BONES OF CONTENTION

When skeletal remains are found on a small Maine island, forensic anthropologist Lydia Muir is sent to investigate. It’s Lydia’s job to determine whether the homicide happened long ago—or more recently. Island sheriff Wesley Grant seems sure the murder didn’t happen on his watch. But when Lydia uncovers the victim’s identity, someone goes to great lengths to get Lydia off the island. Wes vows to protect her, but is the handsome lawman holding something back? To help catch a killer, she’ll have to trust him—or become the next victim.

“Lydia!”

She whipped around to find where Wesley had called from. A closed door on the far side of the room. “I’m coming!”

“I told you to get off the boat. Get off now! There’s a bomb!”

A bomb?

She could barely hear him through the door, but knew she’d heard him correctly.

A sudden bang echoed in her head and trembled under her feet. The explosion blew the door out, sending her flying back into the far wall at a cataclysmic force.

Dazed and confused, she sat in a hunch against the wall and tried to form a complete thought. She told her body to move—to get to Wesley, who had been in that room. He could be hurt. He may need help. She forced her eyes to open and felt heat dry the surface of her eyes before her brain computed what caused it.

Fire.

“Lydia!”

She heard him call. But she couldn’t move.

KATY LEE

is an inspirational romantic suspense author writing higher-purpose stories in high-speed worlds. She dedicates her life to sharing tales of love, from the greatest love story ever told to those sweet romantic stories of falling in love. She is the children’s ministry director for her church as well as a leader of a Christian women’s organization. Katy and her husband are both born New Englanders, but have been known to travel at the drop of a hat. As her homeschooled kids say, they consider themselves “world-schooled.” But no matter where Katy is you can always find her at www.katyleebooks.com. She would love to connect with you.

Grave Danger

Katy Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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A capable, intelligent, and virtuous woman—

who is he who can find her?

She is far more precious than jewels

and her value is far above rubies.

Her husband has full confidence in her

and lacks nothing of value.

She brings him good, not harm,

all the days of her life.

—Proverbs 31:10–12

To Audrey, my oldest daughter and Pinterest professional, I love having you on my team, but what I love most is you. I especially love your ambition to reach for the stars. You call your blog Rd2Gold, but I want you to always remember, with God as your goal, guide, and guardian, your road is already paved with gold. Trust Him, sweetie, and believe it.

Acknowledgments

I want to give my editor, Emily Rodmell, a big thank you for her stellar visionary skills to make the Love Inspired stories shine. Thank you, Emily, for seeing something in my own writing during the Happily Editor After Pitch Day, too! This amazing opportunity has changed my life.

I also want to thank the Love Inspired readers who collect our books. Thank you for your wonderful notes of encouragement and for your dedication to the LI line.

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

DEAR READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

EXCERPT

ONE

The dark, hollow eyes of a human skull put Sheriff Wesley Grant on the spot. The sockets, though vacant of life, were filled with questions he didn’t have answers for. Unnerved by the skeleton’s perpetual stare, he averted his gaze to the finger bones camouflaged against the gray pebbled sand. The digits protruded up as though the person had clawed their way out from their oceanfront grave. A grave that had no business being on this side of the island.

Wesley had questions of his own. “Who are you, and when did you get here?” The Maine island of Stepping Stones was his jurisdiction, and if this corpse was a recent death, then it was put here on his watch. Recent dumped bodies only meant one thing.

Homicide.

But who? One of his islanders?

The thought of these skeletal remains belonging to one of his charges squeezed his chest in a vise. The weight of that scenario bore down on him like the thick, dark clouds overhead. The April rains offered a reprieve, but the cold wind still whipped at his face. He ignored the chafing on his cheeks for the suffering the guy at his feet had to have experienced.

“Please don’t let it be one of our own. I can’t let these people down. Not when they’ve done so much for me. No, this can’t be one of them.” Wes pushed the horrid idea out of his mind as he pushed his windblown strands of hair out of his eyes. He would know if someone had gone missing. He ran a tight ship here, questioning every happening and every outsider who disembarked the Sunday ferry. This skeleton had to be ancient, put here long ago, before his time. Before his father’s, the previous Sheriff Grant’s, time. Before any of the islanders’ time.

Wesley thought of the history of the island and remembered a couple hundred years ago, pirates used to sail these seas and stop off on the island to count their loot. Yes, that had to be it. He latched on to this theory quickly. This skeleton had to have been buried here by one of the eighteenth-century swashbucklers, killed by a warring foe who broached the shores. Wesley felt sure Dr. Simon Webber, the forensic anthropologist who would be arriving on the island any minute now, would confirm it. But a check of his watch only brought up another question: What was keeping the doctor?

Deputy Derek Vaughn had left over five hours ago to pick up the man the medical examiner was sending out here to assess the situation. Vaughn had been instructed to bring the forensic anthropologist over to this side of the island as soon as they arrived. It was a two-hour trip each way. That made Vaughn an hour late. Nothing new there. The deputy couldn’t follow simple orders on a good day.

Wes thumbed the radio at his shoulder and called his other deputy, Owen Matthews. Maybe he knew what was keeping Vaughn. “Matthews, what’s your location?”

The radio crackled in his ear as Wesley studied the skeleton’s pelvis that lay exposed in the sand at his feet. Most of its ribs couldn’t be seen, just the front of the rib cage protruded out of the earth. Only one hand stuck out, too. Wesley figured the other one was either still buried, or the wildlife had made off with it. Or, because the guy had once been a pirate—Wesley was sticking with this theory for the time being—there was the chance he’d lost it premortem.

The idea made him cringe and he pushed the radio again, a little harder than before. “Matthews or Vaughn, what’s your twenty?”

His radio chirped followed by Deputy Matthews’s voice. “Sorry, Wes. I’m pulling up now. Vaughn brought the doctor to the station instead. A little misunderstanding, I guess.”

Wesley bit the unprofessional comment about Vaughn from his tongue and asked, “Where’s the doctor?”

“She’s sitting right beside me.”

“She?” He spoke louder than he meant to, then remembered the boys who had found the skeleton that morning stood on the other side of the tall sand mound behind him. They didn’t want to be near the “dead guy” as they’d put it. Their older sister, Pat, joined them as the responsible party, so she waited with them on the other side of the mound, too. None of these people needed to hear him lose his cool about an unexpected outsider showing up instead of the expected Dr. Webber.

“Yup. She’s a she,” Owen said. “Go a little easier on her than you did my wife when she showed up in Stepping Stones, would you?” Before the radio chirped out, Owen added, “I’m sure you’ve learned by now that not everyone is like Jenny Carmichael.”

Owen was right. He also knew Wes had a hard time with outsiders. He’d put the last outsider who disembarked the ferry through the ringer. And Miriam Hunter, now Miriam Matthews, hadn’t been guilty of anything but caring about Stepping Stones as much as he did.

Owen proved his point. Not all people who broached his shores were trouble. They weren’t all like his ex-fiancée, Jenny Carmichael. Wesley recoiled at the memory of the destruction Jenny brought to his life five years ago, but that didn’t mean the lady doctor was anything like Jenny.

He hoped she wasn’t, anyway.

The motor of a boat beyond the sand mound signaled Matthews’s arrival. Wes climbed the steep slope and got his first glimpse of the bone doctor sitting beside his deputy.

A pretty face behind dark-rimmed glasses.

So what? A face meant nothing. He knew this from Jenny. And don’t you forget it, Grant, he told himself as he approached the water and watched the brown-haired woman with a tight bun at the nape of her neck stand to her full, tower-like height. A pretty face and the height to go head-to-head with him.

That didn’t necessarily mean trouble, he reasoned as this new outsider was about to broach his shores.

But even as Deputy Matthews slid out the metal gangway, the uncertainty in Wesley’s mind rang louder than the screeching metal against metal.

All he could wonder was if this outsider would be friend or if she would be foe?

* * *

“I’m here to examine the skeleton.” Lydia Muir stepped off the police boat and down the temporary metal dock Deputy Matthews slid out for her exit. She carried her tool kit in her left hand, her SLR digital camera hung from her neck, swaying with each step. She would hold off donning her forensic white coverall clean suit and rubber boots until she had the chance to assess the scene, but deep down under her grayish-blue wool coat and matching pants, Lydia squirmed in anticipation of suiting up. She hoped her excitement didn’t show too much, pretty sure the five islanders standing in front of her wouldn’t appreciate her smiling in their disturbing situation. They wouldn’t understand that forensic anthropology, the study of human remains for evidence, was her life. A dug-up bone to the ordinary person was a treasure to behold for her.

“I’m Sheriff Grant.” A shaggy-haired officer stepped forward. She didn’t know too many officers of the law who kept their hair on the longer side. Most looked like the clean-cut deputy who brought her over to this side of the island, or the balding one who brought her out from Rockland. “I wasn’t expecting you,” the sheriff said in a disgruntled tone that had her putting aside her thoughts on his reclusive hairstyle and focusing on his obvious disappointment at her arrival.

Her excitement fizzled a bit. Apparently, he’d been expecting her boss.

“I’m Dr. Lydia Muir.” She offered her hand to shake, glad to see him remove his black leather glove and take it. All hope wasn’t lost yet.

The feeling of his warm grip seeped into her chilled skin, reminding her she should have brought gloves to this frigid, windswept place. She let go and felt the chill in the air more now than before. The first thought that jumped in her head was to take his warm hand in her own again. How silly, she thought, since she much preferred the company of the stiff and dead. But then, Sheriff Grant was pretty stiff. He gripped his jaw so tight, his temporomandibular joint protruded. The man was really mad that Webber wasn’t here.

“I work under Dr. Simon Webber. He sent me in his stead.” Lydia brought her tool kit in front of her to show the sheriff as well as all their onlookers that she had the credentials for being here. She cleared her throat. “I assure you, I’m well qualified to assess the situation. I have a Ph.D. in forensic anthropology, and I—” She bit the inside of her cheek to stop any more insecure blabbering from spilling forth. She had nothing to prove here. I’ve earned this. I’m a doctor—even if Dr. Webber still calls me Miss Muir.

But that would all change after this case. Running a top-notch examination here was exactly what she needed to prove herself in her field, once and for all. God had seen to it. He wanted her to succeed in her own right. Not because of who her father is in the world of science, but because of her own merits.

Lydia breathed deep and silently prayed. God, You have given me the skills and the desire to understand the basic makeup and structure of Your creation. I am ready to handle whatever anyone, even the hard-faced sheriff giving himself TMJ, throws at me.

She straightened all twenty-seven vertebrae of her spine and hoped the onlookers missed her trembling shoulders. She hoped they shook from the whipping wind and not nerves. “It’s quite cold out here, and it looks like it could start to pour any second. Perhaps you can show me the crime scene now.”

The sheriff’s mouth twisted instantly. “Crime scene? Dr. Muir, it is way too soon to call this incident a crime. I’m sure this is nothing more than a historic burial unearthed by erosion.”

Lydia blinked, speechless. She watched the wind lift the front of the man’s blond, silky hair. Piercing blue eyes became exposed to her and chilled her more than the cold wind. His gaze narrowed on her face. A face she knew made her look younger than her thirty-three years. Her dad always said, despite her height, she had a baby face, and in times like this his nickname, “Trinket,” would do nothing for her credibility. Not that it ever did, but that never stopped him from using it.

“Perhaps you are right about the remains being ancient,” she said, treading carefully. “I’m sorry if I made the wrong assumption. I was told a skeleton had been found. The M.E. asked my department for a consultation, and Dr. Webber sent me—”

Saying the words out loud made her realize how ridiculous they sounded. Out of all her other colleagues, Webber had sent her?

What was left of her excitement fizzled out completely as she realized what this really meant. She could have kicked one of the stones at her feet. Webber sent her for the same reasons this guy spouted. Dr. Webber didn’t want to make the trek out to the cold north for old ancient remains. That’s why he told her to box them up and bring them back to him. She was nothing more than a courier of goods. And here she thought she might finally have earned Dr. Webber’s support for the promotion to Director of Anthropology.

Lydia squelched her rising disappointment. She could dwell on it later when she was alone. For now, regardless of why she was sent here, she would see the case through professionally. She would not make any judgment until she had assessed the scene. With her chin lifted a notch, she met Sheriff Grant at eye level, thankful her tight bun didn’t allow the wind to play peekaboo with her strands like his. She had one chance to set the stage and show she meant business.

Lydia pushed her glasses up on her nose—and noticed his deprecatory eyes travel down her tall body. Her bravado faltered as she realized he formed judgments of her. Terms from her childhood, and even adulthood, came to mind. Beanpole. Giraffe. Sunshade. At least her six-one-and-then-some height wouldn’t be blocking any sun on the island today, because there was none.

“Just show me the way,” she said, and caught the other people behind the sheriff staring.

“Not until I have your word that you will keep this discreet,” Sheriff Grant said, pulling her attention back to him. “I’m not looking for some fresh-out-of-college intern looking to make headlines or improve herself in her profession. I want your word that you’re not here to further your career or to make a name for yourself.”

“Further my—?” She sputtered to a stop. How did he know? She attempted to keep her face as still as the granite ledges around her, but her shoulders trembled all on their own. Was it the cold, or was she that transparent?

“It’s my job to protect the islanders from harm,” Sheriff Grant continued. “I need to know you can be discreet and professional.”

“Always,” she answered quickly, but her voice held a shiver. It had to be the cold and not fear. Never fear. With God as her guide, never shall she fear.

The sheriff’s unnerving, steely eyes relaxed a little, but not his jaw. “Good to hear, but tell me, Doc, did you think to bring a coat? It gets real chilly out here with the wind and all. The climate is a bit rougher than what you’re used to on the mainland.”

“Of course I brought a coat. It’s in my bag on the boat. But I’m perfectly comfortable as I am.” She ignored the cold, salty spray misting around her, knowing it would seep into her wool suit real fast. Now, there was a smell to avoid. Death she could handle, but wet sheep, not so much.

“Your shaking shoulders tell me differently, but have it your way.” He shrugged as he tossed a glance over his shoulder at two gawking teenaged boys huddled together. “These boys are Robbie and Mack Reed.” Neither would pass for fifteen. Their faces were pale and sullen with eyes as turbulent as the waves behind them.

Their timorous behavior told her these young ones were her body finders.

Sheriff Grant confirmed her assessment. “They came out to this side of the island earlier this morning to explore and came across the skeleton.”

Lydia scanned the backdrop of rocky ledges. She wondered how much farther the island expanded beyond them. Stone surrounded her, from the rocky ledges to the numerous flat rocks dotting the ocean behind her. They couldn’t have been more strategically placed if they had been pawns on a chess board with the island of Stepping Stones as their queen. A lighthouse stood far out in the distance on the farthest rock, warning ships not to come any closer to the dangerous protruding stones. A natural tactic that seemingly kept the outside world at bay, and the town untouchable.

Until now.

“Do people come here often?” she asked.

The sheriff hesitated before he answered, “We don’t get too many visitors in Stepping Stones. Or did you mean this side of the island?”

“Both.”

He shrugged. “Most stay on the side where the higher ground is. These waters get pretty rough. Storms come through and submerge these rocks real fast.” He angled a disappointed look at the boys. Their chins dropped lower to their chests; apparently, they had already heard the lecture. “The boys know they made a dangerous choice today, but I think under the circumstances they’ve been punished enough.”

Their punishment, her reward. Just thinking about digging her hands into the dirt had Lydia’s adrenaline spiking again. She took a breath and piped up. “Okay, boys, show me what you found.”

Mouths gaped. The boys’ visible gulps said they weren’t too excited about their find—or finding it again anytime soon. The one named Robbie retreated behind his brother, shaking his head. He looked to Mack, who had another year or so on him, to take the lead.

A little empathy, she reminded herself. It’s not every day kids see a dead body. Never mind a decomposed one. This was why she didn’t do well in social situations. People didn’t “get” her excitement, and she tended to forget her brain worked differently than most. “It’s okay,” she assured the boys, “just point the way. I’ll take it from here.”

The one named Mack flipped his red hair off to his left. His hands stuffed into his zipped-up gray sweatshirt. “I found...it...over there when I pulled our rowboat up onshore. At first, I thought they were sticks. Then I saw the sk—skull.” He visibly shivered. A woman came up beside him to drape her arm around his shoulders and pull him close. Her carrot-red hair matched that of the boys. She looked too young to be their mother, but definitely related. Lydia was about to ask when the woman plastered pleading hazel eyes on the sheriff.

“Wes, can I please take them home now? They’ve told you everything they know. It’s bad enough they had to be the ones to find...the body.”

Lydia watched the woman’s eyes fill with a level of intimacy as they locked on the sheriff’s. The two of them must be an item, she speculated, but the sheriff’s blank and emotionless stare implied Lydia failed on that assessment. Not a good start, Dr. Muir.

Sheriff Grant turned to her. “Do you need to ask them anything, Doc?”

“If I do, I’m sure I can find them easy enough,” Lydia answered.

“True, but I want this matter wrapped up today.”

Lydia studied him and wondered about the rush. The bones weren’t going anywhere. “I’ll take your requested expedience into consideration, but I won’t make any promises.”

He shot her a disapproving look but signaled the dark-haired deputy. “Matthews, would you mind bringing Pat and the boys home? I’ll take Dr. Muir back in my patrol boat.”

“I’ll put her bag in your boat,” the deputy replied, and unhooked a set of keys from his belt.

“Thanks. I don’t know how long I’m going to be.” He lowered his voice below the pounding of the waves and squawking seagulls, but not so low that Lydia couldn’t hear what he said. “It looks like it might be a while.”

“That will all depend on what I dig up,” Lydia announced as she took a step in the direction Mack had insinuated with his head toss.

“What you dig up?” Sheriff Grant balked as she walked past him. “Hold on a minute. You’re not turning this place into a dig site.”

She kept on walking. A few moments later a boat’s engine rumbled to life, leaving her with the sheriff on this side of the island. Each of her footsteps was carefully placed on the squishy mounds of sand. Either it had just poured or when the tide came in, the water surely covered this side of the island. Which would explain the unearthing of the body over time. But how much time? A hundred years? Or one?

Thoughts of the skeleton had her picking up her step. How long had it been here? What was the cause of death? What was its ancestry? Why was it buried on this side alone, and what were the secrets it took to its shallow grave? All things forensic science could answer—all things she could answer. Lydia hurried forward, eager to locate the remains, and eager to find what they would tell her.

After another ten yards, the lay of the land dropped considerably beneath her shoes. The backs of her calves tightened in an effort to keep her from sliding down on her rump. That would be the icing on the sheriff’s cake. She could have no mishaps with this case. She didn’t doubt he would be the first to call Dr. Webber to get her out of here. He seemed as territorial as a bulldog. She wondered what he had to guard...or perhaps hide.

The ground sloped more. Lydia turned to crab-walk down a steep mound of sand. With her feet solidly planted, she took the next sidestep. Then her gaze caught on the protruding rib cage sticking out of the sand, and all thoughts of the bulldog vanished.

She took her next step without looking down and felt her feet slip beneath her. Her arms shot out to catch her balance, but her tool kit unevenly distributed her weight and she slipped more, dropping her case and picking up speed as she descended. In a crouch, she locked her legs to stop the slide, but there was no way out of it. She was going down. In mere seconds, she would find herself cuddled up with the skeletal remains of an adult female.

* * *

“Do you always get so up close and personal with your work, Doc?” Wes gripped the upper arm of the bone hunter. He caught her midair, pulling her back like a rag doll. A very tall and thin rag doll.

“All the time,” she boasted. Her shaking fingers tugged at the bottom of her suit coat. For a doctor, she wasn’t very bright to come out to the cold north with no gloves. She probably only had the latex variety in her black case.

Wes noticed her tool kit a few feet down the embankment. She’d dropped it in her fall. He sidestepped down to retrieve it, not sure why he did. He shouldn’t be helping her in any way. Not until he knew if she intended to sensationalize the find or not. He dared not tell her about the pirates. If word got out, he’d have every treasure hunter in the Northeast invading his island by morning.

His best choice would be to stick close and hurry her up. Wes handed the kit over and watched her grip the hard case at her front as she’d done before. A buffer between them, perhaps? A means of protection? “I’m not going to hurt you,” he chided.

“I didn’t think you were.” Her coffee-colored eyes widened to saucer size through her lenses.

“Then what’s with—” Wes shook it off. “Forget it. Let’s just get this over with so we can get out of the cold. The sun’s setting.”

“Sun?” She looked to the skies without a squint.

He did a double take. Was this woman being snarky with him? “Yeah, sun.” He tapped his watch. “Five-thirty. Daylight is disappearing while we stand here over this dead guy.”

“Girl.” She looked straight at him.

“What?”

“It’s a dead girl. Woman actually.”

“How do you know?”

“Her posterior ramus of the mandible is straighter than that of a male’s.”

“I see.” He didn’t have a clue.

“A male’s is much more curved.”

“Right.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Is that all?”

“Well, a woman’s pelvis is wider, as well.”

“Of course, but can you give me an estimate of age?”

The doctor turned away to give the skeleton her full attention. Wes watched how Lydia Muir became absorbed in her task to the point where he thought she forgot he still stood behind her. Minutes went by while she dropped her case at her feet and opened it to withdraw a pair of blue latex gloves. She approached the bones and crouched down. Her hand reached out, tracing some markings on the ribs. Abruptly, she stood and circled around to the other side with continued skilled concentration.

“Well?” Wesley reminded her of his presence.

“Well...” She bit her lower lip. “Judging by the slight pitting and sharpness of her ribs at her sternal area, I would estimate her age between twenty-five and thirty years when she died.”

“I meant the age of the bones. Are they ancient or are they fresh?”

“I can’t answer that without a full examination.”

“And what does that entail?”

“It means sectioning this site off to search for any clothing, jewelry or artifacts that might give me a ballpark date of burial.”

“Too long. I need something to go by now.”

She scooped a handful of sand away from the pelvis area. A few more scoops and she pulled up something rusty. “How about a zipper? Not your typical ancient woman’s attire.”

The doctor grabbed a plastic bag from her case, but before she dropped it in the bag, she placed it back where she found it and snapped a picture of it with her camera. Then she stood and handed him the bag with the zipper in it to study.

“I’m going to need more proof than a zipper to tell me that we’re not dealing with an old corpse. Zippers have been around for at least a century.”

Dr. Muir met him at eye level. She really was quite tall if she came close to his six-five height. Even if they were nearly equal in height, they weren’t in width. With her hands on her slim waist, elbows jutting out at her side in sharp points, she looked as though the whipping wind could take her for a ride.

“Sheriff, I won’t be able to determine her age until I get the remains back to my lab and analyze their nitrogen level. The higher the level, the younger the age. Anything younger than twenty years will require an investigation, whether you like it or not.”

“You seem pretty smart, Doc. Surely you have something in that kit of yours that can push this along. Give you one of those ballparks you mentioned.”

Dr. Muir pinched her trembling and purpling lips, reminding him that she wasn’t as smart as he gave her credit for. The fool woman didn’t even know how to dress adequately for the climate, and now the cold was settling into her own bones.

Wesley ripped off his coat. “Put this on before you freeze.”

She questioned him with raised eyebrows, but her lips relaxed at his offer. She took his heavy uniform coat without a fight and quickly stuffed her arms into the sleeves and zipped up.

She went back to her tool kit. “I suppose it’s getting dark enough that I could use my ultraviolet flashlight to give you a guess, but this is off the record. I won’t put it in writing.” She turned back with a small black flashlight. “Fresh bones glow a blue color under UV light. Time causes the fluorescence to diminish from the outside in, giving a relative age at each stage of glowing. Bones older than a hundred years won’t glow at all.” She clicked the light on and beamed it on the skull.

Neither of them said anything as vivid blue fluoresced, illuminating the facial features straight through. Wesley pinched the bridge of his nose at the truth staring back at him. He didn’t need the doctor to state anything off the record. And denying the facts wouldn’t change them. These weren’t pirate bones, and treasure hunters were the least of his worries. These bones were fresh ones buried in a shallow grave.

The doctor looked up from her crouched position. “Less than ten years, and these markings on the rib cage—” she pointed at the tiny lines “—are lacerations made by a knifelike instrument. It would appear a crime has occurred on your island, Sheriff Grant. And my assessment says it’s murder.”

TWO

“Dr. Webber, I’m certain these bones are less than ten years old.” Lydia spoke quietly into her cell phone from the back porch of Deputy Matthews’s home, where he and his wife had generously offered to put Lydia up for the night.

Stepping Stones didn’t have a hotel or a motel or any type of boardinghouse really. If it weren’t for their offer, Lydia would have been sleeping in one of the two cells at the sheriff’s station. This huge captain’s house perched on the top of a ledge overlooking the sea, capped with its own widow’s walk and porches, was much better digs. Mrs. Matthews even offered her a lovely room with an ocean view, and Lydia knew come daylight when she could see it, she would love it even more.

Lydia faced the black sea and continued her conversation. “I also see evidence of multiple lacerations on the rib cage. This looks like a murder, and I’m recommending a full investigation.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Simon Webber grumbled nasally. “Your job was to assess the situation and report back to me. I will determine if an investigation is in order. You have not been authorized, Miss Muir.”

“It’s Doctor Muir, and you authorized me to make this call when you sent me here.”

“My mistake. It won’t happen again. Unfortunately, I am still detained with museum business. Tag and categorize the remains and bring them back to me. I’ll determine if the coroner needs to be called in. You are not to call him.”

“Sir, I am not an intern any longer. I—”

“Bring the remains to me, Miss Muir. Or you will regret it.”

The phone went dead, and Lydia heaved a sigh. She leaned forward against the railing and blew out her frustration. Waves roared over and over in the dark night. The sound lulled her as she angled her head over her shoulder and eyed Deputy Matthews and Sheriff Grant through the doorway to the kitchen.

They stood around the breakfast island conversing in their own hushed tones and using sign language for the benefit of the deputy’s deaf wife, also leaning against the yellow Formica countertop. Lydia pulled her coat tighter around her to ward off the slicing air and pocketed the phone.

Her lips pressed tight to regain her composure before facing the officers with the change of plans. As it turned out, this wasn’t her big break after all. It wasn’t her time to shine. God had not prepared her way here as she’d thought. Today would end no differently than any other. More than anything Lydia wanted to fade out of Deputy Matthews’s home. She didn’t want to have to tell them she’d been trumped. Again.

But she couldn’t let them see her failure. Professionalism through and through. That’s the way it had to be. Always, and under every circumstance. She would not let Dr. Webber break her down. She’d come this far with all his comparisons, pitting her against her father. As if she’d ever win that prize. She’d accepted a long time ago that she would never be as brilliant as the great scientist, her father, Dr. Gerard Muir. Apparently Dr. Webber thought she would be when he hired her.

If only she could show him what she was capable of with this case. She may not be her father, but if he would give her a chance, he would see she was a good forensic anthropologist. He would see she was a good candidate for the directorship position. If only.

Lydia breathed deep and exhaled a condensed cloud of air into the cold night, accepting the position wasn’t to be so for her.

“Problem?”

Lydia whipped around to find Sheriff Grant standing there. How long had he been there?

“Everything’s fine,” she blurted out and averted her eyes to look at the lit hurricane lantern hanging on the doorframe adjacent to his head.

“Liar.”

“Excuse me?” Lydia stepped back into the porch railing, reaching for anything to separate her from this too-good-looking bulldog. She settled for her hands on her abdomen. She knew his kind. He was probably a jock in high school who steered clear of the brainy girls—if he noticed them at all.

“You look beaten.” Through his long strands of hair, he eyed her fidgeting hands, and she stilled them. “Did Boss Man change your plans?”

Lydia raised her chin a bit, but then chose truth over bravado. “You’ll be happy to know I won’t be digging on your precious island tomorrow. Dr. Webber has requested I take the skeleton back to the lab for a consult to determine age in the lab with the right equipment. However, I would like the area to be protected until the report is finished. Just in case.”

“Why isn’t he coming?”

“He’s consulting for a museum.”

“Museum consulting.” The sheriff’s jaw ticked. The man was going to grind down his molars if he didn’t learn to relax a little. “Look, Doc, I don’t see how some pharaoh’s tomb, or whatever is keeping him, is more important than this. I need to assure the islanders their home is safe. It would appear Dr. Webber doesn’t think Stepping Stones is worth the trip, so I would like for you to identify this skeleton before you leave.”

“I have to decline.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because...because I’ll lose my job.”

“How about off the record, then? You know you can’t leave us here in good conscience with no answers.”

Lydia bit her lower lip. Returning to her lab would mean handing this case over to Webber or, worse, one of the others to solve. But staying on Stepping Stones could kill her career completely.

And why should she trust this man anyway? He didn’t trust her. She had to be crazy to even be considering this. “I’ll lose my job,” she whispered more to herself, and wondered if she already hadn’t. What would her father say then?

“I’m sure that’s a possibility, Doc,” Sheriff Grant stated quietly, and pushed his mussed-up hair out of his eyes. She noticed his intense blues soften in the lantern light. She also noticed the way her fingers twitched when he cleared away his hair. Shock smacked her in the chest as she realized she’d wanted to reach up and do the same.

But then Sheriff Grant’s words stopped any thoughts of touching his hair. He understood the risk she would be taking by staying to help him. Lydia pressed her lips. Her decision would determine the path for the rest of her career, even life. And following this man whom she didn’t know in the least might lead her to never work again.

Or maybe this was the path God had prepared for her all along. Maybe this skeleton was God’s way of boosting her career. Maybe this was her chance to prove she was capable. Prove it to Webber, and prove it to her father.

She prayed silently for God’s direction, but she also knew she could only stay and work with Wesley Grant if he was a believer. “Are you a Christian?” she asked him straight out.

Sheriff Grant hesitated, and she thought he would say no. The words practically molded to his lips, but something stopped him from voicing them. His bullishness faded a bit, and he said, “I used to be. Why?”

Lydia breathed a little easier at his answer. It wasn’t an outright no. This really could be her ticket for an upgrade, after all. “Before I decide to team up with you, I want to make sure we have the same guide.”

“And if we don’t?”

“But we do. Even if you’ve given up on God during this time of your life, He hasn’t given up on you. He’s still leading you.”

“I highly doubt it. When my parents died within two years of each other, I considered God dead to me, too. But if it makes you stay, you can believe whatever you like.”

“I believe you still belong to Him, so for that reason, you can count me in, Sheriff.” A bit of fear mixed with a jolt of excitement coursed through her at the sound of her agreeable words springing from her lips. She felt a hesitant smile form as Sheriff Grant extended his hand to shake. Lydia reached for it and verbalized her confounding thoughts. “I’ve never done anything so insensible. My career could end up in the same condition as the skeleton. Dead.” Or it could skyrocket.

Whatever Your will, let it be, God. With that, Lydia shook Sheriff Grant’s hand with conviction. “Let’s do it. Let’s identify this woman.”

As she gave his hand a few good pumps, she noticed how it enveloped her thin-boned one with triple the size and strength. Sheriff Wesley Grant was one strong man and could overpower her in an instant. The thought caused a little fear of him to sprout. Perhaps losing her job shouldn’t be her only concern. Doubts flickered in her mind about this man with whom she’d just struck a deal. Should she have done a little digging into the life of Wesley Grant before she signed over anyone’s death certificate to him?

Sheriff Grant’s piercing blue eyes peeked through his blond strands again. She got the feeling he was questioning her sincerity, too. Seconds ticked by while she made the decision to fully trust him. She let go and decided only time would tell.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you your island isn’t as safe as you think,” Lydia said, breaking their analyzing silence. “Someone may not want this body found, and that someone is most likely one of your islanders. Other people could be in danger.”

He nodded solemnly. “I agree the islanders could be in danger, but I can’t believe one of our own did this.” His tough voice from before was now threaded with sadness. “Meet me at 8:00 a.m. at the Underground Küchen Restaurant on the pier. Time is critical. I can’t and won’t let harm come to this island or its people. I owe them that much.”

“Owe them? For what?”

Sheriff Grant turned and grabbed the handle to the screen door. “Let’s just say I had my own little brush with the law once. Someone tried to pin a theft on me. The islanders believed in me when no one else did, and for that, I owe them.”

* * *

How do you sign “Thank you”? Lydia scrawled out her message on the pad of paper Miriam Matthews carried with her to help her converse with the hearing world.

The woman’s golden-red hair draped prettily around her elegant face as she bent to read the note from behind the wheel of her SUV. The deaf woman had given Lydia a ride into town on her way to the high school where she worked as the school’s principal. A smile blossomed on her lips when she lifted her pretty face. She brought her right-hand fingertips to her mouth, then pulled her hand straight out in front of her to demonstrate the sign.

Lydia mimicked the hand motion a few times until she got it right. She wanted to say, “Thank you for the ride,” but with no knowledge of American Sign Language, she had to settle for only “Thank you.” She made a mental note to buy and memorize a sign-language book.

As she reached for the door handle to exit, the breathtaking view out her passenger window caused her to linger. Beyond the boardwalk and its quaint gray clapboard shops was a long wooden pier reaching out to the expansive, shimmering sea. Sharp rocks with spraying swells dotted the water far below the pier. From inside the car, she could hear their steady, rushing sounds that lulled her into a state of reflection—specifically for what might happen to this secluded gem of a land when word got out someone had been brutally murdered.

Miriam tapped her on the shoulder, pulling her out of her thoughts. Her pad of paper had a message scrawled across the top. Do you like the ocean?

“I could listen to it for hours.” Lydia winced and hoped Miriam couldn’t read lips. Here she was, speaking about hearing the ocean, and Miriam couldn’t hear a thing. Empathy, Lydia. Empathy.

Miriam scribbled out another message, I understand, and Lydia’s shoulders sagged in embarrassment. The woman could read lips.

Lydia took the pad and pen to write quickly I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—

Miriam snatched the pad away, her head shaking back and forth, a reassuring smile on her lightly freckled face. “It’s...all right.” Mrs. Matthews spoke aloud, her voice a little squeaky but articulate. “I imagine...the sound is beautiful.” Her face lit up in a friendly, reassuring smile while her hands made the signs for her words. The word for beautiful was represented by Miriam’s long fingers fanning out in a sweeping circle over her whole face. Lydia didn’t think she’d ever seen anything more beautiful. Immediately, her hand went to her face to practice the sign, determined to learn it right away.

“I can see you love to learn,” Miriam said again. “That tells me...you are good at your job.”

Lydia’s practicing hand stilled over her face. How did this woman know those were the words she’d longed to hear for the last five years?

For some unknown reason, this woman who couldn’t hear a word didn’t need words to see deep into people and connect with them. Miriam must make a great principal here on the island. Lydia thought the kids must love this kind, perceptive and encouraging lady.

For the first time in her life, Lydia didn’t feel pressured to come up with small talk, and yet, all she wanted to do was talk and get to know Miriam Matthews. And couldn’t. The language barrier would stand in the way. Another reason for the book. She’d order it today.

A knock on the passenger window whipped Lydia’s head to her right. It was the balding deputy who had picked her up in Rockland yesterday and brought her to Stepping Stones. She rolled down the window. “Good morning, Deputy Vaughn, how are you?”

“Morning, Doctor. I’m doing well, thank ya. I just left the site. Kept watch over the remains all night for you, just like you asked. And call me Derek. We’re not formal around here.”

“I have a feeling Sheriff Grant would disagree with you on that one. He seems like a by-the-book kind of guy, but okay, Derek, thank you for protecting the scene.”

The man’s brown beady eyes darkened. Had she said something wrong? “It wouldn’t be the first time the sheriff and I have disagreed,” he grumbled deeply.

Lydia fidgeted in her seat. There were obviously some unresolved issues going on at the sheriff’s station between Sheriff Grant and his deputy. Lydia knew how that went, having issues with her own boss. This was empathy she could offer. “I’m sorry to hear that, Derek. I know work relationships can be difficult.”

“For sure.” His thick Maine accent made her smile. He seemed like a nice man. “Do you need a ride over to the site?” he asked.

“No, I’m meeting Sheriff Grant at the Underground Küchen. He’ll bring me, but thank you.”

The man shrugged his rounded shoulders and pulled out a pair of leather gloves. “I’ll just head back to the station and do some paperwork then. That’s all I’m ever allowed to do, anyway.” Derek pivoted to his left and disappeared around the back of the car.

The two women watched him in the rearview mirrors disappear behind a gray clapboard shack with multicolored lobster buoys hanging off the side.

Lydia swung back around to Miriam with a shrug. “Looks like the sheriff has caused some strife with his deputy. I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s been a little rude to me, too.”

Miriam frowned for a moment before picking up her pad and pen. After a minute, she passed the pad over. Wesley cares about the islanders more than anything. I know he can be hard on people, but that’s only because people have been hard on him. When I first came here, he was horrible to me. I have forgiven him, and knowing what I know now about him, I hurt for him.

Lydia read the note, but all she could do was nod and look out to sea. Bad things happen to people. That didn’t give them the right to pay the pain forward. And she would make sure the sheriff knew that the next time he barked at her.

Lydia smiled politely and stepped out, turning to sign “thank you” again.

Miriam scrawled another message and held out the pad with a twinkle in her eyes. Don’t order the special. It feeds an army. Owen once made that mistake, and it wasn’t pretty.

An image of the deputy stuffing his face with a whole lot of knockwurst made Lydia giggle. It lightened her mood as she hefted her tool kit to the place she was supposed to meet the sheriff.

Down the street and onto the boardwalk, a row of stores and restaurants welcomed her.

The two restaurants were on either end of the boardwalk with a long row of storefronts and alleyways sandwiched between them. The Underground Küchen was closest to her and built right into the side of one of the rocky cliffs. She stepped up to the glass window, intrigued to find out if she could see the cliff inside on the back wall.

She couldn’t see a cliff, but she did see hoards of people inside. Breakfast at the Underground Küchen bustled, and her stomach went all queasy at the sight. She had to go in there and converse with all those people. She’d never been good at basic conversation. She’d much rather talk about the molecular makeup of the human body, but most people glazed over as soon as she said the words chemical composition.

Had the sheriff arrived yet? She hoped so and searched for Wesley’s long, silky strands in the crowd. At the sight of her silly grin in the reflection of the glass, she backed away from the window and headed to a wooden bench. She couldn’t believe how girlish she was acting over the surly man. Even if he was a very beautiful, surly man.

Lydia imagined the tall, strong sheriff and practiced her newly acquired hand sign for the word beautiful as she moved toward the bench. Just as she was about to sit, her arm was yanked back as her tool kit was nearly ripped from her hands.

She whipped around, tightening her hold on the handle with every ounce of muscle in her. As she wrenched her case back, she took notice of a pair of black leather gloves on the thief’s hands. Gloves that resembled the ones the sheriff had worn yesterday.

The person pulled harder, but Lydia held on as though a life depended on it. And it did. Hers. Without her tool kit, she couldn’t do her job.

She raised her gaze to see who she fought so hard, but all she caught was the pulled down bill of a black baseball cap. Big black sunglasses covered more than half of her assailant’s tilted-down face. She wanted to rip the hat off, but getting her tool kit took precedence.

With all her might, Lydia pulled up. In the same moment, her arm was yanked forward. She refused to let go and gave one more yank back. The force sent her body twisting and flying back into the air, the case out in front of her, still attached to her hand and leading the way.

She had no time to think more on it as her time of flying airborne came to an end after mere seconds. She fell hard on the splintery planks of the boardwalk, her chin taking the brunt of the fall, her teeth jarring in her mouth.

But the pain had to wait because her tool kit kept moving!

On the impact of her landing, she’d let go! The case that contained everything she needed flew from her hand and now skidded away from her on the wood—heading straight for the edge of the pier and the sharp rocks far below.

Lydia pushed up on her hands and knees and scrambled across as fast as she could to save it. Tears pricked her eyes as the edge drew near. She couldn’t lose her kit. Dr. Webber would kill her. Or at least humiliate her to no end. He would be sure to note that her father would never make such a mishap.

Lydia threw herself into the air to make one final leap at catching the case before it disappeared into the ocean. She landed hard on her elbows, the case centimeters from her grasping fingertips. The kit continued to approach the edge, and just as she was about to watch it disappear, a black boot came down hard, cracking the wooden planks and stopping the kit dead in its tracks.

“Fall again, Doc?” a man’s voice called from above, halting her scrambles. The only person who called her Doc was the sheriff. Slowly, she lifted her gaze from the boot in her face for confirmation.

“Did you attack me?” she asked, looking up and down the empty boardwalk. Then looked for his gloves. Bare hands. But he could have taken them off.

“Attack you? No. I just walked down from the road and saw you going after your case. You didn’t fall?”

Lydia stood on shaky legs, her case held close to her chest. She shook her head in answer to his question and observed various pain points settling in. “Someone tried to steal my case. I managed to stop them, but in the process got thrown to the ground.”

“Stay here,” Sheriff Grant said in his deep, commanding voice, but somehow it sounded more comforting to her now. He ran down to the other end of the walk, looking into the alleyways as he passed them. After a few minutes of searching, he came back with palms up. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Well, I’m not making it up.”

“If you say so, Doc.”

“Well, I do.” Lydia hiked up her case, perturbed with this guy’s quick switch from helpful to skeptic. “I’m not lying,” she huffed. Something in the sheriff’s life made him really distrustful, and that was too bad, but she wasn’t here to fix it. She was here for one thing only. “Can we just get started?”

“Don’t you want breakfast?”

Lydia glanced at the restaurant. “It’s too crowded. There’s not an empty table anywhere in there.”

“Doesn’t matter if there was an empty table, you wouldn’t be seated at it. That’s not the way Tildy runs the place. Nobody sits alone.”

“Tildy?” Lydia rubbed her throbbing elbows, grateful her plushy parka absorbed some of the shock.

He stopped in front of the glass door. “The owner. And the local news reporter.” He made quotation marks with his fingers around news reporter. “You want to know something about the goings-on here on the island, all you have to do is ask Tildy. She’ll be happy to explain it all to you. And I mean all.” He opened the door and waved a hand. “After you, Doc.”

“Lydia,” she corrected him, not moving from her place. “My name is Lydia.”

He paused for a few beats. “All right. I guess since we’ll be working together, first names are fine. I’m Wes.” He waved again for her to enter.

Her knees locked and her heart rate sped up. She could hear her own breathing and it didn’t sound so good.

“What’s the matter, Doc...uh, Lydia?” He shut the door.

“Nothing. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“I—I don’t do well in crowds. I think I want to try the other place.” She jutted her burning, scraped chin in the direction of the restaurant at the end of the boardwalk.

“The Blue Lobster isn’t open for breakfast. Plus, I think there’ll be a lot of people disappointed if the island’s first anthropologist visitor didn’t come to be welcomed appropriately.”

“What’s the big deal? I’m not some spectacle at the zoo.”

His hands went up surrender-style. “Whoa, I didn’t say you were, Doc. They’re good people. I know they’ll want to meet you. Come on. I’m going in with you.”

“I don’t know you any more than them.”

He smiled a Cheshire Cat grin. “You’re right. Maybe I should hold off introducing you and sell tickets in a big-top tent. I could put out flyers inviting one and all to the greatest spec—”

“Stop it, Wesley.”

He froze. His icy blue irises pierced her through his long strands. His Adam’s apple bobbed a couple times before he jerked a nod. “Sorry.”

“You know, I’m not even hungry. Let’s get over to the site and get set up. Did you get access to the list of supplies I gave to Owen? The tent and boxes?”

“Already been delivered. Owen’s there now getting ready. We can head over right after I grab a bite to go.” He peered through the glass door. “You can wait here if you want.”

Lydia looked down the boardwalk for the man who tried to steal her tool kit. Her decision came swift.

She went inside.

What she thought should only take thirty seconds turned into ten minutes. She stood by the door while customers smiled at her as warmly as the fire blazing in the stone hearth at the back of the restaurant. Wood beams and the old country with the friendly camaraderie relaxed her anxious nerves of crowds. She found herself smiling back at the islanders, but still not sure of what to say.

Lydia looked for Wesley and found him behind the bar pouring his coffee and talking to a young waitress dressed in a cobalt-blue dirndl dress. Lydia knew the garment’s technical name, having done her dissertation in Germany. The white front laces and apron shone brightly against the vivid velour—but not as brightly as the girl’s smile aimed at Wesley. Someone was sweet on someone. But then, Lydia couldn’t blame the girl. Lydia had looked the same way when she’d caught her reflection in the window before.

“How do you take your coffee?” Wesley called to her. “Sugar, cream?”

“Black, one sugar,” Lydia answered.

The swinging doors at the back of the restaurant burst wide. An older woman with a pouf of frizzy, bleached-blond hair bounced out. “A girl after my own heart,” she announced as she zigzagged through the maze of tables and patrons until she stood in front of Lydia. “Strong, but a little sweet. Hiya, I’m Tildy, and you must be the anthropologist. I’ve never met an anthropologist before. To be honest, it sounds a little creepy to me, but please come sit. Tell us all about it.”

Wesley saved her. “Actually, Tildy, we can’t stay. We’re eating while we work today,” he informed her as he passed Lydia a tall white to-go coffee cup and a brown paper bag of some kind of food.

“Oh, right. Those boys found some pirate bones, I hear.”

“Pirate?” Lydia questioned. Was that what everyone thought? Then she remembered Wesley’s statement about protecting the islanders. He must have told them the bones might be ancient. “Could be,” she said, going along with it, suddenly not wanting to upset anyone here in this comforting and homey atmosphere, either.

“Wesley, don’t work this lovely lady too hard. And be sure to bring her back for lunch. I think once you taste what’s in the bag, you’ll be back for more.” She winked at Lydia and touched her hand that held the bag. Her gentle touch felt motherly and gave Lydia’s heart pangs. It had been twenty years since she felt her mother’s touch. Her breath caught at the unexpected pain of loss, but she smiled through it at this woman who looked at her with such openness. These were the good people Wesley was trying to protect.

“I’ll be back,” Lydia promised, and meant it as she let Wesley lead her out the door.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, then Wesley snatched the bag from her hand. “Are you ready for this? Tildy makes a great apple strudel.” He removed a flaky pastry from the bag and took a bite, then held it out in front of her mouth. “Go ahead. You’ll love it.”

Lydia hesitated with a little shock. Never had she eaten from someone’s hand. It felt so personal and intimate. Butterflies fluttered about in her stomach. You’re making too much of this, she told herself. It’s just a bite of pastry. Not even from the same side he bit from. Just take a bite.

Lydia opened her mouth to the sweet. She meant to take a nibble, but Wesley pushed a little more in her mouth and she ended up with a generous amount. “Mmm. This is good.” She licked a smudge of apple filling from the corner of her lips and dived back in for another bite.

He laughed, a rich deep sound. “If you could see your face.”

“What about my face?” she asked while still chewing.

“I guess there’s a good reason Tildy calls them her German delights. Your face is quite delighted.”

“Well, it’s good. Real good.”

“Told you so.” He held up his coffee cup and took a sip, reminding her of her own delicious drink in her hand.

She sipped carefully of the rich molten lava. “Mmm. Perfect.” She licked the nutty flavor from her lips. “I can see why you come here.”

“Wait till you see what she gives you for lunch. It’s because of her that I’m so healthy.” He patted his belly, or non-belly, from what she could see. The man was sure fit.

“She takes good care of you, does she?”

“Especially since my mom died.”

That’s right. He said he lost both his parents. “Oh, I’m sorry. When—?”

“Eight years ago. No big deal. We should get going. You ready?” The swift subject change told her he might not mind sharing his pastry, but all intimacies ended there. He continued. “No roads lead to that part of the island, so we’re taking the boat. I see you don’t have gloves still. You can wear mine.”

The sight of the black leather gloves he held out to her stumped her. The image of the gloved man who had tried to take her kit flashed before her eyes. Were they the same pair? She reached for the soft leather but couldn’t be sure. They were sure alike.

“Do you want to drive the boat?”

Her head shot up, gloves forgotten. “Really? Are you sure? I’d love to, but I’ve never driven a boat before.”

“You should probably learn, then, in case I’m not available to bring you over to the site.”

If her hands were free she would have clapped. She settled for smiling big. “Let’s do it.”

Wesley smirked. “I’ve never seen anyone get so excited about driving a boat. You look ready to burst. When you grow up on an island, piloting a boat isn’t a big thing.”

“Well, I think it’s pretty exciting.”

Within minutes his sheriff’s boat zipped them away from shore with Lydia beside him, memorizing every piece of equipment and direction he threw at her. “You’re a fast learner, Doc,” he yelled over the motor. “Hold on while I get us through the rocks, and then I’ll give you the wheel!” Even though he smirked from the helm, his concentration was fully on maneuvering around the huge flat rocks sporadically jutting out of the water’s surface. Danger signs bounced on buoys all around, warning of the submerged rocks, until they finally broke through.

“Okay, you ready?”

She nodded emphatically, and he took her hands and placed them in the positions where his hands had been. He might have removed his hands but not his body. A little beside her, a little behind her, he guided her every move. His close presence brought back the butterflies again, but soon her task at hand overcame them.

After a few minutes of puttering, Lydia got the hang of manning the vessel and opened her up. She screeched at the power the fast pace gave her. Exhilarating didn’t come close to describing the freeing feeling. Her screeches turned to all-out laughter.

She never heard Wesley laugh, but when she peered out the sides of her eyes she found his smile locked on her.

As well as the dented eyebrows of puzzlement. Something confused him.

She raised her own eyebrows at him to ask what, but he changed his attention forward. “So, do I pass the driver’s test?” she asked.

Wesley didn’t answer.

Lydia thought maybe he hadn’t heard her over the engine noise. She repeated herself.

“Hold on, Doc,” he said, taking over the wheel. “There’s an unknown vessel out at sea a little too close to my liking. Might be someone off course.”

Lydia moved back and scanned the horizon. At first she didn’t see what he was talking about. Then a speck of something white appeared way off in the distance. “Is it a boat?”

“A yacht.”

“You don’t know who they are?”

“We’re going to find out.”

He shifted the boat into high speed, buckling Lydia’s knees. Her hands shot out for the bench seat behind her before she fell to the floor. “A little warning next time, please.” She put a little bite into her words as she took her seat.

“I’ll try to remember.” He didn’t sound too convincing.

Wesley skimmed across the ocean until they finally pulled up to the yacht’s portside and turned off the motor. He lifted a bullhorn to his mouth. “This is the sheriff of Stepping Stones. I need the captain of the vessel to please step out on deck.”

No sound but the waves lapping the hulls below and the seagulls squeaking above in the sunshine could be heard.

“You have thirty seconds to come out or I come aboard,” Wesley warned through the megaphone, but still no reply came.

Lydia offered her two cents. “I don’t think anyone’s here. It’s too quiet.”

“I agree,” he replied, his voice deep and serious. His hand went to his belt to flip the holster cover off his gun. “Wait here. I’m going aboard.” Leaning over he pulled his boat closer to make the leap across to the aft of the yacht. His body moved in a perfect blend of fluidity and muscled strength.

She watched him slink around the side of the yacht and up the stairs to the pilothouse with its black-tinted windows. He disappeared through a portal as though its dark shadows swallowed him whole.

Minutes went by with Lydia turning an ear for Wesley’s or anyone’s drifting voice. The small police boat rocked in the swells, up and down, lulling her senses until she realized a lot of time had passed. Going aboard didn’t feel like an option and was way out of her expertise, unless someone was dead and decomposed.

She checked her watch and drank her coffee but couldn’t shake her gut feeling that trouble brewed out on the high seas.

* * *

Wesley held his gun as he traversed through the rooms of the ninety-foot luxurious Expeditions yacht. The place was beyond anything he’d ever been in or imagined. He knew there were people out there who lived in the lap of luxury—he knew of some—but that didn’t make this experience any less eye-opening.

He passed through the dining room, the table set with gold utensils. Gold, seriously? Does it make the food taste any better? His head swiveled and met the golden statue head of an Egyptian princess sitting on an ivory carved pedestal. He peered closer. They both looked pretty old. In fact, as he roamed through the room and down the hall into the last great room, everywhere his eyes landed, he gawked at ancient art in one form or another.

Either whoever owned this vessel had spent their lifetime collecting antiquities or Wesley had happened upon an art thief’s black-market pillages. Perhaps they were modern-day pirates seeking to hide their stash on these shores again. Wes snickered at the idea but secretly wished that was the case. He knew he wouldn’t like the real reason this boat was near his island.

Especially since its owner was missing.

Wes had covered every square foot of the layout and had come across no one. The yacht was empty except for its expensive contents.

He scanned the large and final room. Past a bar and leather furniture. Past a pool table with a game half played, the black eight ball eyeing him from the center of the table. The largest flat-screen television he’d ever seen hung from the back wall, a closed metal door a few feet to its right.

One more room to explore. Judging by the metal door, he figured this was the engine room. Wes kept his gun ready as he approached the door. A twist and pull swung it wide. The room gleamed spotless...and empty. The engine was closed off behind a metal gate. A clean stainless-steel counter with drawers below shone. A tall steel locker cabinet stood cornered in the small room.

Tall enough to fit a person.

As Wes approached with careful steps, the door behind him swung closed on a bang. He shot around to no one. Automatic hinges. He crossed the floor, his boots light and silent. Another twist and the metal doors clanged open to empty hooks.

Nothing and nobody. This vessel was unmanned.

He headed for the exit, but a last gaze around the room halted on a black duffel bag sitting on a shelf. Curiosity had him moving in. Maybe there would be something identifying in the bag.

The top flap was unzipped, partially open. A quick flick lifted it up. Wes’s stomach dropped to his knees at the sight of the bag’s contents.

A bomb!

The homemade contraption had a tangle of colorful wires connecting one small black box to a liquid explosive in a clear container. The red digital numbers counting down halted his inspection and hope of disabling it. If his eyes were reading the dropping digits correctly, they told him he had less than two minutes to get off this boat. No time to fool around with wires.

Wes made a dash for the metal door, his hand outstretched for the doorknob before his feet could reach. A twist and pull did nothing. Dear God, no! I can’t be locked in here. He yanked harder and harder. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His hand slipped off the doorknob, also slick with sweat.

A minute five and counting.

Wes contemplated yanking all the wires out but knew that could detonate the bomb immediately. His hand fisted and relaxed, fisted and relaxed as he came to the acceptance that he was locked in here with no hope of an escape.

Thirty seconds.

He looked around the room. The metal locker was his only choice. He made a mad dash for the container with five seconds remaining.

* * *

A loud, muffled bang from the boat’s interior jolted Lydia to her feet, and then down to the boat’s deck. Coffee sloshed all over her before the cup rolled away, forgotten.

Lydia twisted around, pushing herself up on her knees to find black smoke drifting up into the atmosphere, coming from the other side of the yacht.

Questions ran through her mind. What was that bang? Is that a fire making the smoke?

Is Wesley alive?

Lydia jumped to her feet in the same moment the two-way radio on Wesley’s boat chirped. “Wes, do you read?”

Lydia’s lips grew pained from her teeth biting into them. She stood on her tiptoes, squinting to see through the tinted pilothouse’s windows. Where was Wesley? Had he been hurt in whatever that bang was?

“Wes, this is Owen. Do you read?”

Lydia stepped to the side of the boat. She kept her eyes on the handheld radio still chirping, and shot her hand out for it, finding the button on the side. “Owen? This is Lydia. Wesley went aboard a yacht in the ocean and there was some sort of bang, and now there’s a fire on the other side of the hull. He hasn’t come back out. I’m not sure what to do.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know.” She searched the land to give a frame of reference. “I see the ferry dock from here, but it’s pretty far. I see a big red boathouse straight ahead on the island. At least I think that’s what it is. It’s pretty substantial. Looks like it holds a lot of boats.”

“Hang on. I know where you are. I see the smoke now.”

Lydia climbed up on the side to try and get a better view inside the yacht. A few steps later, and her feet hit the vessel’s deck.

She halted. Should she go any farther? Father, I know what I heard was an explosion. If someone is hurt, then that is something I can help with. Please stay with me, though. Lydia ran toward the stairs as Wesley had done and reached the top. She peered in.

Empty.

“Wesley?” she called out again, her voice squeaky like the seagulls. She swallowed hard and called again.

A door at the back of the pilothouse was closed. Lydia stepped up to it, placing her hand on the cold metal latch. She froze in indecision. After a few deep breaths, she opened it toward her and a cloud of smoke hit her in the face. She waved her hand to peer through and found a dark, steep staircase going down to the bottom floor. She took the steps while she listened intently.

No sound of people could be heard ahead, just what sounded like the crackle of fire.

“Wesley? It’s me, Lydia. Are you down here?” she yelled at the last step, standing on the outskirts of a large room filled with flames and smoke.

“Go...back!” A muffled voice grabbed her attention from somewhere close by.

It was Wesley. She was sure of it. Even faint as it was, she knew. She also knew he sounded distressed. Was he hurt or blocked in behind the fire? She couldn’t leave him. But where was he? She could barely see her hand in front of her face. How would she find him in here and in time?

Lydia headed to her right and found a wall. Her hand felt along a few steps. “Hang on, Wesley! I’m coming!”

“No! Lydia, get off the boat! Now!” The voice came from her left. She whipped around to find where he called from. Somewhere on the far side of the room. “I’m coming!”

Her hands went up in front of her to feel her way across the room.

As she stepped out, debris tripped her up. She fell to the floor but kept crawling. A little easier to breathe down near the floor, she crawled forward, but her throat burned from the smoke. Her lungs ached and her eyes burned. She told her body to move, to find Wesley, who was in this room somewhere. He could be hurt. He might need help. She forced her eyes to open and felt heat dry the surface of her eyes as she realized fire lapped directly in front of her. She tried to turn back but couldn’t go anywhere.

Two flaming tongues blocked her in. She’d come to a dead end.

Just beyond the flames, she could hear Wesley banging on something. A door? He was blocked in, too. All she wanted was to help him, but with the barrier of scorching heat between them and around them, she could do nothing for him now.

Or herself.

The flames pressed in, searing her lungs with each of her breaths and leaving little doubt that helping Wesley might have been a bad decision on her part.

* * *

Wesley kicked and kicked, trying to get out of the cabinet. The explosion had dented it, making its hinges unmovable. After many attempts, the door gave way to a smoke-and fire-filled engine room. As hard as getting out was, the cabinet saved his life, and judging by the fact that he was still alive, the bomb hadn’t done what it was supposed to do. It must have malfunctioned...not that he was complaining.

He ignored the pain in the shoulder that had taken the brunt of the impact and the ringing in his ears. He checked the doorway and saw the door had blown off.

He was free—except for the fire blocking his path.

Glad for his fireproofed uniform coat, Wesley hiked it up over his face and began to dodge and weave through the growing flames. The engine could still catch fire and blow the whole boat sky-high, but he wanted to be long gone by then.

Without waiting for three, he went up and over the flickering flames that were blocking the threshold of the room. He landed in a run with balls of fire as obstacles. He still had to get through the lounge, and with the smoke filling the room up, he couldn’t see past the flame in front of him. Weaving left to right, he hurdled over the dangerous bellows one by one until he reached the bottom of the stairs.

When his foot hit the first tread, a cough sounded from behind.

Wesley swung back around to the smoke-filled room. Someone was down here and in the flames. Was it Lydia? Had she stayed down after he told her to leave? Was she in the flames somewhere?

Wesley confronted the inferno again. It crept close to his feet. He wondered how long they had before the whole boat erupted. “Lydia!” he called out, and stepped straight a few paces. “Lydia, are you in here?”

“Wesley?” a faint voice came from the wall with the bar, followed by more fits of coughing.

She had to be on the floor. “Hang on, Doc. I’m coming!” Thoughts for his welfare vanished. He let his mind rationalize that this fact was because someone was hurt on his watch, but somewhere deep inside he knew he never felt such a rising panic over any of his islanders before.

Regardless of why he felt this different response, and regardless of the heat charring his eyebrows, he pressed in farther. Step by step, intense temperatures pushed at him as he pushed through. He edged around each whipping flame, jumping a few that were birthed from other flames. Sweat trickled down the searing flesh of his neck. Smoke clouded his vision and filled his lungs. He hit the edge of the bar and knocked the noxious fumes out in a rush.

“Lydia!” he choked.

“Here!” she answered, her voice close but muffled. “Behind...bar.”

Wesley grabbed the lip of the bar and let it guide him around to the back. The next moment, his foot met her leg, and he dropped to the floor.

The air was a little clearer down here. He could make out her shape and position. She lay curled up in the fetal position, pressed into the back of the bar, her face tucked into her chest and arms. He scooped her up and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “I tried.” She coughed. “To get...to you. But fire—”

“Shh. We’ll talk later. We’ve got to get out of here.” He wrapped his arms under her legs to lift her.

“I’ll...walk,” she said, pushing at his chest.

He ignored her and hefted her up as he stood. “Don’t fight me. You’re no small pixie, and I could drop you in the flames. Put your face into my coat.” With her in his arms, he stepped back into the thick of the smoke. As he instructed, she plastered her face into the crook of his arm while he shielded her long frame as much as he could with his thick-coated sleeve. “Hang on!” he yelled as he made his first sidestep around a hot orange flare.

The door loomed ahead in the black haze. Wesley put his face into his shoulder to take another breath before attempting a leap over the lower of the two flames in front of him. Sharp needles of pain cut his lungs as he landed closer to the exit. He picked up his pace as he stepped forward, nearly free and clear—until a blast roared up in his path too fast for him to avoid.

“My arm!” Lydia cried out.

The sleeve of her parka ignited in fire. The flaring sight knocked the tight air from his chest, but the only thing he could do at the moment was push through. One more leap had him colliding with the wall and depositing her on her feet in the same moment.

She fumbled with the zipper, her hands a trembling mess. His weren’t much better, but he managed to push hers aside to make a clean escape. He ripped her jacket from her back, tossing it to the floor, and grabbed her arm to find her sweater charred through.

“Come on!” Wesley pulled her up the stairs behind him. They just had to get out the door at the top before the boat blew.

Most boats had fire suppression systems in the engine room to extinguish a fire in the engine so it wouldn’t blow, but would that include an all-out blaze like this? And if the person who set the bomb wanted the boat to explode, he might have shut the suppression system down. He remembered her arm and yanked her blackened sleeve up. “How’s your arm?” he asked, his voice scratchy and raw. An edge of anger he couldn’t control layered in it as well. He felt more of that chest-tightening panic from before as he inspected the frayed and burned clothing.

“It’s okay,” she rasped. “I think my flame-retardant thermals staved off the burn all the way through.”

He should have been relieved, but his pumping adrenaline wouldn’t let his fight mode relent. His emotions still felt raw, and so did his words. “Thermals? I’m surprised you planned enough to remember any warm clothes at all.” He pulled her farther up the stairs with him, knowing he pulled her too hard, but only because he fought against the need to pull her into his arms which was what he really wanted to do.

“Why are you so mad?” she asked from behind.

“I told you to get off this boat. What were you doing in there?” He tossed his chin in the direction behind them as they trudged farther up the stairs.

“I couldn’t just leave you in there,” she shot at his back.

“It’s not your job to protect me.” He reached the last two steps and made a grab for the doorknob.

It didn’t budge.

“So sorry,” she said, oblivious of the danger they were back in again. “Whoever was supposed to protect you wasn’t available.”

Wesley went for his gun at his belt but came up empty. Shock made way to remembrance. He’d dropped it in his mad dash for the locker.

Panic set in. They were locked inside a stairwell with a fire creeping up behind them, and he had no way of getting Lydia to safety. His only recourse was to kick the door as he had the locker. He lifted a leg in front of him and jammed it right below the doorknob. His body vibrated, but not the door. “There is no one to protect me—” he kicked “—or miss me—” his shoulder jammed “—or otherwise.” His breaths gained momentum while he leaned against the door for a quick break. This thing must be made of oak, he thought. “I can’t say the same for you.”

“What are you doing?” she cried in a moment of confusion. “Are we locked in?”

“You’re brilliant, Doc.” He swiped the sweat from his forehead. He noticed a wisp of smoke floated passed at eye level. He looked down past Lydia to see bright orange tongues lap up at them as if they searched them out.

In the next instant, Lydia came barreling up beside him, heaving her body into the door. He joined her, and the two of them put every ounce of effort they had into breaking it down. Twice. Twice more. Another heave. Another kick. Exhaustion showed on Lydia’s face, but she didn’t relent. At first her heaves were accompanied by a good black belt’s kiai. Then her voice faded along with her gusto until she stopped her pushing completely.

Wesley pushed on, heaving his shoulder into the door three more times before she placed a hand on his forearm. He heaved again while his gaze locked on her slender-boned hand.

“It’s over, Wesley.”

It’s over? He hated those words, and all their various levels of meaning. An image of the last girl who’d said them flashed in his mind.

Wesley pushed it out and focused on Lydia’s liquid-brown eyes. She wasn’t that girl. She wasn’t a liar like Jenny. The dancing flames reflecting in her glasses proved it. The fire was here to claim them. Her words rang true.

It was over.

The two of them leaned as far away from the rising scorches as they could. Their bodies plastered against the door, their faces inches apart.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was coarse and scratched from the smoke.

“Nothing to forgive.” Her lips trembled while she squeezed his arm in restrained fear.

He couldn’t accept what she was offering him. “I was supposed to protect you. You’re on my island, and I failed you.”

She shook her head. A long tendril of silky hair escaped her tight bun and fell to the side of her stoic face. She faced death with no hysteria. Her fear checked. Nothing out of control but her hair.

Her hair.

Wes grabbed at the sides of her head. He threaded frantically into the sides and back of her silky hair.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Looking for a pin. Do you have any in here?” He continued to grapple at this last attempt to save her.

“A pin? A pin! Yes, I have a pin in here somewhere. Her hands reached up, brushing against his. Their fingers tangled together before she found what they were searching for. A pin keeping her hair pulled back.

She brought the stickpin out and forced it in his hand. “Can you pick the lock?”

“Yes.” He got down to his knees, trying to make a connection with the pin and lock mechanisms as fast as possible, but also carefully so as to make that connection on the first try.

“Can you pick it, like, now?” The panic in her voice told him the fire was on her. He hated to hear her whimper and used that to push him.

“Almost...there!” Wes turned the knob and pushed the door wide. He reached around her waist and threw her out the door ahead of him. Together they fell forward in a scrambling heap away from the door.

He lifted his head to look over Lydia’s. She coughed in fits, but his eyes locked only on a pair of men’s brown boots belonging to someone who stood over them.

Had the yacht owner come home? Wesley pushed Lydia to his left and pooled the last of his resources. After fighting a battle of flames, he still had one more battle to fight.

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