Christy Barritt - Desperate Measures

As he rounded the corner of one of the cabins he spotted a woman and child approaching in a golf cart. Alvin—the town’s “chauffeur,” as he called himself—was at the wheel. John stopped and watched as Alvin unloaded two suitcases, waved hello, and then sped off to his next job. No doubt there were other tourists waiting to sightsee on the island. This was prime tourist season; the time when businesses counted on making enough money to sustain them all year.

The woman and boy grabbed their luggage and started across the sandy path toward him.

His heart quickened as he recognized the woman. “Samantha.”

She’d tried to cover up the cuts and bruises with makeup but it hadn’t worked. Still, the woman was striking.

She raised her chin. “I hope that job offer is still available. I’ve reconsidered and I’d like to work for you.”

“I can arrange that.” His heart lifted. He still didn’t know why he felt so protective of a woman he hardly knew, but he had to believe that God had brought Samantha and her son here for a reason. Their meeting last night was no coincidence.

“Great.” She looked beyond him, wincing when her gaze reached the cabins. “Those are yours?”

He glanced behind him and frowned. The task did seem overwhelming, maybe even foolish. “These are going to be my life for the next couple of months.”

“Big job.” Her gaze still fixed on the houses in the distance.

“You up for it?” He watched her expression. When her eyes met his, John saw curiosity there.

She nodded slowly, surely. “Definitely.”

“The cabins aren’t much, but a couple are in better shape than the others. Pay is free rent, plus $100 a week. It’s not much, but it should get you groceries and cover any other expenses.”

“Sounds fine.”

John nodded behind her. “Who’s this with you?”

Her arm went around the boy’s shoulders. “This is my son, Connor.”

“Nice to meet you, Connor.” He guessed the boy to be around eight. He was the spitting image of his mother with blond hair, big eyes and milky skin.

The boy squinted against the sun and frowned. “Nice to meet you, too.” He sounded less than enthusiastic.

“I thought I should let you know that I have worked construction before,” Samantha continued. She raised her chin, stubborn determination written all over the action. “I can do any labor that’s needed.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Thank you. I’ll work hard. I’m not looking for a handout.”

“Understood.” He liked it when people worked for what they wanted instead of accepting everything for free. He could respect that.

Just then, someone appeared from the gravel road that led to the secluded cabins, and called out a loud, “Hey!”

Samantha jumped, reminding him that she was in some sort of trouble, the details of which were unknown to him.

* * *

Samantha turned, and stared at the uniformed man in front of her, her heart pounding so hard that it felt visible, as if her entire body was pulsating with it. When she spotted the brown law-enforcement uniform her pulse only quickened more.

Time and time again, the police had let her down. She’d thought they were there to protect and serve. Instead, she’d found they were best at judging and condemning.

That much had been obvious when she’d been framed for a crime she hadn’t committed. She should have stayed around to fight for her good name and reputation, but she’d seen the way justice wasn’t always served, and she wanted no part of it. So she’d taken things into her own hands and fled with her son.

Now she lived in fear of being discovered.

“Can I go look at the water, Mom?” Connor’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

Samantha looked down at her son and nodded. “Just don’t wander too far away.”

Just as Connor sprinted toward the bay, John turned toward her. “Samantha, this is Zachary Davis. He’s the sheriff here on Smuggler’s Cove.”

She felt her face go pale as she nodded hello. Great. Her new boss was chummy with the local sheriff.

That meant her time on the island may not last as long as she might like. She knew she should have gone to a big city. But somehow she’d ended up here, on this remote little island where no one had cars, a place only accessible by boat.

As she’d thought about John’s offer last night, she’d tried to talk herself out of it. But then she’d realized that Billy would expect her to run far. Staying close might throw him off her trail.

After she’d picked up Connor, she’d called a friend from work who’d agreed to meet her at a local park. Samantha had decided to leave her SUV there. It was obvious that someone knew her car’s make and license plate number. She had to put distance between herself and the vehicle.

Lisa, a single woman in her mid-twenties, had taken her to a hotel. The next morning, Samantha had called a taxi.

“Where to?” the driver had asked.

Samantha had remembered the dwindling money in her purse. Using her debit card or credit card would be too risky. Billy could track her. He obviously knew her alias now. But the ferry to get to Smuggler’s Cove was pricey. What if John had changed his mind once she’d arrived?

So much was depending on this one decision to come here. Mainly, the lives of her and her son—and her son’s life was the most important thing of all.

“What’s going on, Sheriff?” John’s voice pulled Samantha out of her thoughts.

The sheriff put his hands on his hips. “We’ve had some vandalism around here lately. I’m just trying to let the townsfolk know. I have suspicions that whoever is behind these crimes might have used these cabins as a hideout at some point or another.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t think stuff like that happened out here.” John squinted against the sun, which flooded his face. He had a five o’clock shadow that made him look rugged. His white T-shirt and worn jeans seemed to fit his persona better than the uniform Samantha had seen him wear in the past.

“It usually doesn’t. But nowhere is immune to crime, not in today’s world.” The sheriff shifted.

He was youngish—probably in his late twenties, just like Samantha. He had sandy brown hair and blue eyes. Samantha noticed he didn’t have the same island accent as the people down at the docks did.

“When did you get here?” the sheriff asked John.

“Just this morning.”

“Take the ferry in?”

John nodded toward a boat bobbing in the water by the pier. “No, I came over on my boat. I figured I’d need it, especially if I had to go back to the mainland for supplies. The ferry’s schedule isn’t always mine.”

“Well, it will be nice to have you around here. I might be able to use some of your expertise from your coast guard days, especially if these vandalisms continue.”

“Anytime. But only if you show me some of those fishing holes you’ve been telling me about.”

Samantha tuned out their conversation for a moment. The sheriff’s words caused Samantha to shudder. Vandalisms? Here on Smuggler’s Cove? There wasn’t anywhere one could get away from the bad in the world, was there? She wasn’t naive enough to think there might be; she’d only hoped this place might be different. Might be safer.

At a lull in the conversation, the sheriff turned toward her. “You here visiting from out of town? I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

Her throat burned as she nodded. “I’m Samantha. I’m going to be helping to restore the cabins here.”

“These places might need a bit of a woman’s touch.” He grinned personably. “Where you from?”

Familiar tension began pulling at her. Why did people always have to ask for details? “Everywhere actually. But I was raised in Georgia.”