Rachelle McCalla - Survival Instinct

“Testy, testy,” Trevor clucked, shaking his head in a pitying fashion as he continued to move toward her. “Abby, you’ve really got to learn to control your temper if you’re ever going to find a guy willing to put up with you. Most men aren’t interested in your unstable little dramas.” He stepped forward again. “Most guys don’t like being manipulated into proposing.”

He was close, far too close, and Abby recognized the expression on his face. It almost looked concerned. It almost appeared caring, but it was everything but. When it came to manipulation, Trevor was a master. It had taken Abby far too long to realize he couldn’t be trusted. She had to get away from him. Though she couldn’t see anything behind her, she stepped backward in faith-and slammed into something hard.

An arm came around her, pulling her back, pulling her tight against a muscular chest.

Abby’s heart stood still.

“Is there a problem?” Scott’s voice met her ears.

Abby sagged ever-so-slightly against him. She was so relieved to have him there, but at the same time, she realized he must have heard all the nasty things Trevor had said about her. Her heart sank. How could she even begin to explain away Trevor’s accusations?

“No problem, unless you consider Abby’s refusal to cooperate with the Search and Rescue to be a problem.”

Abby’s spine stiffened. Trevor had sunk to a new low.

But Scott didn’t budge, didn’t question her. Instead he stared down Trevor. “Abby has already cooperated far beyond what you have any right to ask,” Scott retorted, his arm pulling her more snugly against him, comforting and protective. “If your mission succeeds, it will be because of her contributions.”

“Whatever.” Trevor turned away. “I’ve got a body to find.” He stomped off into the woods.

“I’m sorry,” Abby apologized, cringing at Trevor’s use of the word body. She hadn’t yet allowed herself to consider the possibility that Marilyn might already be dead. “He’s completely inappropriate, completely irresponsible…” Her voice faded as Scott lifted her chin gently until she looked into his eyes.

“Trevor Price has always been a total jerk,” Scott stated bluntly. “I’m just sorry you had to put up with him as long as you did.”

Abby clamped her eyes shut. Scott’s words were comforting, but she had to tell him the whole story. “Trevor Price is my old fiancé. He’s the one who gave me the ring.”

“I know. That’s why I’m so sorry.”

At the look of pain that crossed Abby’s face, Scott wished he had time to explain his own history with Trevor Price, but there wasn’t time. They’d found no sign of his mother, and the weather was getting worse. “Come on, let’s look this way.”

“But Trevor just went that way.”

“Yeah, and I don’t trust him. So let’s not let him get too far ahead.” Scott stepped resolutely down the path.

“Wait, Scott.” Abby’s hold on his arm tightened. “There’s something you need to know.”

Sensing what she was going to say, Scott stopped her. “Abby, I know Trevor just said a lot of libelous things about you. I heard him, but I don’t care about that right now. After we find my mom, you and I can sit down and straighten all that stuff out. But right now I just want to find my mother.”

“It’s not about that.” Abby’s voice wavered, and Scott sensed for the first time that evening that her patience was beginning to wear thin. “It’s about Mitch. I asked Tracie where he was, and she talked to the guys who took him back to Bayfield. Scott, he drove himself back to the hotel in a red Escalade-the latest model. Doesn’t that match the description of your mother’s car?”

Scott blinked away the rain that kept finding its way under his hood. So Sal hadn’t taken the car, then. Hadn’t he gone back to Bayfield? If he had, why hadn’t he taken one of the most valuable items he’d managed to steal?

A shifting flash of light in the darkness made him spin and look-just as an apparition appeared. “What was that?” he asked, taking a tentative step closer to where he’d seen the movement.

“Blowhole.” Abby raised her voice to be heard over the storm. “When the water gets rough like this, the waves hit the sea caves hard enough they actually blow spray up through fissures in the rocks. Watch. You’ll probably see another one.”

Sure enough, as the two stood looking, another blast of white appeared where Scott had seen the first one. He shuddered. “That’s creepy,” he shouted against the wind.

“I know. I think that’s why the Chippewa called this place Evil Spirit Island-because the blowholes look like evil spirits dancing in the storm.” As Abby spoke, Scott had to lean close to her face to hear, or else the wind would have whipped her words away.

“That’s where the name Devil’s Island comes from?” Scott clarified.

“Exactly. Sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it? Although I’ve still never liked the place. There’s just something about it…something evil.” They’d stopped moving again, the furious storm hampering their progress.

Scott huddled so close to Abby their hoods formed an intimate protected space. “Well, if Burt’s story about pirates is true, I’m sure plenty of ungodly activities occurred in this place.”

“It’s hard to imagine anyone getting a decent-size boat in under this island. I’ve been through some of the caves in a kayak. They’re natural formations, never intended to be navigated by boat. How the pirates could have used them as shelter, I can’t imagine.” Abby’s breath felt warm on his chin, and Scott could just make out the faint scent of cinnamon and apples on her breath.

“Burt seemed pretty confident the old stories were true,” Scott reminded her, his own imagination sparked by the possibilities and the presence of the blowholes. “What if there was a hollow space under the island? Or what if it wasn’t even that big-just big enough for a person to hide-or fall into.” He let his forehead touch Abby’s temple. He told himself he was getting close to her so she could hear him, but on a certain level, he was aware of the comfort that small contact brought him. “What if my mother went inland seeking shelter, got lost in the rain and slid into a blowhole? She could be stuck in there, unable to get out, and we wouldn’t know it until we got close enough to hear her cries for help.”

“In this wind, you wouldn’t hear her cries unless you were almost on top of her.”

“So it’s a possibility, isn’t it? We need to consider all the possibilities.”

“True.” Abby sounded reluctant to accept his theory. A furious gust of wind hit them, pelting them with even heavier rain. “Maybe somebody knows more about where the blowholes are located. But for now, we should get back to the keeper’s quarters. This storm is getting worse.”

Scott cast one last look around the dark woods. He had no idea where Trevor had slunk off to. “I suppose you’re right. Let’s head back.”

Tracie waved them over as soon as they stepped into the house. “You two need to get on that copter while we’re still able to get you back to Bayfield. This storm is beginning to look ugly. Most of us are heading in.”

Scott wanted to protest, to insist on staying to look for his mother, but he knew visibility was next to nothing, making the island a dangerous place for all of them, especially if the storm was getting worse. Reluctantly, he acknowledged the best thing they could do for his mom at this point was get a decent night’s sleep and try again in the morning. Still, he felt his heart break as the copter lifted off the ground. He gripped Abby’s uninjured hand tightly while he prayed silently for his mother’s safety.