Carolina Girl (5 page)

She sure had his number. He’d seen what
overdevelopment had done to southern California and knew exactly how it would
affect this paradise.

Not that he meant to admit it to one Aurora Jenkins. He
worked alone these days.

“I don’t see how I can help you.” He flung
the bottle aside, since she wasn’t buying into his biker attitude. He
should have known she wasn’t stupid. “The state is paying me to do
a job. Once I do it, they have the right to do what they will with the
results.”

Her wide, voluptuous mouth stirred a man’s desire even
when it tightened in a grim line. Clay studied her tempting lips rather than
pay attention to the wealth of emotions flashing across her expressive
features.

“You can help me persuade the state to preserve the
acreage,” she insisted.

“What’s in it for me?” he asked, just to
see how she would react.

“I should have known that was your attitude.”
Rising, she stepped over his stacks of junk in her haste to escape his
deliberate boorishness. “People who have no concern for others are lower
than slugs.”

“A man can manage only so many concerns at
once,” he threw back at her, but she didn’t turn around. Clay
winced at the slamming screen door.

Well, that should safely remove one tantalizing female from
his horizon. Once he shut out temptation, maybe he could get some work done.

Would a game throwing self-righteous Amazon warriors into
dungeons work?

It was either that, or develop an erotic new game involving
beds and hot babes.

“There you go, Jake, the oil filter is
replaced.” Lying on the hot pavement beneath the glittering chrome of a
Harley, Clay wiped his hands on an oily rag. Life was simpler when all he needed
was a wrench and strong hands to make things work.

Do-gooders with redheaded tempers required tools and talents
he didn’t possess.

“Thanks, good buddy. This bum leg is making things
difficult.” Propped against Clay’s bike, Jake leaned over to
scratch an itch beneath his purple cast. The sandy color of his ponytail
disguised any gray, though his darker beard was flecked with silver.

Wriggling out from beneath the massive machine, Clay sat up
and reached for his bottle of water. “Tip the bike on that leg, and
you’ll be lucky to walk again.”

“A man’s gotta have wheels.” The burly
biker lifted his good leg over the motorcycle and bounced up and down on the
seat. “It’s not like I’m going far. You found out any more
about the state buying up the island?”

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Clay shook his head.
“Can’t see how you can stop the state from doing what it
wants.”

Jake threw him a look of disgust. “Come on. Get on
your bike and let me show you what I’m talking about. Let me introduce
you to a few people.”

Clay resisted. Unlike his brother Jared, he didn’t
have a charming bone in his body. He tended to glaze over after a few minutes
of small talk.

Of course, there was always the chance that Jake would
merely show him swampland and introduce him to more people like Jake. Not
having anything more interesting to do, Clay stood, shrugged on his shirt, and
donned his helmet. “Let me drive you. I don’t want to see you break
the other leg.”

He sailed the Harley over the bridge and along the open
highway connecting the string of islands Clay currently called home. The low
country of South Carolina sat at sea level, with hillocks sporting trees
between marshes of long grasses. The road down the center of the islands had
been built on a causeway so it wouldn’t wash away in a storm, but much of
the land around it was more marsh than solid ground.

They drove past Cleo’s sandy lane and into a
tree-covered territory virtually untouched by mankind—the Bingham swamp.
The state park should occupy only the distant acreage near the beach. The live
oaks and hardwoods in the center would no doubt be bulldozed for development if
the rest of the swamp went on the auction block, destroying the pristine
wilderness forever.

About a mile past Cleo’s drive, Jake signaled and
wheeled abruptly down a sandy path almost hidden behind a tumbledown gray shack
that must have once been a fruit and vegetable stand. Remnants of an old wooden
sign reading PEACHES leaned against decaying crates.

By the time they reached their destination—a shack almost
as weathered and tumbledown as the fruit stand—Clay was covered in sweat
and grime and not fit company for anybody.

An old black woman with silver-white hair and a shawl
covering her stooped shoulders appeared on the porch. Beside her stood a frail
young woman with the same sandy hair as Jake, sporting a cane, and wearing a
disapproving frown. Clay ran the back of his arm over his face, hoping to wipe
off a layer of crud, and wishing he’d gone home.

“Hey, Iris, I brought you company!” Jake
remained seated, waiting for Clay to lend a shoulder. “He’s gonna
help us keep our fishing.”

The old woman smiled understandingly, as if she knew
Jake’s bluster for what it was and accepted it. The younger woman, on the
other hand, regarded Clay with suspicion.

“Clay, this here is Grandma Iris, the best sweetgrass
weaver in the South. She’s lived all her life here. And this is my
daughter, Sandra Ann. Everyone calls her Cissy. Ciss, why don’t you show
Clay the sea turtle nests?”

Uh-oh.
He hadn’t figured Jake for the matchmaking
sort. Freezing up, Clay assessed his chances of escape.

“Daddy, you’re not supposed to be on that bike.
And I can’t walk all the way to the beach like this. We’ll both be
crippled up and back in bed.”

“Where’s your sister, then? Didn’t she
drive you out here?”

Sister? Jake had more than one daughter? He’d never
taken the time to learn Jake’s last name or where he lived. Sandra Ann
must live elsewhere if she’d been driven over. Where? In the swamp?
He’d never been curious about Jake or his motives before, but
self-protection might require that he pay closer attention.

Cissy shrugged. “You know Rory. She had a dozen things
to do today. She’ll be back in a little while.”

“There you are, then.” Jake turned around with
an air of satisfaction. “Aurora will take you to the nests.”

Rory...Aurora
! Clay experienced a sinking feeling in
the pit of his stomach at the same time self-destructive interest flared. Could
there be two women with that name in one town?

And if not, did Jake know his daughter was working against
him?

o0o

Without quite knowing how he’d been roped into this, a
short time later Clay found himself accepting a beautifully woven basket with
handles from Grandma Iris.

His first inclination had been to run for his bike and get
the hell out of there. But Iris had patted his arm and settled into a wicker
chair on the porch as if she trusted him to carry out her request without
question. He might be working on a reputation as a surly hermit, but he hated
to disappoint an old lady.

“The grass isn’t far. I can manage.”
Wielding her aluminum cane, Cissy limped down to the sandy yard.

“You don’t have to do this.” Clay offered
a helping hand, but she brushed him off. Apparently stubbornness ran in the
family.

Without wasting words, she headed down a well-worn path that
disappeared into an unforgiving thicket of shrubbery. “If the state lets
developers dry out the wetlands, the sweetgrass will disappear. Basketmaking is
an African art that dates back centuries, but the marshes for the grass are
almost gone.”

An undercurrent in her voice showed her reverence for the
land and the art, so Clay bit his tongue against any cynical remarks. Striding
ahead, he forced a path by holding back branches to let Cissy pass by. He could
appreciate people with a passion for what they did.

Which brought his thoughts around to Aurora again. She was
equally passionate about the land, except she wanted to make money out of it.

“There aren’t many sea turtle nesting grounds
left,” Cissy murmured as she struggled over the path he cleared.
“They return to the same beaches every year and won’t nest where
there are bright lights. Our coast is one of the last remaining places on Earth
where loggerheads nest.”

Clay calculated Jake’s daughter had to be his own age
or a little older, but she appeared worn lifeless. He caught hints of
prettiness in her drawn features, but none of the animation he’d enjoyed
in Aurora. He didn’t see how they could be sisters. Maybe he was barking
up the wrong tree.

Clearing the bushes, he helped her maneuver over a tree
root, but she shook him off once they reached the sunny marsh.

“The grass starts here and runs down to the
beach.” Cissy pointed with her cane to the field of knee-high weeds.

He watched her produce a stout knife and bend over to begin
cutting the long, swaying grasses. He could hear the ocean pounding against the
shore, but a slight rise on the horizon prevented his seeing it.

“The turtle nests are in the dune up by the beach.
Just follow this path and watch where you step. It’s too early in the season
for hatchlings, but sometimes you can see the mother’s trail through the
sand. They only come in at night and go right back to sea after they lay their
eggs.”

Leaving Cissy to her work, Clay ambled down the path through
the reeds. He knew next to nothing about wildlife, but he’d watched giant
turtles on the Discovery channel, and had once considered a trip to the
Galápagos. No harm in taking a look around to see what the fuss was all about.

Of course, if it had been Aurora back there looking stunning
and vibrant and bossing him around, he’d have to balk just to show her
who was in charge. He was starting to anticipate the flash of temper in her
eyes and the way her mouth pulled flat when he irked her. Much better to keep a
temperamental woman like that at a distance.

He almost walked through the turtle path before he saw it.
He assumed it was a turtle path from the immensity and oddness of the way the
grass bent and the sand rippled. He traced it back to a hollow in the dune, but
there all traces of the path had been methodically brushed away. Intrigued, he
circled the hollow. Maybe he ought to research turtles on the Internet. What
kind of creature emerged from the sea to lay and abandon eggs in isolation? How
many of them were there? What did they look like?

And how would they survive with a shopping mall on top of
them?

Grinding more enamel off his molars, Clay stalked back to
Cissy. She regarded him without expression, simply waiting for him to pick up
the basket of grass before leaning on her cane and heading back the way
they’d come. He didn’t see how a nearly invisible woman like this
could be related to the firestorm that was Aurora.

“Whaddayuh think, McCloud? See anything out
there?” Jake bellowed as they returned to the clearing and the shack.

“Interesting,” he admitted, assisting Cissy up
the stairs and setting the basket on the porch. “But that’s not
helping me figure out how to stop the state from buying it all up.”

“Nah, you’ll have to talk to Aurora about that.
She’s got her head in all those bigwig circles, but she didn’t seem
to think you were interested.”

Well, he wasn’t, really. She wanted the state to keep
all the land and develop parks and “small businesses.” He thought
the state should leave nature alone. He didn’t see any meeting ground in
between. Maybe he ought to ask Jake how Aurora’s plans dovetailed with
free fishing, but he didn’t want to start a family argument.

Clay smacked a mosquito nibbling on his forearm, then swiped
his forehead with the bandanna he kept in his back pocket when riding the
Harley. “Aren’t there zoning meetings or something where you can
protest this kind of thing? What about environmental laws? I can’t see
where I can help with any of that.”

Jake swigged from the glass of iced tea Iris had given him
earlier. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he shook his shaggy head.
“You know how to work them computers. That’s more than anyone else
around here. Aurora can tell you what to do.”

Like that would happen in this century. Deciding it was high
time to get out of here before they asked him to walk on water, Clay straddled
his bike and kicked back the stand. “I can write the EPA, I suppose. But
you can’t stop progress. It’s gonna happen one way or
another.” He wouldn’t tell them that he was trying. He’d had
enough of public failure.

Sitting in her porch chair, efficiently weaving dried grass
into a tight circle that would create another of the art-quality baskets
adorning her porch, Grandma Iris intruded upon their discussion. “My mama
was a Bingham ’fore she married. My brother Billy lives just the other
side of town. I’m sorry to say, but he’d sell his soul for a bottle
of ’shine. Aurora says all the state gotta do is buy Billy’s share,
and they can go to court to sell all this. You give the man Billy’s name,
and this time next year, this gonna be mud and bulldozers.”

Oh, yeah, lay the blame on me. Thank you so very much,
Aurora Jenkins
. There was no doubt left in Clay’s mind that there was
only one Aurora in this damned town, and he’d better have a talk with her
before she had half the populace out to tar and feather him.

If this quiet old lady was one of the Bingham heirs he was
hunting, the park was a hell of a lot closer to a done deal than he’d
thought.

He hated it when the anonymous names on his computer came
attached to real people.

o0o

Trailing into the cluttered front room of his beach cottage,
Clay wrinkled his nose at the mess and began pulling off his shirt. Maybe it
was time to start pulling his act together if he meant to deal with the outside
world again.

The outside world—as in Aurora Jenkins. He must be
some kind of masochist to even consider talking to an MBA, but that red-gold
hair and those amazing lips beckoned him more surely than his ideas for new
video games.