Something else was different, too—the old Pryor place. The run-down cabin had apparently been rented. A beat-up car, maybe an old Buick or Pontiac, was parked crookedly in the gravel driveway.
The car matched the house. Colton shook his head. He hoped whoever was living there would fix up the structure. The cabin had looked on the verge of collapse for years. He wondered how it was even livable.
Whistling softly, he cut his motor and dropped anchor. The rope played out to about fifteen feet—not bad for sand bass. He chose a brightly colored spinner lure, attached it to his line and cast, admiring the flash of orange as the lure arched across the water and dropped with a soft plop.
Contentment—or as close to that particular state of mind as he got these days—kept him still, motionless and waiting. Any moment, the sun would burst over the horizon, welcoming the day in a blaze of scarlet.
A group of ducks swam past in a loose V-formation, quacking cheerfully. He watched them while he reeled slowly, feeling the resistance the lure made as it spun a few feet below the water. The ducks went ashore in the trees near the Pryor cabin, some settling in the mud at the edge of the water, others heading into the woods to forage.
As he pulled his lure out of the water and prepared to cast again, the wild ducks erupted in a flurry of noise, taking to the water as though a saber-toothed tiger pursued them. Colton grinned, straining to see if he could catch a glimpse of what had caused such alarm. Most likely it was some half-starved cat on the prowl.
There, at the edge of the trees. Instead of an animal, he could have sworn he saw a glimpse of pale human skin shining through the unruly underbrush.
Puzzled, he set his rod and reel on the deck and pulled anchor. Starting his motor, he eased the boat closer to the shore, running aground in the soft mud. Jumping out, he tied the anchor rope around a sturdy tree and went to investigate.
Definitely a person.
Blanching, he swallowed. Took a deep draft of air, trying not to gag. Though it wasn’t the same, couldn’t be the same, he couldn’t help but remember Angela, his daughter. He’d found her, dead and facedown in the dirt, and the image of her crumpled body would forever be burned in his mind.
This. Was. Not. The. Same. Hell, no.
He blinked, dragging his shaking hand across his unshaven chin. Not Angela. He hoped like hell he wasn’t about to stumble over the bloated body of some hapless drowning victim, just now washed up on shore. If he did, he wasn’t sure his sanity would survive it.
Get a grip. He took another deep, shuddering breath. If this was a human body, he’d have to find a way to deal with it. He hadn’t heard of any recent drownings or boating accidents. And as a reporter for theAnniversary Beacon,he should know. But what he’d seen had definitely looked like a body. What else could it be?
Pushing through the underbrush, he saw in a moment. Facedown in the dried and dead leaves, long blond hair spread around her in a tangled mess of twigs and dirt, lay a woman.
Young. Shapely.And stark naked.
He staggered. Nausea again filled his throat. Straightening, he cast his gaze skyward, not praying, not exactly. He could do this, he could. He had to—no way could he leave this woman lying here, alone and unprotected. Especially after what had happened to Angela.
This wasn’t Angela. His daughter was two years gone, practically the only thing remaining to show she’d ever lived a simple granite marker over her grave. His ex-wife had destroyed everything except the few photo albums he’d managed to save.
He took a step forward, pushing the past away and focusing on the present, on this woman. Was she dead? He grabbed her wrist, finding an erratic heartbeat. Alive. So far, so good.
Unconscious though. A slow trickle of blood oozed from under her fingernails, though he saw no wounds. Forcing himself to inspect her body, he saw nothing else. The woman didn’t appear to be hurt in any other way.
Drunk? Drugged? Or had she been the victim of an attack?
The sight of her lying reminded him of his ex-wife’s many excesses. Okay. He tried for a charitable thought, knowing not everyone was an addict or a boozer. Was it possible this woman was seriously ill? Or had she been abused or raped? The blood on her fingers could be from her attacker.
Either way, she was in trouble and needed help. Since he wasn’t a doctor or paramedic, he flipped open his cell phone to call 911.
“Don’t,” the woman croaked, rolling over and pushing herself up on one elbow. Dried leaves clung to her tangled hair and he fought the surprising urge to brush them away. Instead, he focused on her face. Her startling green eyes, though full of pain, appeared clear and drug free.
“I don’t know. You were unconscious and—”
“Please. I’ll be all right.” She blinked rapidly, several times. “Other than my contacts hurting. Don’t call anyone.”
Slowly, he closed the phone. Something about her…She looked vaguely familiar, though he was certain he hadn’t seen her around town. No one could forget a woman who looked like her. “What happened to you? Are you ill? Were you attacked?”
“Yes. No.” She shook her head, sending twigs flying from her hair. “I don’t know.” Licking her lips, she regarded him, curiously unself-conscious about her nakedness.
Colton, however, was only a man. He couldn’t help but glance at her full, high breasts, the sleek curve of her waist, her pale, creamy skin. Immediately, his body reacted. Of course it did. He’d been a long time without satisfying the most basic, human need.
Damn. He tore his gaze off her, searching for her clothes. A flash of red caught his eye. Material, in a crumpled heap a few feet away. Clothing? He went over and retrieved what turned out to be a soft cotton sundress.
“Here.” Voice gruff, he handed her the dress. “Put this on.”
