Winter's Destiny (5 page)

Nita’s short, black hair whipped her face. “Weatherman says we’re in for another storm. Not the whopper we had last night though. I guess it’s that time of year again.” She ran her eyes down Amy’s tall, slim body, her mouth forming a snarl. “I’d invite you inside, but you probably want to enjoy your time without Jamie.”

Amy winced, and trying to ignore the mockery, pointed to the second story window. “Better close your upstairs window. See you tomorrow night.” Her voice trailed off as she turned and dashed to the Jeep. Yanking open the door, she dove inside. Before backing from the drive, she glanced at the porch. Empty. Nita had taken Jamie inside. Amy stared at the closed door, swallowing down an intense sense of loss that she couldn’t understand. She put the Jeep in reverse. Home, Amy thought,.

The wind was gusting by the time she reached Lighthouse Road. Since the Cape Peril Lighthouse was no longer manned, the narrow, winding coast road had fallen into disrepair and washouts were frequent during winter storms. The Jeep Cherokee rounded a sharp curve in the road. She was at
The Wash
, where the road met the sea. When the waves were up during high tide, the combination of seawater and rain often flooded the road.

A smoky shaft of afternoon light sliced through the cloud and into the rolling sea. With the force of the entire Pacific behind them, the waves crashed heavily onto the bluff, sending spray high into the air, and across the windshield. Amy turned the wipers on high and negotiated the Jeep through the potholes as she continued along the narrow road toward Cape Peril.

She loved the ocean and the coast. For a reason she could never explain, she found herself drawn magnetically to the sea. It gave her a compelling sense of well-being. Her grandfather’s voice echoed in her mind. “
The ocean always makes things right, Girl."

No one was at the Johnson residence when Sheriff Dallas Wayburne arrived, so he walked the property, the beach below, and the state land all the way to the Cape Peril Lighthouse, searching for missed clues and insights into the case.

Amy pulled onto her drive, parked the Jeep beside the Yukon marked, SHERIFF, and walked around the house, looking for him. Stopping at the staircase to the beach, she leaned over the wooden rail, to see if he was down there.

Dallas walked up behind her. Knowing the roar of the waves would impair her hearing, he yelled, “Hello!”

Amy whirled around, her hand flying to her chest. “Sheriff! You scared me.”

“Been told that more than once,” he said, motioning to the house. “Can we talk inside, where it’s quieter?”

He followed her to the wrap-around veranda, bypassing the wheelchair ramp, and through the French doors to the breakfast room. He commented on the ramp. “Did you put that in for a family member?”

“My grandfather,” she told him, closing the double doors.

Dallas walked into the living room. The house was a larger, much more sophisticated version of the mountain cabin he and his father had built years ago: cedar walls and ceilings, massive beams supporting high vaults soaring over thirty feet from the floor, huge stone fireplace that rose to the rafters, and tall wood-framed windows that spanned the back of the house. He looked out across the bay to the open Pacific and whistled softly. “Wow. Some view.”

Amy answered from the kitchen: “That’s why we bought the property. Coffee? Tea?”

Normally he would decline but for a reason he couldn’t quite understand, he accepted, and strolled over to the small breakfast table.

Amy glanced at him over her shoulder. “You haven’t found her yet.” It was a statement thrown to him, as she reached for the coffee beans.

“No, not yet,” he replied, removing his hat and dropping it onto the glass table. He sat down on one of the three chairs.

“Did you find out who she is?”

“Not for certain.”

“Did you ID her fingerprints?”

“Not yet.”

“Not much progress.” Amy chastised him. “When do you think you’ll know something?”

Dallas leaned back in his chair, a smile tugging at his lips. “I could be wrong, Mrs. Johnson, but I believe that I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions.”

Amy gave him a quick glance, and hid a smile, “Yes, of course.”

He added, “An investigation takes time.”

“You’re right. I’m anxious, that’s all. And, as Dan has reminded me, I’ve never been good at handling stress.”

Dallas watched her move lithely around the kitchen, her movements as quick as her thoughts, nothing wasted. She was dressed casually in jeans and a warm sweater. Her striking profile enhanced by long, honey hair swept into the same high ponytail his ten-year-old daughter frequently wore. In spite of Amy Johnson’s youthful look, her presence was overwhelming. That was the part he was having trouble with. He’d best have his coffee and leave.
Maybe I’ve been without a woman too damned long.

Dallas considered her husband. Doc Johnson was a well-known OB/GYN on the coast. Problem was, like many people in Sanville, Dallas had seen the doc with other women more than once. It was difficult to understand why any man married to a woman like Amy would risk his relationship with infidelities. Either the doc was oblivious to his wife’s beauty, or he was insatiable. Unless…there was something amiss with Amy Johnson. “We did learn something,” he said.

Amy pulled two mugs from the cupboard and turned around. “Oh, good.”

Dallas let the remark slide, eyeing her calmly before continuing. “We salvaged the car that went over the cliff. One of the print sets inside the car match the set we lifted from your study window, but like I said, no ID yet.”

Amy froze. Her skin-- flushed from the cool breeze outside—paled. Her eyes grew wide. “Tell me she wasn’t inside the car when it went over.”

“Nope, I’m almost certain she was put into a second vehicle and driven away.”

“Was anyone inside the car when it went over?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Was it her car?”

“It was a late model Taurus, rented yesterday morning from the Budget office at the Portland airport. Woman by the name of
Alesha Eickher
rented it. Recognize the name?”

Amy shook her head. “No, but there's something about the name
Eickher…
”

Dallas continued, “She has a Paraguayan driver’s license. Arrived in Portland yesterday morning on a flight from Miami. We’re checking arrival documentation with immigration in Miami.”

Amy poured coffee into two mugs, placed them on the table, and slipped back into the kitchen for cream and sugar. “What about the hospitals and clinics. She was hurt.”

“Checked. Dead end.”

“So she’s vanished?”

Dallas added cream and four teaspoons of sugar to his coffee. “Doubtful.”

Amy raised her brows as he added two more spoons of sugar. “Doubtful?”

When she sat down, Dallas looked at her closely. Her beauty, in spite of facial scratches, was astonishing. He hadn’t been in the company of a woman, other than for friendship, since his wife had left. “Why,” he wondered, “is this woman having such an affect on me?” He turned his attention to questioning her and listened carefully as she related Friday’s events again. On the window ledge in front of him, were three framed photos of a small, platinum-haired boy with soft gray eyes. When she was finished, he asked, “How old’s your boy?”

Amy smiled at the sudden shift. “Jamie’s five. Very bright for his age, according to the teachers. They say he’s way ahead of the other kids.”

Dallas nodded. He heard pride in her voice and wondered if he sounded the same when he talked about his daughter, Maya. He kept the questions coming. “How many kids did your mom have?”

“Just me. There was a problem during my delivery. She couldn’t have any more children.”

“How old was she when she married?”

“Eighteen.”

“How long before you came along?”

Amy reached across the table for the sugar and added a spoonful to her coffee. “Six months.” She looked at him, expecting a reaction, but he let it go.

Dallas pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket and made notes. “Your mom have any children before she and your father were married?”

Amy frowned. “Not that I know of.”

He sipped the coffee thoughtfully. “How many children did your grandmother have?”

“My mother was an only child.”

“You sure?”

Amy dropped her chin in her hand and looked at him. “Sheriff, if you’re trying to understand how this mystery woman could be about the same age as me
and
look like me, good luck. I live in what’s left of this family and even I can’t figure that out.”

Dallas sat back in his chair. “Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out. We always do.”

Amy eyed him curiously, and then shifted the conversation in a different direction. “You have a southern accent.”

“Texas. Moved here when I was fifteen. Never could shake the accent though. Gives me away every time.” He laughed. “You know what they say, you can take the boy out of Texas but you can’t take Texas out of the boy.”

Amy smiled. “I thought it was the farm they couldn’t take out of the boy.”

“That too. Or in my case maybe it was the ranch.” Dallas realized he was actually enjoying himself. Her smile was radiant. It made her eyes sparkle. He stood abruptly.
Time to go
. “Well, thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Johnson.”

Amy followed him to the front door. He stepped outside and picked up the bag he had left on the mat when he had arrived and pulled out a heeled leather shoe. “Here’s the shoe you lost in the brush last night. Thought you might want it back, although it’s a little damp.”

Amy took the shoe, her fingers brushing his. The slight touch was electric. Their eyes met. Dallas thought. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Loneliness and something more, emptiness, swept over Amy as she watched the sheriff drive away. During the short time he’d been in the house, she had felt safe. More than that, she’d enjoyed his company. His easy manner exuded confidence and strength. He was distinguished-looking and yet she could picture him on a horse, racing across the Texas landscape, as he must have done for years.

Now, alone, she felt tense. The feeling of uneasiness returned. It’s the coffee, she thought; I have to stop drinking so much. She thought about Dallas’s questions, the woman she’s seen at her window, Gramps telling her to leave with Jamie, and Grams incredible reaction to the two photos of Amy.

She felt such trepidation—a sense of foreboding that nagged at her inside. The ominous feeling hung over her and just wouldn’t go away.

Amy wandered into her home study. It was her workspace, saving the long drive to Portland, where her firm had its offices. It allowed her to make only one or two trips a week to the city to meet with clients, liaison with the design team, and pick up change orders and contracts. The rest of the week she worked from her home office.

She knew she was fortunate in many ways: she had a great career as an architect, doing what had inspired her since childhood; she had a wonderful little boy who was the center of her very existence; her husband was a successful doctor with his own practice; and she lived in the most beautiful place on earth with a wall-to-wall view of the sea.

Her eyes rested on the crumpled envelope she had retrieved from the brush. She had brought it back with her from the Portland office yesterday, where it had suddenly appeared on her desk just before quitting time. She knew instinctively that it held something unpleasant. Not wanting to be late picking up Jamie from after-school-care, she had grabbed it and left Portland without opening it. Then, she'd almost lost it in the wind.

Now, Amy picked it up and examined the handwriting on the front. Her name had been penned with care, but there was no return. She dreaded the thought of what was inside, but she’d put it off long enough. Reaching for the letter opener, she slit the fold and pulled out a single sheet of paper. There was no salutation.

I’m sorry to have to write you, but I don’t have the courage to say this to you directly. I admire the work you do and it was in this regard that we were introduced a few years ago, at your Portland office. Since then, I have attended your husband’s clinic and referred a couple of my friends to his practice.

During one of my visits, he made advances toward me. This experience was degrading. Out of respect for you, I didn’t make a formal complaint, although I may still do so.

My closest friend has informed me that something similar happened to her. Unfortunately, your husband and my friend have developed a relationship that extends beyond the examining room. I understand she’s pregnant and I am fearful of the outcome. Not only am I concerned for my friend’s wellbeing (in spite of her foolishness), but I also feel that you should know of your husband’s impropriety.

The words blurred. Amy’s hand dropped to the desktop and the letter fluttered onto the stack of bills. Minutes ticked by.
All those late nights—the clinic, the gym, the hospital, the conferences. She should have guessed. When did it start?

Her thoughts flashed back seven years, to the day Dan asked her to marry him. She could see him as he had looked at that moment: a handsome, self-assured man of thirty standing with his back to the sunset, bare feet planted in the sand, and a ring sparkling in his right hand. Dan Johnson had promised her a romantic life on the coast, where his young practice was already flourishing. They were married as soon as Amy received her degree.
We were in love then,
she told herself.
We were!

Almost two years later, when they learned she was pregnant, Dan had been ecstatic. After Jamie was born, Dan’s attention shifted to their new baby. At first, he was a doting father
.
Then, things changed in their marriage. They didn’t resume their lovemaking with any frequency. Dan started to pull away from her. One particular evening, six months after Jamie’s birth, she and Dan had been getting ready for bed. She had walked up behind him and put her arms around him, resting her cheek against his back. She felt him stiffen at her touch. She had been shocked by that and asked him, “Don’t I appeal to you anymore, Dan?”