Stranded (14 page)

Knowing Clint wouldn't take no for an answer, Darcy finally relented and agreed to dinner. But a massage at the hands of a man she'd just met—even if it was his job—seemed far too personal.

Clint appeared to accept the compromise and said he'd be by her cabin in forty-five minutes to escort her to dinner.

At nine thirty, a knock rapped on her door. A part of her hoped it was Gage, but it was Clint, looking rather dapper in a fresh pair of dark blue jeans, leather loafers, and a light-blue dress shirt covered with a navy cable-knit sweater.

Clint smiled, taking in her faded jeans, black leather boots, and a black cashmere sweater. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks.” She didn't much care how she looked, but she finally felt warm and relaxed from her shower, and there was a lot to be said for a fresh change of well-fitting clothes.

“You're going to need a jacket.”

“Okay.” Why would she need a jacket? So far she'd found the ship's restaurants to be quite warm. Without questioning, though, she simply grabbed one and slid it over her shoulders.

“Ready?” he said with a smile.

Not even close.
If she was going to be spending time with anybody, she wanted it to be with Gage. But he clearly wanted his space, and who knew, maybe after sharing the ordeal they had, Clint would be more open to talking—she could keep hoping.

Clint led the way up to level seven and then, to her surprise, out onto the deck, leading her toward the bow of the ship. A small table was set for two, and one of the waiters she recognized from the ship's kitchen stood ready to serve.

“Clint, it's lovely, but you shouldn't have gone to all the trouble.”

“After the day you endured, it was the least I could do.” He held out her chair. She sat and he slid her in.

It felt all wrong being here. She should be looking for clues, asking questions about Abby. . . .

She studied Clint as he took his seat opposite her and smiled.

On second thought, maybe this was exactly where she was supposed to be.

“This is quite the setup,” she said, taking in the linen tablecloth and perfectly arranged place setting.

Clint arched a brow as he laid his napkin across his lap. “Setup?”

“Display.” That wasn't the right word either. “That came out wrong too. I just meant you went to a lot of trouble and it's beautiful.”

He smiled. “You're welcome.”

A cool ocean breeze wafted over the bow of the ship—the sea air fresh and crisp. She slipped her jacket over her sweater, now understanding why he'd said she'd need one.

“How's Phillip?”

“Doing fine. They stitched him up in the clinic, put him on
antibiotics to fight infection, and hooked him up with some pain meds. He's resting rather comfortably.”

“I'm glad to hear that. Kind of scary to think how easily something like that can happen.”

“If he'd stayed within camp, it wouldn't have. People need to learn to obey the rules.”

“I'm sure he just wanted some privacy.”

“There's no need to go that far from camp, ever. There's a reason we say to stick close.” He lifted his glass and took a sip as the waiter set their salads before them. “Thank you, Adam.”

The waiter nodded. “Your entrees won't be long.”

“Looks like you have some sway around here,” she said as Adam slipped back inside.

“I just called in a favor.”

“So that's how it works around here. Quid pro quo?”

“Isn't that how it works everywhere?” He smiled. “Go ahead. Dig in. I'm sure you must be starving.”

Not having eaten since breakfast, she was ravenous.

She lowered her head and thanked the Lord for her meal, for His protection and preservation.

Clint didn't miss the gesture. He smiled when she looked up. “Now there's something you don't see every day. I'm enjoying getting to know you better, Darcy.” He speared a piece of lettuce. “So, any word on the body you found?”

“Only that he was male and had been in the water awhile.”

“I can't imagine they'll be able to make any sort of identification after it's been under so long.”

“There's always dentals, conferring with missing-persons reports, that type of thing.”

“You seem to know a lot about this.”

She took a bite of her salad, stalling for the best response. “CSI fan.” She smiled.

“Uh-huh.”

“Plus, I overheard the excursion leaders talking while I was down there.”

“Yeah, you were there awhile. With them.”

Had Clint been one of the onlookers from the
Bering
's decks?

“I suppose I was in shock—remaining with the excursion crew seemed the natural thing to do.”

“Yeah, I've noticed you are quite close with them.”

She shrugged. “They're easy to get to know.”

Clint studied her as he took another bite of salad, clearly not buying her explanation, or at the very least, finding it thin. He was astute, and that could prove to be a very good thing for her if he chose to talk, or a serious negative if he caught on to the fact that she wasn't what she appeared.

Time to shift the direction of the conversation. “The chief of police said whoever it was wasn't local. They think he must have been a tourist.”

“How could they possibly know that?” Clint asked.

She explained, poking at her salad as she did so, but watching Clint's reaction, she couldn't decide whether it was surprise on his face or something a little darker.

The moon was full and the sky clear, providing them with plenty of light along with the deck lighting and a strategically placed table candle.

She waited until Adam cleared their plates and delivered their main course—coq au vin—before leaning forward and dropping the proverbial bombshell. “They think the remains could be those of a man named Drake Bowen.”

Clint coughed, choking on the bite of chicken he'd just taken. After a moment he composed himself, taking a sip of water and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin.

“Are you okay?”

“You just startled me. Drake Bowen is a name I haven't heard in a while. How did you hear about him? I mean how did you know . . . ?”

“One of the gals on the excursion was talking about the Bowens around the campfire last night.”

“Really? Who?”

“Whitney.”

“Then she should have told you that Bowen killed his wife and took off. Don't see how it could be his body.”

“That's just it. There was apparently some speculation that Bowen was telling the truth and when he went to look for his wife—”

“What?” Clint cut in.

Darcy set her water glass down. “I don't know. Maybe while searching for her, Bowen got too close to the water and fell in. Or maybe—”

“No. I mean what speculation? Bowen killed his wife. Her blood was found in their tent.”

“Were you on that excursion?” He'd said he'd worked on the
Bering
for five years. It made sense he'd been on it.

Clint swallowed and looked down. “I was, and it was terrible. How a man can kill his own wife . . .” He shook his head. “I'll never understand.”

“So you think he did it?”

“Everyone did. It was so obvious.”

“Based on?”

“Didn't you see the news coverage? I thought everyone heard about the husband who killed his bride on their honeymoon.”

“I vaguely remember hearing something about it.”

“Tragic. Just tragic.”

“Whitney said she had a friend on that cruise and that not everyone was convinced of Bowen's guilt.”

“I think Whitney has her facts confused.”

“But if Bowen killed his wife, how did he end up in a river?” Darcy asked.

“They don't even know if it is Bowen. And if it was, maybe he got too close to the river's edge while trying to flee and got sucked into the vortex. Either way he killed his wife.”

“It must have been hard. Witnessing that. Being there.”

“It was. Not too often you're exposed to something like that.”

“What do you mean? Have there been other times?”

“Husbands killing their wives? Not as far as I know, at least not on any of Destiny's ships.”

“What about disappearances?”

“What?” Clint cocked his head.

“I've heard some of the crew talking about Abby's disappearance.”

“Abby didn't disappear. She left.”

“The day after someone went overboard. Seems pretty suspicious to me.”

Clint topped off his wine glass. “You're quite the amateur detective, aren't you?”

“I just find it curious. Someone goes overboard. The crew refuses to say who, and then Abby
conveniently
leaves the
Bering
without any notice.”

He lowered his glass. “You're not going to stop with this until you get some answers, are you?”

“Most definitely not.”

He set his napkin aside with a sigh, checked to be sure they were alone, and leaned forward. “I could get in a lot of trouble for this. Seriously, I could lose my job if anyone
heard I was telling you this, so anything I say has to remain confidential. Understood?”

“Understood.” She nodded, practically salivating.
Finally,
she was getting somewhere.

“I can't tell who I heard it from, but it was Abby that fell overboard.”

“Fell?”

“That's what I heard. She'd been drinking too much, stumbled out onto the deck. It was slippery. She got too close to the rail and fell overboard.”

“No way!” Abby didn't drink. She was allergic to alcohol. But she couldn't say that. Not without blowing her cover.

Clint held up his hands. “I'm just relaying what I heard. The lady was lucky. She was rescued and taken to the hospital on Kodiak, since we were so close to land.”

“And then?”

“And then she decided not to come back. Can't say I blame her. Falling overboard has got to be terrifying.”

“So, you're saying she got to the hospital and decided not to come back?”

“That's what I heard.”

“From who?”

“Can't say or he could lose his job for talking.”

“I don't understand. Why all the secrecy? Why not just come out and announce who fell overboard?”

“You really don't get it, do you.” Clint chuckled before taking a sip of wine. “Destiny wants to erase the incident from people's minds as quickly as possible. She fell over. They rescued her. End of story.”

“Then why not just say so?”

“They did.”

“But they wouldn't say it was Abby.”

“Of course not. They only release the name to family or, if they have any, to their traveling companions. Destiny policy. It's a kindness to Abby, really.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You really think Abby would want everyone aboard the
Bering
to know she drank too much, got clumsy, and fell overboard?”

But that was
not
what happened. “Where is she now?”

Clint shrugged. “Who knows? Destiny doesn't keep track of its employees once they leave the job.”

“Do you know who was part of the rescue crew that night?”

Clint paused, his fork full of chicken partway to his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“The rescue crew that pulled Abby out of the water. Do you know who they are?”

“'Fraid I can't help you there.”

“But you're a medic. Wouldn't you have been involved?”

“I'm not the only medic on board. Besides, I had a massage client at the time.”

“At ten thirty at night?”

“A lot of the clients like an in-room massage before bed.” He set down his fork and shoved his plate aside. “Seriously. What's up with you? Why all the questions?”

She'd said too much. Pushed too hard.

“I'm sorry. I guess I'm just all spun up from nearly drowning and then seeing a dead body or what was left of it. . . .”

Clint stood, walked around the table, and knelt at her side. “Come here.” He held out his arms.

The only arms she wanted to be in were Gage's, but she didn't want to be rude. He was trying to help. And she needed to do a little damage control. She'd definitely pushed too hard.

She let Clint hug her without fully leaning into his embrace.

“What you need is a good massage. Loosen up all the knots. Make you forget about today's events.”

“Thanks. That's really kind of you, but I think I better just crawl into bed and call it a night.”

He released his hold and stood. “Are you sure?” He held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. “I've been told these are magic hands.”

So she'd heard. She forced a smile. “Thanks, but I'm sure.”

He shrugged. “Some other time, then.”

She stood. “Thank you for dinner.”
And a very enlightening conversation
.

“Anytime. You get some sleep.”

Darcy didn't waste any time rushing to Gage's cabin and lightly rapping on the door. He answered in a pair of sweat bottoms, and her gaze once again fastened on the tiny blue footprints above his heart.

He raked a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock. “What's up?”

She stepped past him into his cabin. “We need to talk.”

Kayden stepped from her tent to find Jake at the fire. She'd been trying to build up her courage ever since returning to camp. She had to face him, had to look him in the eye and apologize for thinking the worst of him.

The temperature had dropped another ten degrees, and despite the clear sky, the scent of rain hung in the air.

She was hopeless when it came to personal stuff. She felt affection and sorrow deeply but couldn't express them. That was Piper's strength. Kayden was best at keeping it all stuffed down deep, at being the independent one, at being strong and stalwart.

I don't even know where to begin my apology to Jake, Father. I've doubted his character, maligned his integrity, kept him at arm's length when I couldn't have been more wrong about the man he is and what he's suffered. Please, give me the words. For once let them pour from my heart. Help him to know how genuinely sorry I am for misjudging him for so long.

Jake stoked the flames as she approached, sparks flickering into the black sky.

She slid her hands into her jacket pockets—the fleece snug and warm—and took a seat on the log.

He didn't bother looking up. “She told you.” It wasn't a question.

“Only after we pressed her. You were right. I wouldn't let it go.”

He tossed the branch he'd been using to stoke the fire into it and stood.

She stood with him. “But I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.” How could he accept a measly apology after the way she'd treated him? “I don't even know where to begin.”

“It's fine.”

“What?” How could he say that?

“Really. No worries. Let's leave the past in the past—where it belongs.”

“But I . . .”

He didn't give her a chance to respond, just headed for his tent.

Jake kicked off his boots at the entrance and stepped inside his tent. The thick mat tarp did little to insulate his socked feet from the cold earth underneath.

He hadn't thought a heart could possibly shatter any more than his already had, but he was wrong.
Painfully
wrong.

Kayden's eyes—always so full of strength and determination—now brimmed with pity for him. It was more than he could bear.

Losing Becca and their little girl had nearly destroyed him. It'd ended his desire to be a cop, ended his desire for much of anything. . . . And then he'd landed in Yancey and met the McKennas. Slowly he'd begun to trust again—worse yet, to
hope
again.

But now that they knew, now that Kayden knew, they'd
pity him, and he couldn't stand the thought. He'd worked so long to keep the memories at bay. To erase the image of Becca dead on the road, not a block from their home, her beautiful brown eyes lifeless. But now he was Jake Cavanagh again—the Jake Westin Cavanagh he'd thought he'd left in Boston, buried with his wife and child.

Darcy tried to keep her eyes off Gage's tattoo, off his washboard stomach, off him
period.
She didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable—at least not more so than she already had.

“What are you doing here, Darcy?”

“Like I said, we need to talk.”

“At midnight?”

“Yes.” She stared at the still-made bed with pillows propped against the headboard and a nearly finished book lying open-faced on the seashell quilt.

Gage shut the door behind her and tugged a shirt off the back of the desk chair, sliding it over his head. “How'd your date with Clint go?”

“My . . . ?” Her eyes narrowed. “How'd you know about that?”

“Word spreads quickly among the crew.”

She paused at that, wondering if he was keeping tabs on her—and she rather liked the notion. “Well, it wasn't a date—not in the traditional sense—and what's important is what I learned.”

Gage leaned against the closed door. “Which is?”

“Clint confirmed it was Abby that went overboard.”

He stepped from the door, moving toward her. “Really?”

“Yes.” She sank on the bed, tucking a leg beneath her.

“And he knows this, how? Was he part of the rescue crew?”

“No, but like you said, word spreads among the crew.”

“Okay, so what happened?”

“Clint said his source, for lack of a better word, told him Abby was taken to Kodiak Hospital, and word is she left from there.”

“We knew as much.”

“But Clint's the first from the crew to actually acknowledge it was Abby that went overboard.”

“And that's significant, how?”

“For one, we now
know
Abby went overboard. Whether or not she was the one who made it to the hospital three hours later is a totally different question. Clint said the rumor among the crew was that Abby was drunk, got too close to the railing, and fell overboard.”

“All right.”

“Not all right. Whoever said that is lying.”

“And you know that, how?”

“Because Abby is allergic to alcohol.”

“I've heard of that. . . . She's actually allergic?”

“Yes. Docs weren't sure what in alcohol was causing her severe allergic response. They rattled off a list of ingredients she might have been reacting to, but Abby didn't care what the cause was—two severe reactions were enough. She's avoided alcohol altogether since our senior year of college.”

“Interesting.” Gage sat on the bed beside her. “Did you call Clint on it?”

“How could I without exposing the fact that I knew Abby better than I claimed?”

“Right. Don't want to blow your cover.”

Was that sarcasm clinging to his words? Though she could hardly blame him after the day's events. “Gage, we need to
find out who was part of that rescue crew. They were the last ones to see Abby alive.”

“Clint's a medic. Did you ask him?”

“Yes. He wasn't part of the rescue crew, and he doesn't know who was.”

“And you don't find that odd?”

“He was giving a massage at the time.”

“You don't think medics chat amongst themselves? Any of us working SAR discuss our cases in hopes that it may be of help or instruction to someone else one day.”

“Either way, he said he didn't know, so we need to find another way to get that information.”

“And how do you propose
we
go about that?”

“I'll talk to Clint again in the morning. See if I can't get him to ask around for me. It'll be less conspicuous that way.”

Gage sat forward, his arms resting on his thighs. “Sounds like you've got it all sorted out, so if we're finished here . . .”

She rested a hand on his knee to stop him from getting up. “I am truly sorry about earlier, about putting you in that position with Mullins. It wasn't fair of me.”

He exhaled. “But you're going to keep pressing forward.”

“I don't have a choice.”

With a sigh, he stood. “It's late, and it's been a rough couple of days. We should both get some sleep.” He held his door open.

There was so much more she wanted to say, but would he even listen? If only she could go back to that moment as they stood before the fire, when his lips hovered over hers.
If only
 . . .

“'Night, Gage.” She stepped out the door, and he shut it behind her.

Gage plopped back on the bed, frustration flaming through him. He'd covered for her at the risk of ruining LFA's reputation. What was wrong with him? Watching Darcy standing there so bravely, ready to admit the truth to Mullins, knowing it would cost her the excursion gig, he couldn't let her do it.

He punched the pillow beneath his back, scrunching it into place, and retrieved his Cussler novel. He had to clear his mind of Darcy St. James.

A half hour and a finished novel later, he clicked on the TV, only to find nothing—nothing but the
Bering
's closed-circuit announcements.

Wonderful
. He tossed the remote aside. And of course he hadn't brought a spare book. With a sigh, he tugged open the nightstand drawer in hopes that a previous guest had left a book behind, but found only a brown leather-bound Gideon Bible.

Figures. Die of boredom or read the Bible.

He grabbed the book and kicked back on the bed, flipping to the first chapter of the first book—Genesis 1.
“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.”
The verse tugged at his heart. He recalled it from his youth spent in church, but that was before everything fell apart.

He considered tossing the book aside, but glancing at the clock and finding it barely past one and himself wide awake, he decided anything was better than staring at the ceiling. Maybe it would even put him to sleep.

Gage flipped the page, shocked to find himself at the end of Genesis and surprised that so much of it had seemed familiar.
How had it held his attention so? He looked at the clock. Nearly half past three.

He tucked the Bible back in the drawer and reclined on the pillow. Whoever wrote Genesis sure knew how to tell a story. A talking serpent, a birthright sold over a bowl of stew, adultery, and a man falsely imprisoned . . .

It was definitely intriguing, but it couldn't possibly hold the answers he so desperately needed or the healing he craved.