The moment his thought went back to her, especially in the clearing chill of the evening air, Rafe’s mind wandered over to the western shore to a woman who was waiting for someone who hadn't come.
18
ISLA
The fox shifter had shown up at her door just after she had gotten cleaned up and was putting tea on night before.
She'd been ready. Not that she'd admit that to anyone, but the kitchen was clean, the stove was loaded, she'd changed her shirt twice before settling on one that wasn't trying too hard. When the knock came she'd taken a breath, smoothed her hair, and opened the door to find a short, the same man from which she had left the hill with, standing on her porch holding his hands behind his back like a schoolboy delivering bad news.
"Miss Green?"
"Yes."
"Rafe sent me. He can't make it tonight." The man had spoken quickly, already shifting his weight toward the path like he'd been instructed to keep it short. "He found Sloane. He's going to get answers. He said he'll be in touch."
"That's it?"
"That's the message."
She'd stood in the doorway for a moment, processing. The man had watched her with those inquisitive eyes, not unkindly, but clearly under orders not to linger.
"Thank you," she'd said.
"Yes, ma'am." And he was gone, disappearing back down the birch path with the quick, light step of someone built for speed rather than confrontation.
She'd closed the door. Unloaded the stove. Changed back into her regular shirt. Made tea she didn't drink and sat at the window seat watching the path until the light went out of the sky, which was a pathetic thing to do and she'd known it while she was doing it.
She wasn't disappointed. She understood. He had a ship to fix and a man to confront and those things mattered more than making small talk. She would have done the same. She respected the choice. She was fine.
She was not fine, and the lake had known it, the water going choppy under a clear sky for twenty minutes before she'd gotten her breathing under control and gone to bed.
The next morning she took her tea to the shoreline and sat with her feet in the cold shallows, letting the lake do what the lake did, pull the charge out of her hands, settle the static in her blood, give her something steady to lean against. By ten she felt closer to normal. By eleven she'd decided to walk the river path to check the water level near the dock turn, where the spring runoff tended to undercut the bank.
She was crouched at the water's edge, measuring the erosion line against a marker stone she'd set three weeks ago, when she heard footsteps on the path behind her. Unhurried. The stride of someone who wanted to be noticed.
As she stood and turned around to face the uncomer, she noticed that the man was tall, lean, well-dressed for a river road in a coat that looked expensive and boots that had never seen real mud. Dark hair swept back from sharp features, pale brown eyes that caught the late-morning light with an almost amber warmth. He was handsome in a polished, deliberate way, likea room that had been staged for company. Mid-forties, maybe. Smiling.
"Miss Green," he said. "I was hoping I'd find you out here."
"Do I know you?"
"Not yet. But I know you." He stopped about eight feet from her, a calculated distance. Close enough to talk. Far enough to seem respectful. "My name is Malrick Sloane. I'm a merchant."
She kept her face still. "I've heard your name."
"From Captain Lupeus, I imagine. He's not my biggest fan." The smile didn't waver. "May I walk with you, or would you prefer I keep my distance?"
"I'd prefer you tell me why you're here."
"Direct. I appreciate that." He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at the river, the water moving fast over the rocks near the bank, swollen with spring runoff. "I came to Hollow Oak on business. Trade routes, supplier contacts, the usual. But when I arrived and learned there was a stormcaller living here, I admit my priorities shifted."
"Shifted how?"
"I became curious." He turned those pale brown eyes on her. Up close they were sharper than the warmth suggested. "Stormcallers are rare, Miss Green. Vanishingly rare. Most of the historical accounts I've read end the same way. The power consumes the carrier, or the carrier consumes everything around her. The fact that you're standing here, alive, practicing control on an orchard meadow in a hidden town in the mountains, suggests you've figured out something the others didn't."
"Obviously you’ve been following me. I don’t appreciate that.”
“Like I said.” He smiled and it gave Isla goosebumps. “Curious.”
