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Marty stumbled, regained his footing, then lengthened his strides as he raced ever upward. At the summit, Claire pulled on the reins as the gelding snorted and fidgeted, sweat staining his coat. “You’re a trouper,” she said, patting his shoulder as she stared across the narrow bridge of land. To the west, the Pacific Ocean stretched in deepening shades of gray. To the east, the serene waters of Lake Arrowhead reflected the sky’s dusky blue. Between the two was this forested ridge, a place she often visited when she wanted to be alone.
Clucking her tongue, she urged Marty to the edge of the cliff so that she could catch a glimpse of Stone Illahee, her father’s resort that rose from a crescent of sandy beach. Craning her neck, she stared down the steep ridge to the ocean below the jagged rocks. Thunderous waves pounded the shore, crashing wildly against the stony bluffs while shooting frigid white spray high into the air.
Claire sighed. Her worries melted away. Things would work out with Harley. They had to.
A quiet cough broke the stillness.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and, heart hammering, she twisted on Marty’s spotted back. This was private land, owned by her father, and no one who valued his life would be trespassing. In the span of a heartbeat she thought of Ruby’s warning.
Frantically, she searched the woods until, through a copse of trees she spied the Moran boy, a wild juvenile delinquent who had dropped out of school, worked as a gofer for a local paper owned by one of his relatives, and was always a suspect when any crime was committed near the small town of Chinook. His hair was too long, uncombed, his chin in need of a shave, his jeans nearly white from too many washings and now covered with dust. He was squatting near the remains of a dead campfire, a stick in one hand as he scattered the black embers and ash, but his eyes, the color of the brandy her father sipped after dinner each night, never left her.
Despite his dark reputation, Kane Moran intrigued her a little, teased at her curiosity, and she knew, from the few times that she’d run into him and felt his gaze move slowly up her body, that he found her just as interesting. Maybe more so. He was the kind of boy to avoid, one who would only cause a girl deep emotional pain.
“I didn’t know you were here,” she said, as she guided Marty closer to the camp.
“No one does.”
“You know this is my father’s property.”
He raised a golden eyebrow. “So?”
“There are no trespassing signs posted.”
His smile was wicked as he rocked back on his heels to stare up at her. “Oh, I get it. You’re part of the Stone Illahee police department. It’s your job to go around”—he motioned widely with his charred stick—“and throw people off.”
“No, but—”
“Just me?”
“I’m not throwing you off.”
He snorted. “I wasn’t leaving anyway, Princess.”
The endearment—if that’s what you’d call it—irritated her. “My name’s Claire.”
“I know. Everybody around Chinook knows.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“Getting away from it all,” he said, his eyes glinting a bit. “Couldn’t afford the rates down at your father’s resort, so I thought I’d spend some time here.”
“Do you honestly expect me to believe that?”
“Nah.” He shook his head as he stretched to his feet and she realized how tall and rawboned he was. “I don’t really care what you think.”
She eyed his camp—old sleeping bag, expensive camera, knapsack, and empty bottle of sour mash whiskey. Nearby, glinting behind a clump of brush, was a motorcycle, a huge chrome-and-black machine that he used to speed down the highway or squirrel around town. But what was odd—or vaguely appealing to Claire—was that he’d spent the night out here alone, near the fire, staring up at the stars and listening to the never-ending roar of the ocean. Not what she would have expected from a small-time hoodlum.
“So, now it’s your turn,” he said, striding to Marty’s side and touching the animal’s soft nose. “What are you running from?”
“I’m not running from anything.”
His eyes accused her of lying. “Whatever you say.”
“I just wanted to get out of the house.”
“Your old man give you trouble?” He bristled a bit, the corners of his mouth twisting downward.
“What? No. No, everything’s fine . . . Sometimes I need to get away from the same old four walls.”
