagine what Deb would say if she were here. “Get a grip,” no doubt. She’d point out that the man’s shock had been a normal, human reaction, and that he hadn’t intended to hurt her. That once he got to know her, he’d forget about the scars that served as a constant reminder of the tragic night that had forever changed her world.

Yeah, right.

Although Deb meant well, Jill knew better. Oh, sure, people tried to act nonchalant once their initial shock passed. But they were never able to get past the scars. Even here, after two years. The islanders she saw on her trips to church or into the villages were nice. Too nice. That was the problem. They smiled too much, kept up a stream of chatter about inconsequential things, wished her a good day with bright smiles. They tried to act as if they enjoyed seeing her, but in truth they were glad when she left. She made them uncomfortable.

That was just the way it was. The way it would always be. Jill thought she’d accepted that. Thought she’d learned to deal with it. Nowadays, when people stared at her, she felt nothing beyond a twinge somewhere deep in the recesses of her heart. It had been a very long time since anyone had managed to evoke even the hint of tears. Yet this man, a stranger who would soon slip out of her life as suddenly as he had slipped in, had managed to awaken a sadness that she’d long ago subdued. And she had no idea why.

Yes, you do, a little voice whispered at the edges of her consciousness.

Startled, she stopped stirring the soup and grasped the edge of the counter with her free hand, trying to suppress the answer that kept bubbling to the surface much as the herbs in her soup pot were doing. But the little voice wouldn’t be stilled.

Because he’s a man.

It was a truth Jill couldn’t dispute. Her tenant’s reaction disturbed her because he was a man. A scruffy one, no question. Not the kind of man she’d ever have looked at twice in years past. But he was close to her age. And his expression of shock, horror, pity and revulsion had clarified for her, if she’d ever harbored any secret hopes otherwise, that no man could ever look at her again as a desirable woman.

Nevertheless, the strength of her response shook her. Jill had assumed that any romantic yearnings had died along with Sam. After all, she hadn’t thought about love once since then, not on a conscious level. Yet, if the reaction of an unkempt stranger could reduce her to tears….

Taking herself in hand, Jill resumed stirring the pot with vigor and swiped the tears out of her eyes. This was just an aberration. Brought on by too little sleep during the storm-tossed night, she rationalized. As soon as he finished repairing her siding, the man would be gone. Peace would once more descend on her world. She’d have a little breakfast, pay a few bills, then spend the next few hours painting in her sunny studio upstairs. It would be a typical, quiet morning. The kind she always enjoyed and looked forward to.

Except for some odd reason, thinking about her solitary plans didn’t lift her spirits at all. Instead, it depressed her.



The aromas wafting through the kitchen window were driving him mad.

As Keith banged the final nail into the siding, his salivary glands went into overdrive. Chicken soup. That’s what it smelled like. Homemade chicken soup. The kind his mother used to make, its enticing aroma greeting him when he came home from school. To this day, that simple meal always evoked happy memories of home and love and security.

Too bad he’d botched the conversation with his landlady this morning, Keith thought, finding yet another reason to regret his rudeness. He’d have loved to wrangle a sample of whatever was cooking in that pot. But given the woman’s reaction to his insensitive gawking, the odds of that happening were slim to none. Even after the apology he still planned to offer.

Once he double-checked the board to ensure it was secure, Keith descended the ladder, then headed toward the front door and knocked. As he waited for her to answer, he tried to think of how to frame his apology. But when she cracked the door open, he hadn’t yet found the words.

“I’m finished. Where would you like the ladder?”

“Just leave it. I’ll put it away later.” She started to close the door.

“I’d rather finish the job. That means putting away the tools.”

Hesitating, she gave him an uncertain look. “There’s a shed around back. It goes in there.”

Before he could say another word, she shut the door.

So much for the apology, he thought, as he headed back around the house, located the surprisingly well-equipped toolshed and slid the ladder into a slot inside. Someone around here knew tools. And since the woman at the house seemed to be the sole occupant, it must be her. Impressive.

When he stepped outside, a curtain fluttered at the back window. She was continuing to keep tabs on him, it seemed. Not that he blamed her, considering his disreputable appearance. For all she knew, he was some derelict who was up to no good. What surprised him was his reaction. It bothered him that she might consider him dangerous or unsavory. In light of the fact that for the past couple of years he hadn’t cared a lick what people thought about him, his reaction was odd. But for whatever reason he didn’t want this woman to think ill of him—or to regret her kindness to a stranger. All of which brought him back to his apology. It was time.

Combing his fingers through his too-long hair in a futile effort to tidy it, he strode toward the house, stepped up onto the back porch and knocked on that door.

When she eased it open, the delicious aroma that wafted out almost did him in. But he did his best to focus on the reason he’d come to the door instead of listening to the pleas of his stomach.

“I’ll be heading out now, ma’am. I wanted to thank you again for your kindness last night. I don’t know what—” A flicker of movement across the field caught his eye, and he turned just as a small boy darted behind a boulder. “Looks like you have a visitor.”

Curious, Jill opened the door wider, enough to peer in the direction Keith was looking. “Where?”

“Over there, behind the rocks. A little boy. He moved back when he saw me. Is he a friend of yours?”

Leaning farther out, Jill scanned the boulders. It was the same place she’d spotted the boy. “I don’t know who he is. I saw him for the first time yesterday.”

She continued to look toward the rocks as Keith shifted his gaze back to her. She still wore the floppy hat, but he could see the concern etched on her shadowed face.

“Maybe he’ll come out when I leave.”

“No. It’s not you that’s holding him back. He ran away when I tried to talk to him, too.” Her attention remained fixed on the far edge of the field.

This was the time, Keith thought, taking a deep breath. “Before I go, I’d like to apologize for staring earlier. It was a rude thing to do, and I’m sorry if I upset you.”

Startled, Jill turned back to him. Then did a double take. The man was doing something no one except her family—and her doctors—had ever done. He was looking right at her scar, without flinching, without skittering past it. He didn’t try to ignore it, as most people did. Instead, he traced it from end to end—at least what he could see of it beneath the wide, protective brim of her hat. She wanted to turn away, wanted to hide her face. But there was a compelling expression in his eyes that held her motionless.

“I also want you to know that I’m sorry for whatever happened to cause that.” His voice was gentle, his eyes kind. “And that I’m sorry for whatever trauma you’ve had to endure since then. If I added to your pain in any way, I ask your forgiveness.”

The man’s direct approach, along with his sincere remorse, left Jill speechless. Not only was he looking at her scar, he was talking about it! She had no idea how to respond.

When the silence between them lengthened, he shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I better be off. I wonder if you could direct me to the nearest place to get some breakfast?”

Food. The man was asking about food. It took Jill a few moments to collect her thoughts, but when she did it occurred to her that he must be starving. He’d had no dinner that she was aware of, and there wasn’t a dry cracker to be found in the cabin. She started to open her mouth to direct him to Olga, the closest village, when that persistent little voice in the back of her mind spoke once more.

You could feed him instead.

Again, though she tried to suppress it, she met with little success. The man had fixed her siding, after all. And from the looks of him, he could use a good meal. His jeans sat low on his lean hips. Too low. And she didn’t think it was a fashion statement. Rather, she suspected his spare frame was the result of too many missed meals. It wouldn’t hurt her to give him some food before sending him on his way. It was the hospitable thing to do. The Christian thing. Didn’t the Lord feed the multitudes with loaves and fishes when they were in need?

Besides, there was something about him that drew her, that made her want to find out more about what made him tick. To discover why this stranger seemed able to look past her scars, past the brokenness, and see the whole person underneath. And giving him a meal would buy her a little time to do that.

Taking a step back until she hovered on the edges of the interior shadows, her fingers tightened around the door. “I can give you some breakfast.”

Now it was Keith’s turn to be shocked. The last thing he’d expected from this woman was an invitation to dine. But if the aromas that continued to waft through the door were any indication of her culinary abilities, he was in for a treat. That alone would compel him to accept.

Beyond that, though, he knew that her invitation also meant she’d accepted his apology. And that fact, even more than the thought of a good meal, lightened his heart.

“Thank you. I’d like that very much.”

“Come back in twenty minutes. I’ll have it ready by then.”

As Jill shut the door, cutting her off from the man on the other side, she drew a long, shaky breath. Already she was having second thoughts. Why on earth had she impulsively offered a stranger breakfast? It could be a huge mistake. One she might very well live to regret.

Yet even as that dire warning flashed across her mind, in her heart she somehow felt that she’d made the right decision.




Chapter Three


What in the world was she going to feed the man?

Hands on her hips, Jill scanned the contents of her refrigerator. Too bad she hadn’t gone to Olga two days ago, as she’d planned, to stock up on perishables. She was down to her last two eggs, and there was no breakfast meat of any kind. Nor much of anything else. At one time, she’d enjoyed cooking. But solo meals held little appeal. These days she got by on cold cereal, sandwiches, dairy products and fruit. Homemade soup represented her sole foray into the culinary arts, and she almost always had some on hand—like the pot of chicken-rice soup now simmering on the stove, flavored with the herbs she’d plucked from the pots on her kitchen windowsill. But even though it had once earned rave reviews from family and friends, it didn’t qualify as breakfast fare.

Closing the refrigerator, she turned her attention to the cabinets. At least she had all the basics on hand—flour, sugar, salt, spices. When a bottle of maple syrup—a leftover from her sister’s last visit—caught her eye, she thought of the blackberries she’d picked last season at their peak of juicy sweetness, preserved in her freezer. Inspiration hit…blackberry pancakes!

In no time, Jill was whipping up a batch of batter. Though she seldom made pancakes anymore, the recipe was etched in her mind. Sam and Emily had loved them so much they’d become a Saturday-morning tradition.

Her hand slowed. Funny. She hadn’t thought about that once-a-week ritual for months. Hadn’t let herself think about it. Like so much of her previous life that was gone forever, it was too painful to remember. And now wasn’t the time to start, she reminded herself, resuming her measuring and stirring.

Once the batter was ready and she’d poured three generous circles on the griddle, Jill set a single place at the small table on the back porch, adding a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. Then she returned to the house to flip the fluffy pancakes. When her unexpected guest reappeared at the far end of the meadow, she transferred the pancakes to a plate. After dusting them with powdered sugar, she tilted the maple syrup that had been warming on the stove into a small crockery pitcher and arranged everything on the table. By the time he arrived, she was back inside, working at the sink where she could catch a glimpse of him through the large window in front of her.

In the past hour, the morning had warmed quite a bit, and the northeast-facing back porch was bathed in sunlight as Keith ascended the two steps. In spite of his hunger, he stopped when he saw the carefully set table and the appetizing plate of food waiting for him. It had been a long while since anyone but a fast-food worker or a short-order cook in some diner had prepared a meal for him. Longer still since anyone had cared to provide him with any of the niceties of dining. Like a cloth napkin, with crisp, precise folds. Or a woven placemat. Or the cushion on the wooden chair, added since his earlier visit. Not to mention the small vase of wildflowers that now graced the center of the table.

All of those touches registered in a flash as Keith scanned the setting. So did the single place setting. But it was the plate of mouthwatering pancakes that caught and held his attention.

“Go ahead and eat before they get cold.”

The woman’s husky voice came through the open window in the kitchen, and Keith moved forward. He didn’t need a second invitation. “Thanks.”

Seating himself at the small wooden table, he dived in, making liberal use of the maple syrup and washing down the feather-light pancakes with long swigs of strong, black coffee. In minutes, the plate was empty.

“Would you like some more?”

Glancing up, Keith saw his hostess hovering at the back door. A smile tried to lift the corners of his mouth but his lips balked at the unaccustomed tug, as stiff and resistant as a painter’s brush that had gone too-long unused. “Do I look that hungry?”

“I expect you could manage another serving.”

“You’re right. Thanks.”

While Keith waited, he sipped his coffee, noting that the little boy had returned, still hiding behind the boulders on the other side of the field. When the woman reappeared a few minutes later with another overflowing plate and hesitated at the back door, he figured she wanted him to come and get his food. That way, she could stay in the shadows. Instead, he inclined his head toward the rocks. “Your friend is still here.”

That caught her attention. Jamming her hat farther down on her head, she pushed through the door. As she focused on the far side of the field, she gave him a shaded view of her classic profile. “I don’t see him.”

“He was there a minute ago. I have a feeling he’s been watching the house for some time.”

Frowning, she deposited Keith’s plate on the table and refilled his mug from the pot she carried in her other hand, keeping one eye on the distant boulders. “When I saw him yesterday, he didn’t look very well cared for. He might even be hungry. If I could figure out a way to coax him closer, I’m sure I could find out. I used to be pretty good with kids.”

Her concern for the little boy had overridden her self-consciousness and reticence, and Keith marveled at the change in her. For a brief moment he had an intriguing glimpse of the engaged, self-assured woman she must once have been.

But that window into her past closed the instant she realized he was watching her. Turning abruptly, she started back to the house.

“Aren’t you having any?”

His question stopped her, and she half turned. “I don’t eat much breakfast.”

He wasn’t surprised. Now that she’d ditched the bulky jacket, there was no question about her gender. Her lithe figure was rounded in all the right places. A soft chambray shirt hinted at the curves beneath, and her unpretentious jeans encased her long legs like a second skin.

It had been a long while since Keith had noticed a woman’s physical attributes, and years since he’d taken such a detailed inventory. He had no idea what had possessed him to do so now. And he wasn’t inclined to analyze it. Better to move on to another—safer—topic.

“If you won’t join me, at least let me introduce myself.” He rose and extended his hand. “My name is Keith Michaels.”

He wasn’t sure she would respond, but after a brief hesitation, she dipped her head, stepped toward him and took his fingers in a grip that displayed surprising strength. “Jill Whelan.”

As the stranger held Jill’s hand, he also held her captive with his compelling blue eyes. They seemed to delve into her heart, searching, seeing things she had never given voice to. Of course, such fanciful thoughts were no more than the product of an overactive imagination, she chided herself. But it was an odd sensation nonetheless.

The sudden ringing of the phone broke the spell, and with a slight tug, she reclaimed her hand and turned toward the house. “You’d better eat those while they’re warm. Some things taste just as good cold, but pancakes aren’t one of them.”

Hurrying toward the phone, Jill left the back door ajar instead of closing and locking it, as she had up until now. There was something in the man’s face—character and integrity, certainly, but also a distant sadness as if he, too, had suffered some terrible tragedy—that told her she had nothing to fear from him. Nothing physical, anyway. Her emotions were another story. He’d disrupted those already. But she had a feeling no wooden door would protect her from that kind of danger, anyway.

When she answered the phone, she was a bit out of breath—which didn’t escape her sister’s notice.

“Is everything okay? Did I catch you at a bad time?” Deb queried.

“No, no. I’m fine. I was outside.”

“At this hour? You’re always eating your yogurt and reading the paper now.”

Goodness, was she that predictable? But the resounding answer was: yes! Deb called like clockwork at nine-thirty every Saturday morning, and like clockwork Jill would be reading the local weekly paper, which she saved for that occasion in order to differentiate the weekend from the workweek. Except today she’d forgotten all about the paper and her yogurt and even Deb’s call—thanks to one Keith Michaels, now ensconced on her back porch eating her blackberry pancakes.

“We had a storm last night and a piece of siding got ripped off the side of the house,” Jill explained, redirecting her attention to the conversation.

“I hope you weren’t climbing on ladders.”

“There’s not much choice when the problem is on the second floor.”

“But you hate ladders. Look, I know you’re handy, but can’t you get someone to fix it for you?”

“It’s already done, Deb.”

“That figures.” Her sister gave a long-suffering sigh. “You know, I ought to send my husband out there to take a few lessons from you. Tony is a wonderful provider, but when it comes to home maintenance he’s as useless as a cell phone with a dead battery. You must have been at it at the crack of dawn.”

Before she could respond, the back screen door opened and Keith came in far enough to deposit his plate and juice glass on the counter. Then he retreated to the porch, the screen door banging behind him.

“Jill? What was that?”

Typical Deb. She didn’t miss a thing, Jill thought with a wry shake of her head. “The back door.”

“Who came in? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Look, it’s kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all day.”

“It’s no big deal, Deb.”

“Then why don’t you just tell me?”

Shaking her head, Jill let out a resigned sigh. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re pushy?”

“Yeah. You do. All the time. But hey, that’s what sisters are for. Now spill it. If you have a visitor, I want to hear all about it. This doesn’t happen every day.”

Knowing Deb wouldn’t let up until she got the information she wanted, Jill gave her a shorthand version. “I let a guy use the cottage last night. They sent him out from town because there isn’t a room to be had over the holiday weekend, and it was raining cats and dogs. Turns out he’s a carpenter, and he offered to put the siding back up for me. I gave him breakfast on the back porch as a thank-you. He just brought in his empty plate.”

Silence greeted her narration. When it lengthened, Jill spoke again. “Deb? Are you still there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. You took in a boarder? And you’re letting him wander around your house?”

“He’s not a boarder. He stayed for one night. And he’s not wandering around my house.”

“Who is this guy?”

“I have no idea.”

“What does he look like?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know.” She turned to look out the door. Keith was standing by the porch railing sipping his coffee, his strong profile thrown into sharp relief by the morning sun. Angling away from the door, she lowered her voice. “He’s a little shaggy around the edges and a bit road-weary. But he looks honest.”

“How old is he?”

“What is this, the third degree?”

“Look, when some guy shows up on my sister’s doorstep—my sister who avoids people like the plague, especially men—and she lets him wander around her house, I have reason to be concerned. So how old is he?”

Letting her sister’s remark about avoiding people pass, Jill answered the question. “Fortyish, maybe.”

Another few beats of silence passed. “I’m not sure I like this, Jill. I love your place, but it’s very isolated. I worry about you alone out there.”

“I’m fine, Deb. There’s no need for concern. I was just being a Good Samaritan. He’s been very polite and grateful. And he’s leaving in a few minutes. End of story.”

“Hmm.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Call me after he’s gone, okay?”

“Deb.”

“Just call me, okay? Otherwise I’ll worry about you. More than I already do.”

“Fine. I’ll call. Now let’s talk about more important things. Like your visit in two weeks. I can’t wait to see you and Dominic.”

“We’re looking forward to it, too. Dominic can’t talk about anything else. It’s Aunt Jill this and Aunt Jill that, and can we collect rocks at the beach again and go watch whales and climb that mountain, yada, yada, yada.”

“Tell him the answer to all of those questions is yes. Now let’s talk logistics.” As they worked out the details, Jill realized that she was as excited about the annual visit as her sister and nephew were. Much as she loved her life on her little corner of Orcas Island, it did get lonely on occasion. More so at some times than others.

Turning toward the porch again, her gaze once more sought Keith. He was standing with his back to her now as he looked toward Mount Constitution. In a few minutes, he would be gone, as she’d told Deb. And even though she knew nothing about him, even though his visit had been brief, she had the oddest feeling that his departure would initiate one of those “more so” times.



Only snatches of conversation drifted through the open screen door to Keith. But he heard enough to realize that Jill was discussing plans with a woman named Deb for a visit. And that pleased him. It meant there was someone who cared about her and gave her an occasional reprieve from her solitary existence.

He drew in a long, cleansing breath of the fresh morning air, enjoying the warmth of the sun against his face. To his surprise, the sense of peace he’d awakened with was still with him. He’d expected it to dissipate along with the wisps of mist that had hung over the field earlier in the morning as he’d trekked across. The feeling was so welcome, so calming, that he was loath to drive away and risk leaving it behind. But he had no excuse to stay. The woman in Eastsound had told him that Jill didn’t lease her cottage. Besides, he didn’t have enough money to pay rent for very long, anyway.

Yet, he wanted to stay. For a few days, at least. Long enough, perhaps, for the peace to soothe his soul and give him a chance to figure out where he was going to go from here. His finances could handle a short extension of his visit. The trick would be convincing his reluctant landlady to prolong her hospitality.

When Jill reappeared, Keith’s mug was almost empty. “Sorry for the interruption. Would you like some more coffee?” she offered, keeping her distance.

“No, thanks. The breakfast was great. I haven’t had a meal like that in ages.”

She acknowledged the compliment with a slight tip of her head. “Thank you for fixing the siding.”

“It was the least I could do after you took pity on me in the storm. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”

“The holiday weekend is always crowded here. I doubt there’s a vacancy anywhere on the island.”

She’d given him the perfect opening. His grip on the mug tightened and the muscles in his shoulders tensed even as he tried to keep his tone casual. “I found that out the hard way. The truth is, I’d hoped to spend a few days here, but every place will be booked at least for a couple more days. The woman in Eastsound told me you don’t rent out the cottage as a rule, but is there any way I could convince you to let me stay a bit longer? Not free, of course.”

His request surprised her. And at some elemental level, it also pleased her. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because her less-than-welcoming manner and damaged face hadn’t scared him off. Of course, she was silly to read anything personal into his request. It was based on practicalities, after all. She had a cabin; he needed a place to stay; everywhere else was booked. It was as simple and straightforward as that.

Her spirits deflated a bit. She must be more starved for human companionship than she’d realized. If that was the case, she needed to figure out how to deal with it. Because she didn’t anticipate any changes to her solitary existence anytime soon. Even if this man extended his stay, he’d be gone in a few days. But Deb and Dominic would follow in a couple of weeks, she reminded herself. She should be counting her blessings for having such a loving, supportive family instead of griping about the life she’d chosen for herself.

In the meantime, this man needed a place to stay and she was in a position to provide it. There was no logical reason to refuse his request.

“You can use the cottage for a few days. It’s sitting there empty, anyway.” She started to gather up the condiments from the table.

“Just let me know what you think is a fair price.”

“There’s no charge. You’re not getting any great bargain out there. It’s pretty bare bones.”

“It’s far better than camping, which is what I do most of the time. I wouldn’t feel right about staying if you won’t let me pay.”

Straightening, she sent him a sideways look. “I don’t need the money, Mr. Michaels.”

“Keith. And that’s beside the point. I prefer to pay my way.”

From the stubborn set of his jaw beneath the stubble and the resolve in his eyes, Jill could see that her unexpected guest wasn’t about to budge on this issue. Shrugging, she resumed her work. “Fine. Let me think for a minute.” Silence ensued as she gathered up the tablecloth, and when she finally threw out a number, Keith frowned.

“You can’t even get a cheap motel for that rate,” he protested.

The barest hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I think there’s something wrong with this picture. Isn’t the buyer supposed to try and negotiate a lower price, not a higher one?”

An answering grin tugged at his mouth. This time his lips cooperated, twitching up a fraction. “I want to be fair.”

“I consider the price I quoted more than fair, since I offered the cabin to you free.”

Her point was hard to dispute. With a gesture of capitulation, he gave in. “Then I accept. With thanks.” He took the last swig of his coffee and handed her the mug. When his firm, strong fingers brushed hers, she tried not to notice. “I think I’ll head out and do a little exploring, stock up on some provisions. Thanks again, Jill.”

He turned and struck out across the field. As Jill watched him recede into the distance, focusing on his broad back, she tried to figure out why she’d agreed to rent her cabin to this stranger. Considering how she guarded her privacy, it was an odd thing to do. She should be sending him on his way, not inviting him to share her space. It made no sense.

And if she couldn’t explain her behavior to herself, how in the world was she going to explain it to Deb?




Chapter Four


The place was a pigsty.

Hot color crept up Jill’s neck to her cheeks as she surveyed the cluttered, dirty cabin where Keith had spent last night. The dust was deep enough to write in, bits of debris clung to the woven rugs, and the thick grime on the windows was as effective as shades in diffusing the sunlight. On top of all that, the whole place smelled musty, half of the lightbulbs were burned out and cobwebs had staked a claim on the corners of the ceiling.

Yet her unexpected visitor not only wanted to pay to stay here, he considered it a bargain!

Well, Jill knew better. The place was more suited to its current role as a storage shed than to human habitation. Of course, at one time it had been much more livable. Jill had spent the first six months of her stay here while she rehabbed the decrepit main house. But since moving out, she’d done little to maintain the interior. Now that she had a paying guest, however, she needed to make up for lost time.

Unsure how long Keith would be gone, Jill went into high gear. She dusted, vacuumed, mopped, scoured the kitchen and bathroom, stripped the bed and remade it with clean sheets and washed all the windows. Then she gathered up the baskets on the counter, carried the boxes of kitchen odds and ends outside, and collected her art supplies, wedging them into her car for a trip across the field to the house. As a final touch, she put a vase of fresh wildflowers in the center of the small oak dining table, propping a note beside it that directed Keith to the refrigerator.

Finished, she stepped back to assess the results of her two hours of intensive labor. The windows sparkled, the polished surface of the table glistened, every bit of dust and debris had been vanquished, the bathroom and kitchen were spick-and-span, and the light fixtures gleamed. With a satisfied nod, she packed up her supplies and headed home.

As she crossed the field, she couldn’t help but wonder what her temporary tenant would think about the transformation in his accommodations. She hoped he’d be pleased. After all, if he was willing to pay for the privilege of occupying her modest cabin, the least she could do was give it a thorough cleaning. Of course, if he was like a lot of men, he wouldn’t notice the care she’d taken to make him feel welcome.

But already Jill was getting the distinct feeling that Keith Michaels wasn’t like a lot of men.

Not even close.



For a fleeting second, Keith wasn’t sure he was in the right cabin.

As he stepped across the threshold, arms laden with grocery bags and laundry, he came to an abrupt stop. The cabin was immaculate. Every vestige of grime and neglect had been removed. The place was so clean is almost glowed.

Stunned, Keith did a slow inventory. Crisp curtains hung at the spotless windows. When he dropped the laundry onto the couch, no dust cloud engulfed him. A peek into the bedroom revealed a neatly made bed, with decorative pillows fluffed against the headboard. The bathroom floor looked clean enough to eat off, and the kitchen was pristine.

Completing his circuit in the dining alcove, he spotted the flowers and note. Reaching for the single sheet of paper, he scanned the simple message, which was written in a flowing, graceful script.

“Sorry for the mess you found when you arrived. Hope the homemade soup in the fridge helps make up for it!”

Somehow, the fact that Jill had scoured the place didn’t surprise him. But the soup was an added—and touching—bonus. With an eagerness he couldn’t have suppressed if he tried, he returned to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Sure enough, a large container stood in the otherwise empty interior. Lifting the lid, he inhaled. Ambrosia! Memories of better times, of home and comfort and love, washed over him in a cleansing wave, and for a second it was like a taste of heaven.

Though the impression was fleeting, it was a balm to Keith’s ravaged soul. That brief glimpse of happiness, of joy and contentment and rightness, was the first such moment he’d had since his world began to fall apart. And if he could have one such moment, perhaps others would follow, he realized, his spirits notching up another peg.

Odd. Just when his hope was running on fumes, it had been given a boost by his reluctant landlady. A woman who had suffered her own trauma, who had lost a man Keith assumed she loved, who had suffered a terrible injury, and who now lived alone with her memories, secluded in this beautiful but remote place. A woman who had chosen a solitary life, but had nevertheless reached out to him in his need. Her unselfish kindness touched him in a way nothing else had for two years.

A long time ago, Keith would have paused to thank the Lord for leading him to this place when his soul most needed replenishing. And maybe, somehow, the Lord’s hand was in this. But he wasn’t sure. About that…and about so many of the things he’d once believed with such fervor and absolute conviction. That uncertainty was, in fact, the root cause of his problem.

But what did God expect, after the crippling blow life had dealt him? He’d tried to remain upright in the torrent that raged around and within him, but in the end he’d lost his balance and fallen. And kept falling, until he was sucked so far down into the swirling vortex, so shrouded in darkness, that he wondered whether he would ever find his way out. God knew, he’d tried! But without his faith to sustain him, the quest had been futile. Where once he’d found strength and courage and fortitude in his beliefs, there was now a black void.

Part of him still yearned to turn to God, to plead for help. But God had been deaf to all his entreaties, refusing to answer even a man who had dedicated his life to spreading His good news, to gathering His flock. The bitterness already on Keith’s tongue had grown more acrid as the silence lengthened, distancing him further from the One who had once guided his every step. The chasm had deepened, widened. Until now, Keith felt as isolated spiritually as Jill was geographically.

Yet deep in the recesses of his heart, he wanted to believe. Wanted to trust once more in the Lord’s goodness. To put his life in God’s hands, as he’d often counseled others to do. To rely with confidence on the Lord’s guiding presence even when the powers of darkness loomed and threatened. Without that trust, without that belief, he was floundering, seeking answers where none were to be found. But how did he reconnect? How did he find his way back to the Source, to the spring of life that had once refreshed his parched soul?

For the past year he’d been seeking the truth, searching for answers, looking for release. But nowhere in his travels had he found these elusive quarries. Nor had he come close to finding a hint of the infinite peace bestowed only by God.

Until he’d come here.

As he’d walked across the tranquil meadow this morning, Keith had attributed his heightened sense of hope to the place itself. And there was something special about this rocky piece of land, with its soaring mountains and verdant forests and shimmering, crystalline seas. But it wasn’t just the place.

It was also the woman.

Despite their brief acquaintance, Keith had already been touched by Jill in ways he couldn’t begin to articulate. Though marred by tragedy, and sensitive about her scars, she had a serenity about her that he envied. As if she’d made her peace with the horrendous injury that had forever changed the way the world looked at her. And considering her reclusive lifestyle, the kindness and generosity she’d shown to a stranger at her door had been remarkable—as well as humbling. She’d asked nothing from him in return for her benevolence. Instead, she’d continued to give, living the golden rule he’d often preached.

Once more Keith scanned the cabin, drawing in a deep, contented breath. There was order here. And peace. The room was filled with sunshine and warmth, the aura of caring so potent that it seeped into the very marrow of his bones. It felt good in this place. And right. Like this was where he’d been heading all along, through his months of aimless wandering.

As he stood in the sunlit room, the restless urgency that had plagued him, driving him on and on, abated. He wasn’t sure why. After all, he still had no answers. He still felt adrift, far from land, at the mercy of the relentless surf. But for the first time, he caught sight of a light in the distance, as when a boat crests a storm-tossed wave, offering a glimpse of the distant shore. And that little glimmer of light gave him hope that perhaps, at long last, he was approaching solid land once more.

There was no doubt in his mind that the comforting aroma of the chicken soup he held in his hands was contributing to his more upbeat mood. But as Keith glanced out the window of the cabin and spied Jill at the far edge of the field, he knew she could claim the lion’s share of credit for the sudden lightening of his spirits. This woman’s simple goodness and kindness had renewed and uplifted him, chasing away the despair that had clung to him like a wet garment after the rain. For that unexpected blessing, he gave thanks. Whether God was in the mood to listen or not.

And then he set out to thank someone he knew would listen.



The baby bird was in trouble.

Dropping to her knees in the field, Jill stroked a gentle finger over the downy fluff that would, in time, give way to feathers as the hatchling matured. But without immediate care, this victim of last night’s storm was destined never to see adulthood.

Her expression softened in sympathy as the pitiful creature stared up at her with wide eyes, too weak to lift its head. Its heart thumped heavily in its scrawny chest, each beat a desperate plea for life. It was an entreaty that Jill had never been able to ignore. That was why her home had always been a temporary refuge for critters of all sorts. Animal Care Central, as Sam had often teased her, she recalled with a pang.

Scooping the tiny creature up with tender care, she cupped the limp bird in her hand, the thump of its heart pulsating against her palm. It couldn’t be more than a couple of days old. And it was in dire need of warmth and nourishment. With conscientious care, though, she was sure it could not only survive, but thrive. She’d rescued enough sick and injured birds and animals in her life to know that TLC often did the trick. For all of God’s creatures—including humans.

Just as she started to rise, a flicker of movement in the nearby forest caught her eye. Without even turning in that direction, she knew her young visitor had returned. She also knew better than to look his way, since scrutiny seemed to spook him. If she wanted to build his trust, it would have to be in small, nonthreatening increments.

Angling her body a bit more in his direction, she spoke loudly enough for him to hear her, keeping her gaze fixed on the bird in her hand.

“Looks like this baby bird was a victim of last night’s storm. Goodness, he’s a tiny thing! But his beak is huge. That’s so he can get enough food to help him grow, I suppose. I wonder what he is? A flicker, maybe. Or a Steller’s jay. If he’s a jay, he’ll have a beautiful blue chest when he grows up.”

As Jill spoke, she sensed the boy creeping closer, cautious but curious. She extended her hand a bit to give him a glimpse of the tiny bird, hoping he would come near enough to let her get a good look at him. His ragtag state concerned her, and she wanted to know more about him—who he was, where he lived, if he had enough to eat. But before she could engage him in conversation, she had to convince him that she posed no threat.

With cautious steps he approached her, until only a few yards separated them. Jill continued to speak in a gentle, soothing voice, directing her comments to the little bird. But the reassuring words were meant more for her young visitor, designed to put him at ease and build his comfort level.

When he was half a dozen feet away, Jill shifted and risked a quick glance in his direction, holding out her hand at the same time. “Would you like to see him?”

The boy stopped, and alarm flashed across his face.

She smiled at him and extended her hand farther. “It’s okay if you take a look. He won’t hurt you.” And neither will I.

His wary eyes regarded her, uncertainty in their depths. She held her breath, hoping her unspoken message had registered. He took a tentative step closer. Then he took another. And…

All at once, his head jerked up and he stared over her shoulder. Panic tightened his features, and before Jill could say a word he turned and ran back toward the woods as fast as his short legs could carry him. In seconds he’d disappeared into the shadows.

Her shoulders slumped with disappointment, and Jill turned to see what had frightened her young guest—only to discover her other guest striding across the field toward her. And he was a somewhat formidable figure, she acknowledged. Although he seemed a bit underfed, he still had a powerful, athletic build. Throw in his height advantage over the youngster, not to mention his scruffy appearance, and she couldn’t fault the little boy for being uneasy. Keith Michaels had the same effect on her. For different reasons.

In one lithe movement she stood and turned to face him.

“I’m sorry. It looks like I chased off your visitor.” He stopped a few feet in front of her and planted his fists on his hips, twin furrows creasing his brow as he stared into the woods.

“It doesn’t take much. He’s as skittish as the deer I sometimes surprise nosing around my garden. I thought I might pique his curiosity with this and coax him a bit closer.”

The wide-brimmed hat shaded her features, and when she dipped her chin to look down her face was hidden from his view. Following her line of sight, he realized she was holding a newly hatched baby bird.

He took a step closer. “Where did you find him?”

“Here. Lying in the field. A victim of last night’s storm, I guess.” She cocooned her hands around the bird, hoping some of their warmth would seep into the tiny creature. “I need to get him inside, out of the breeze. And feed him.”

Doubt clouded Keith’s eyes. “He’s pretty little. I don’t think his odds are too great.”

Once more Jill looked up, and he didn’t miss the stubborn tilt of her chin. “I don’t plan to give up without a fight. And I bet this little guy won’t, either. My record with baby birds is pretty good.”

Without waiting for him to respond, she set off across the field. As Keith fell into step beside her, a sudden chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

At the unexpected sound she came to an abrupt stop and stared at him. “What’s so funny?”

A wry grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “The woman at the shop in Eastsound told me that you liked to take in strays, and I had this image in my mind of an eccentric spinster lady with dozens of cats roaming all over her house. Not a young woman who rescues baby birds. I guess that shows how wrong preconceptions can be.”

For several moments she continued to look at him, her expression solemn. “You were wrong about the cats, anyway.” She struck off again toward the house.

His grin faded. He’d meant the comment as a compliment; instead, he’d upset her. Again. In half a dozen long strides he caught up to her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” She didn’t slow her pace. Nor did she respond. “Look, the reason I came over was to say thank you for all the work you did at the cottage. It doesn’t even look like the same place. And the soup was a bonus. It brought back a lot of happy memories. My mom used to make chicken soup, and back when times were simpler, it was the solution to a lot of life’s problems. One bowl, and everything was right with the world again.”

Her pace slowed a bit, and she looked down to stroke the baby bird’s head. “I wish it were that easy.” Her voice was so soft he had to lean close to catch her comment.

They’d reached the back porch and he stopped at the bottom of the steps as she ascended. There was a world of meaning in her simple remark. A profound sadness that touched his soul. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked. When his husky tone brought a startled look to her face, he cleared his throat and gestured toward the bird. “I could build you a little box to keep it in.”

Dipping her head, she shielded her eyes from his view. “That’s okay. I’ve got one in the kitchen that will do. But thank you.”

With that she retreated to the house and closed the door.

Long after she’d disappeared inside, Keith remained at the bottom of the steps, his expression pensive. The woman in the store had been right. His landlady did take in strays. She’d adopted an abandoned baby bird, determined to nurse it back to health. She wanted to help the ragtag little boy. She’d given him shelter when he had nowhere else to go. But while she tended to those in need, who tended to her?

Shoving his fists into his pockets, Keith turned and set out across the meadow. His distraction blinded him to the flowers all around him, which were struggling upright again after the storm, and to the spruce trees that were shaking the weight of the rain off their boughs and once more lifting them to the heavens.

Nor did he see the woman peering from behind a curtain in the upper window, who watched him go.




Chapter Five


For the first few days, Keith didn’t stray far from Rainbow’s End. He hiked a little in Moran State Park, spent hours watching the sea from a nearby rocky beach, took long naps and prepared simple meals from the provisions he’d bought at the general store a few miles down the road. For the most part, he was content to let the peace and quiet of the place seep into his soul.

He saw no further evidence of the mysterious little boy who stayed on the fringes of the property. Nor did he see much of his landlady. Once he happened to catch a glimpse of her when she ventured out to the toolshed. Another time he saw a light burning in an upstairs window late into the night. Beyond that, there was no sign of life at the house.

Only when his supplies began to dwindle did Keith decide it was time for another trip into town. Besides, he owed his father a call, and his cell phone didn’t work here. He’d left a message on his father’s machine the day after the storm, when he’d gone into town for groceries, but it had been cryptic. He owed his dad more than that, after all the support and love he’d provided when Keith’s world had collapsed.

As he headed out the door, his camera caught his eye, and on impulse he reached for the case. He hadn’t had much interest in taking photos in quite a while, but this island was special in a way he couldn’t quite define. He might see something that would pique his interest enough to motivate him to get the camera out of the case.

Two hours later, after exploring a bit in Eastsound and stocking up on provisions, he found a pay phone and placed a call to his dad’s cell number. When his father picked up, Keith could hear the sound of a saw in the background. He pictured the older man, solid and hearty, dressed in his typical work attire of worn jeans and a cotton shirt, his bristly white hair standing at attention in the crew cut style he’d always favored, a stubby pencil stuck behind his ear.

“Dad, it’s Keith. Is this a good time?”

“It’s always a good time to hear from you, son.” The warmth in the older man’s voice soothed Keith like a healing balm. “I got your message the other night, but it was scratchy. Did you say you were in San Juan? I thought you were heading west, not south.”

A smile lifted the corners of Keith’s mouth. “I’m in the San Juan Islands, Dad. Off the coast of Washington State. A beautiful little spot called Orcas Island.”

There was a moment of silence as Bob Michaels tried to recall when his son had last noticed beauty. He couldn’t even remember. Perhaps this, finally, was the turning point he’d been praying for since Keith had walked away from the traumatic memories that had distorted and darkened his vision of the world. Thank you, Lord, he whispered in the silence of his heart.

“And what’s so special about Orcas Island?” Bob asked, after swallowing past the lump in his throat.

“It’s quiet here. And peaceful. Not like anywhere I’ve ever been. I don’t know quite how to describe it, except that it feels like a place apart from the world, where you can regroup and make a fresh start.” Keith didn’t mention that his unique landlady added to the specialness of the place.

“Sounds mighty fine. Where are you staying?”

“A little cottage. There are very few people for miles around. It’s just the forest and the mountains and the sea.”

“Staying there for a spell might do you good. How are you fixed for cash?”





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