Rachelle McCalla - Survival Instinct

The first book in the Survival Instinct series, 2010

Thank you to the congregation of Bayfield Presbyterian Church for calling us to Bayfield. I would never have known there was a Devil’s Island if it hadn’t been for you.

Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read this book. I’m honored.

Thank you to Emily Rodmell, for believing my manuscript could become a book.

And to Ms. Henre, for making me learn English.

And most importantly, to Jesus Christ, who brought me to this place. Only You know what it cost to get me here. Thank You.

Someone was watching her. Abby Caldwell clutched her keys and hastened her steps, reminding herself that for all the times she’d felt eyes on her over the past few weeks, she’d never actually seen anyone. For all she knew, the feeling was a figment of her imagination. Perhaps she was overworked and in need of a vacation.

Abby reached her back door and jammed the key in the lock. She’d half twisted the knob when a huge hand covered hers. A voice she thought she’d left behind years before rumbled above her ear. “Hey, Abby.”

He must have seen she was about to scream, because his other hand immediately covered her mouth. “Don’t get too excited. I just want to talk.” He pulled his hand slowly away from her mouth.

Abby swallowed her cry and nodded, even though she didn’t believe him. Trevor Price never just wanted to talk.

She tried to make her voice sound light, to play along. “I thought the Coast Guard had you stationed somewhere else. Near Canada?”

“I was.” His voice sounded even more menacing than she remembered it. “I’ve been back for a few months now. I’m surprised you haven’t seen me. I’ve seen plenty of you.”

So she hadn’t imagined the feeling of being watched. If the six-foot-five-inch gorilla hadn’t been holding her wrist so tightly, she might have accused him of stalking her. Instead she asked in a whisper, “What do you want?”

“The ring.”

Her heart beat so hard she thought she’d choke. “I don’t have it,” she told him honestly. She hadn’t had it in years-not since she’d buried it, along with all its bitter memories, in the spot where he’d proposed to her on Devil’s Island.

“Well, then, find it.” Trevor trailed one finger down the side of her cheek, his icy eyes holding hers. “Or I’ll have to come look for it myself.”

Abby pinched her eyes shut. Trevor was a bully, that was all. And he couldn’t bully her without her permission. She opened her eyes and stared him down.

“Why do you need it? Why now? It’s been what-six years?”

His hand loosened slightly at her wrist. “Five. And that ring never should have been yours. I never should have proposed to you.”

Finally, something they could both agree on. Their entire relationship had been the biggest mistake of her life, but she thought she’d put it behind her.

As she watched with fearful eyes wide, Trevor lifted Abby’s left hand up in front of her face. He pinched her ring finger and slowly bent it back.

“It fit perfectly, didn’t it?” Trevor’s mouth hovered close to her ear. He pulled her finger back farther, and she blinked back tears. “Return the ring to me within forty-eight hours, or you won’t have anywhere to wear it.”

“But, I don’t-” she started to protest.

“Find it!” He jerked her finger back until she thought it would snap. “You have two days.” With that, he dropped her hands, let her go and strode away.

Abby hurried to unlock her door and slid inside, locking it after her before Trevor could change his mind and come back. Then she leaned against the door frame and flexed her fingers, the lowest joint of her ring finger throbbing where Trevor had wrenched it.

She wasn’t sure exactly what his threat meant, but she knew Trevor Price enough to know he wouldn’t have any qualms about following through with it. If she didn’t get the ring to him within two days, he’d cut off her finger-or worse.

The dark gray-blue water faded to the blue sky as the speedboat Helene cleared the western side of Bear Island and entered the open water of Lake Superior. Abby Caldwell shivered and pulled her jacket more snugly around her, glad she’d opted for the fleece-lined windbreaker instead of a sweater. October could be cold in northern Wisconsin, and it was invariably colder on the lake. She’d hoped this Saturday would turn out warm, but it was already midmorning and the sun had yet to peek out of the clouds.

Captain Sal steered the Helene east, at cross-angles with the waves that were higher here away from the protection of the islands. Abby felt the rhythmic slap, slap, slap as each wave smacked the twenty-foot craft, jarring her already nervous stomach. If she didn’t fear Trevor Price so much, she would never be out on the deadly Gitche Gumee this late in the season.

She could see the autumn colors of Devil’s Island in the distance, and though she’d never liked the island, she was glad to see it now. The sooner she got there, the sooner she’d be off the stomach-rocking boat and onto solid ground. And the sooner she’d be able to get the ring and Trevor out of her life for good.

Abby said a silent calming prayer and glanced over at the other passengers. She’d shared water taxi rides with tourists before, and was thankful to find this group less talkative than many. She wasn’t in the mood to chat. To her relief, the three tourists were looking ahead to the island and appeared to have forgotten she was even with them. Abby squinted at the figure in the Northwoods College ball cap, the one closest to the boat’s tiny cabin, the one with the broad shoulders and square set jaw.

She recognized him. It had been nine years since she’d last seen him, and though his face had grown firmer with age, the sight of him still set her insides quivering with awareness. Scott Frasier had been the star quarterback of the Northwoods College football team the year they’d almost won the championship, the only year they’d made it to the play-offs in college history. Everybody from Northwoods College knew Scott Frasier. According to the school’s alumni magazine, he was a psychologist of some sort in the Twin Cities area now.

Scott wouldn’t recognize her. She’d only been a freshman his senior year, and seniors never bothered with freshmen, even if they had been in the same poetry class fall semester, and often ended up in the same discussion group. In some ways, she was glad he wouldn’t remember her, and equally grateful the noise of the boat and wind discouraged conversation. She didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing on this trip.

The other two, a man and woman who looked to be in their early fifties, were probably Scott’s parents. The woman looked like him, anyway, with the same statuesque height and aquiline nose. The man was certainly shorter, softer, rounder, but the way he clung on to the woman’s side, he was bound to be her husband. Her fingers were covered with diamonds, and the particularly huge stone on the ring finger of her left hand matched the setting of the masculine ring he wore.