Island Hearts (Jenny's Turn and Stray Lady) (28 page)

It was night when she drifted back to consciousness.

Quiet.

She opened her eyes. A darkened room, lit up every few seconds by the sweep of a light. She was in a bed, not in
Lady Harriet
’s bunk. A thick quilt was pulled up around her shoulders.

The room was sparsely furnished, as if it were seldom used. Beside the bed stood a big chair – too big for the room. A man was sleeping in it. The man from her dreams.

His eyes opened as she watched.

“Awake?” His voice sounded deep and soft, then sharper, “No, don’t try to move too quickly! You’re hurt.”

The pain rushed over her as she tried to sit, then slowly receded. “I think I’ve broken a rib,” she whispered at last.

The water.
Lady Harriet
wrecked on the rocks. She felt pain, as if she were losing Scott all over again. She pushed the memories away.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, “but it’ll be all right if you lie still.”

He bent over her and pulled the quilt back up to her neck. She felt the warm brush of his hand against her cheek. “Just take it easy. The doctor says you shouldn’t try to move much for a couple of days.”

“Doctor?”

She’d been far from anywhere, sailing hard and fast. No doctors. No hospitals. Her eyes searched quickly around the room as the light swept past again.

“Remote-control doctor.” His voice was very pleasing, reassuring, reflecting the warmth she felt from his eyes. “You’re on Green Island Light Station. We found you in the water yesterday evening, after your ship was wrecked. We had the doctor on the radio. He says you sound all right.”

The smile was in his voice and she found herself smiling back, ignoring the pain from cracked lips.

“I’m the doctor’s eyes and hands, and he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong that won’t heal. How do you feel?”

Eyes and hands. Had she dreamed hands on her bare skin, warm and gentle, yet rough with a man’s hard-skinned toughness?

He brushed hair away from her forehead. “How do you feel? Any sharp pains?“

“No,” she whispered, oddly self-conscious of his eyes on her face. Her skin felt stiff, like fragile paper.

“Does it hurt to breathe?” He gestured vaguely towards her chest.

He’d pulled her out of the water. The dreams had been real. His hands had probed her naked body to assess the damage done by her spill in the ocean. She dropped her eyes to her own hands, lying clenched on the bedclothes.

Of course it didn’t matter that he’d undressed her. She had pains all over, as if she’d been battered on the rocks. He’d been right to check her carefully for injuries.

She cleared her throat, forced herself to ignore the rawness that must have come from salt water.

“A lighthouse?” She could feel the rushing water, the noise of the storm. Her memories made the silence seem unreal.

He was unreal too, with gentle dreaming eyes and his hard, callused hands.

“Yes. Green Island. We – my brother and I – found you in the water. Do you remember what happened?”

Wild water, racing out of control. She shook her head. She didn’t want to remember.

“I’m sorry— I have to make sure. There was no one else on board?”

“Just me.” She managed a laugh, until the pain in her chest stopped the laughter, but she was still smiling, saying, “You don’t believe a woman could go sailing alone?“

It seemed oddly important that he should realize she was capable of single-handing her boat, that she didn’t need anyone else.

He shrugged, seemed strangely uncomfortable. “You’re small, and it’s heavy work pulling on sails, even though you’re quite well muscled.”

Her face flamed as his eyes moved over the blankets that covered her, as if he were remembering how her body had looked.

“You’re wearing a wedding ring. Where’s your husband?”

She felt the familiar tide of loss welling up inside, pushed herself up to a half-sitting position, wincing, welcoming the pain that momentarily overwhelmed thoughts of Scott.

“Hey, take it easy!” His strong arms were behind her, taking the weight of her as she started to collapse back against the bed. “Don’t move too fast— let things heal!”

“I’m all right,” she insisted, but she found herself resting against his strong arm, letting him settle her back down without protest.

“You will be,” he agreed softly, “but give it time. Let me look after you.”

Scott had looked after her, kept her out of trouble. She smiled, letting her eyes close.

Then that soft voice shattered her smile. “If you give me your husband’s name and address, I can arrange for him to get word that you’re all right. Or— if there’s someone else I should contact?”

She wanted to drift away again, but he was going to come after her, drag her back with hurtful questions.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she said the words. “He’s dead.”

Lyle was silent a moment, watching her, forcing himself not to show the primitive surge of relief he felt at learning that she did not belong to another man after all.

The sea brought her, and she’s mine.

“Who should we notify, then? Someone must be expecting you.”

Her eyes opened. She shook her head.

“Your family?” he persisted.

He welcomed the laughter that suddenly glinted in her eyes as she whispered, “They’re not expecting me. They’re used to this.”

“Used to shipwrecks?” he asked incredulously, bringing the smile to her lips as well.

“No, I haven’t been shipwrecked before.” She cleared her throat. “Lately I’ve been away a lot, and I haven’t— well, I haven’t always kept in touch.” She stopped talking. He waited, hoping she would say more.

Talking was getting easier. She said, “If my mother and Jenny don’t hear from me, they’ll just decide that I’m off on some crazy adventure. They’d only worry if they knew about this.” She frowned, asked abruptly, “
Lady Harriet
’s gone?”

“Yes,” he agreed casually. She hadn’t talked about the wreck, didn’t seem to want to talk about it.

He went away, returning almost immediately with a bowl of thick, hot soup. He fed her silently until she turned her head away.

“Would you like anything else? Water? Juice?”

She shook her head.

He was a big man, with big hands that held the empty soup bowl awkwardly. The silence seemed filled with some meaning. She forced her eyes away from his, said nervously, “When I was sleeping— I thought there was music.”

The smile curved his lips. “My daughter,” he explained. “She thought you’d like the music, that it would make you feel better, so she brought her Walkman in here, put the headphones on your ears.”

The girl had been his daughter. So he had a family, a wife and child who received the warmth of that smile, the strength of those arms.

Scott… How terribly she missed Scott! More than ever now, lying alone in a strange house on a strange island.

“You don’t need to look after me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as the hoarseness from the salt water made itself felt. “Send me to a hospital or something.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, a gentle amusement showing in those deep blue eyes. “There’s a storm outside. You couldn’t find anyone willing to pilot a plane or a boat out here in this weather.”

“Oh.” Then she smiled wryly, realizing, “No one but me.” She remembered the fisherman who had warned her about the storm.

“Do you want me to send word to your insurance agent? You’ll be filing a claim? You were insured, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” She had renewed the policy just last month. “The papers were on
Lady Harriet
.”

“The agent? You know his name?”

She gave him the name. He went off to radio a message that would be relayed to her agent in Victoria.

Strange man. Muscular and – well, sexy – and radiating the confidence of a man who knew how to deal with life and the world.

A lighthouse keeper? He didn’t seem a recluse, but he had the eyes of an artist or a dreamer, and the hands of a healer – hard, callused hands that were gentle against the painful spots.

What had brought him here? Green Island. She hadn’t seen it in daylight, but on the chart it had been a small blob of land tossed into the north end of Chatham Sound.

What would a man like this want with a life of restricted isolation?

He was evidently a family man, but where was his wife?

He had pulled her out of the water, tended to her needs, removed her clothes. She was dressed in an oversized man’s sweat shirt, and the only female she’d seen any sign of was the small girl with the long, blond hair.

“I have to get up,” she said uncomfortably as he came back through the door. Crazy! She had just turned thirty, was certainly no young girl, but she didn’t know how to tell him that she had to use the bathroom.

“All right,” he agreed easily, pulling back her blankets. “I don’t think you should walk – I taped up a pretty deep gash on your leg. I wouldn’t want you walking on it yet.”

He lifted her easily in strong arms. He carried her into the washroom and stood her carefully on her feet.

“Hang on, will you? Don’t put your weight on that leg. There’s a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. You can use that, and make yourself at home.”

Her eyes went longingly to the bath tub, but Lyle said quickly, “Better wait for that. I wouldn’t want that cut opening up again.”

He left her alone, closing the door carefully behind him, giving her the privacy she needed.

She brushed her teeth, wishing she could close her eyes and make everything disappear. She didn’t want to be stranded here on an island with a man who asked too many questions, even if his eyes were warm and his hands gentle. She should be on her way, out of here.

Oh, God! She had to get moving again, and quickly, or it was all going to catch up with her. Scott. And now
Lady Harriet
.

When she got back into the bed, she somehow managed to sleep, keeping her brain numb enough that none of the memories came to haunt her. The next time she woke, her eyes fixed on a tall man at the foot of her bed.

“I’m Russ,” he identified himself with a self-conscious grin. “Just checking on you. Are you all right?”

For just a second she had thought it was the man with the dreamer eyes. “Your brother?” she asked slowly.

“Lyle, that’s my brother.” He grinned. “Earlier you thought you were seeing double, but there really are two of us.”

Lyle. He’d been good to her in the night. His brother was younger, a little less certain of himself. She asked, “Are there more of you? You and Lyle and a little girl?”

“Robyn. That’s Lyle’s daughter. There’s my wife, Dorothy, but she’s away right now. Do you want anything? Food? A drink? Lyle’s sleeping, so I’m on shift right now.”

“No, thanks.” She closed her eyes, then murmured, “And thanks for rescuing me.”

“Thank Lyle for that. All I did was stand on shore and watch.”

What about Lyle’s wife? Why hadn’t Russ mentioned her?

She slept and woke. Then slept again.

Whenever she woke, she found someone watching over her. Lyle. Robyn. Occasionally Russ. Once she opened her eyes, saw Lyle watching her, and knew that he thought her a very desirable woman.

Three years alone must have left her unusually aware of the hard-muscled attractiveness of a personable man, because she had to stop her eyes from answering his.

Lyle. A married man with a daughter and a mysteriously absent wife.

She slept. She dreamed that Lyle was holding out his hand to her. She drew back, fearful. Then suddenly it was Scott, not Lyle at all. She reached out her own hand, but he disappeared into the fog before she could touch his fingers.

She woke with her hand clutching at nothing.

Robyn was there, sitting in the big chair by the bed.

Her eyes were a paler edition of her father’s. Her hair was blond without the red.

“It’s my recess time,” she told George as she tucked her legs up. “I was doing my ‘rithmatic.” She looked around the room, as she said offhandedly, “I could work in here.”

George was awake more often now, sometimes finding herself alone in the sparsely furnished bedroom. “I’d like that,” she said, watching the smile transform Robyn’s serious face. “Do you do your school by correspondence?”

The long hair swept over Robyn’s face as she nodded. “My dad helps me. I help him look after the lighthouse, an’ he helps me with my school.”

“And your mother?”

The small face darkened and Robyn’s smile froze. Her eyelids dropped and she rubbed her right leg with one hand.

“I’ve got work to do,” she mumbled abruptly, standing quickly and moving away without meeting George’s eyes, limping as if her foot had fallen asleep as she sat in the big chair.

Why did tears come to Robyn’s eyes at the mention of her mother? Why hadn’t Lyle mentioned a wife?

“I think it’s time I got up,” she told Lyle when he brought her dinner later in the day. “I can’t sit here and be waited on.”

“I don’t see why not.” He smiled but his voice was firm. “I’d rather you didn’t walk on your leg.”

“But I—”

“If that cut opens up, I’ve really no idea what to do about it.” He put a plate of sandwiches down on the bedside table, spreading his long arms in a helpless gesture.

She eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t believe that. I’m sure you’d think of something to do in any emergency.”

He grinned, admitted, “Perhaps, but please don’t put me to the test. Are you really in such a hurry to get up?”

Yes, she was. She must get up. Get away from here.

Lyle and Robyn cared for her with unsettling warmth. She wasn’t sure why it bothered her so much. Perhaps because she knew that they had something she was never going to have again. Love. A home.

She met his eyes, couldn’t seem to hold strong against their warm determination. “I— I’d like to go for a walk. I’m not used to being looked after like this.” She shrugged, as she added, “I’m not very good at it.”

That made him laugh. “You’d better practice! Are you a reader? Yes? What kind of books?”

She shrugged, remembering the disastrous attempts Scott had made to pick out books for her. Reading tastes were such an individual thing. “Mysteries, romances. Anything that makes sense. I like my stories to go from beginning to end. I hate books that don’t tell the reader what’s going on. And I don’t like depressing books.”