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And you’re considered an adult in a court of Oregon law. Anything illegal you did, could send you to prison rather than juvenile hall. Claire didn’t say it. Didn’t have to.
“Just remember our pact. Stick with our story. Everything will work out.”
The words sounded hollow, but Claire didn’t argue as she passed her parents’ room, where the rumble of heavy snoring and the ticking of Dominique’s antique crystal clock could be heard.
Stealthy as a cat sneaking up on an unwitting bird, Claire slipped down the stairs and through the kitchen. For the first time since Jack’s death she was grateful that Ruby, who sometimes had appeared at five in the morning, wasn’t around.
Outside the sun was just beginning to chase away the night. The new dawn was fresh, evidence of the storm visible in the puddles and litter of branches in the yard, but the air smelled clean, and the mist that had settled over the lake began to rise.
Claire entered the stables, threw a bridle over a surprised Marty’s head, and led him through a series of paddocks before opening a final gate and, with a running start, hopped onto his bare back.
He sidestepped just a bit, then once she was astride and pressing her knees into his ribs, the horse responded, loping up the familiar trail, splashing through puddles, jumping over a few fallen logs.
Towering stands of old growth timber spread lacy needled branches overhead, allowing little of the gray light of dawn to pierce the forest floor.
“Come on, come on,” she urged, as the little paint edged ever upward, past an outcropping of clay-colored rock to the crest of the ridge, the sacred, haunted spot of the Native Americans—the place where Kane had camped before.
She licked her lips nervously as the horse rounded a bend in the trail, her eyes scanning the still-dark timbers.
Her heart beat a sharp cadence of anticipation as she reached the clearing and spied him leaning against the mossand fungi-covered bark of a tree. A shadow of a beard darkened his chin, his hair was wild and uncombed, his leather jacket battered, his Levi’s threadbare and sun-bleached. A cigarette burned slowly between his fingers.
Tears of relief burned in her eyes as she slowed her mount.
A dying campfire sent up a smoldering curl of smoke, and a tarp had been strung between two trees to protect his motorcycle and bedroll.
“Lookin’ for me?” he drawled. His blade-thin lips barely moved, and his eyes were the intense shade of aged whiskey she remembered. Her heart cracked. “Yes.”
“Thought you might be, so I waited.” He tossed his cigarette into the fire and started toward her. She was off the horse in an instant as she raced over the uneven ground and flung herself into his arms. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and all she wanted to do was hold on to him. To cling to him forever and never let go.
His arms surrounded her, giving her a warm haven, silently promising her that everything would be all right. “I heard about Taggert.”
She let out a long, pained cry and felt the world tilt all over again. “Oh, God, Kane, it’s my fault.”
He stiffened. “Yours?”
“I broke off the engagement. Gave him back his ring.” She was sobbing now, the words rushing out of her like water spilling through a broken dam. “Down at the marina. He was drinking on the sailboat and . . . and I left him.”
“Shh.” He kissed her crown and the scents of smoke, leather, and musk surrounded her in a comforting mist. “It’s not your fault.”
“But he was upset and . . . and . . . I had the night watchman look in on him . . . but . . .”
“But nothing.” Taking her hand, he led her to the tent and sat beneath the sodden tarp on the dry ground. Still he held her, his arms offering support as she leaned against him. “It’s gonna be all right.”
“How? He’s dead, Kane. Dead!” Broken sobs escaped from her throat as she pounded feebly on his chest.
“And you’re alive. Don’t beat yourself up over it, Princess.”
“Don’t call me—”
“All right. Hang in there. I’m here, Claire. You knew I’d be here waiting for you, didn’t you?”
Of course she did. That’s why she’d come. Guilt trod eagerly over her bare soul. “I—just—didn’t love him enough.” Sniffing loudly, she pulled back to look into Kane’s eyes. “Because of you.”
“It’s not your fault.” He shifted his gaze to her lips, and she knew they had to be swollen, her eyes were red and wet, her skin mottled. “You did nothing wrong, Claire. Nothing.” Staring at her, he pulled her close again and his lips found hers. No longer gentle, he kissed her with a pent-up passion and heat she’d never felt before. Hard, eager lips demanded more. He wrapped those strong arms around her until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and the pain slowly faded away to be replaced by desire, a slow deep throb that pulsed deep within her. His tongue rimmed her lips, and she opened to him, body and soul, knowing that he would soon be gone, and throwing caution to the wind.
Somewhere in the back of her mind Claire knew that kissing him was wrong, that she was too emotionally drained to make the right kind of decisions, but she didn’t care. He was warm and comforting, his hands, as they touched her, hard and callused, the heat uncoiling deep within her, moist and wanting.
His fingers found the hem of her sweatshirt and touched her back, tracing the curve of her spine, sending desire racing through her blood, numbing the sorrow and guilt that were just beneath the surface of her consciousness.
