Mary Wilson - Home For A Hero

For that one person who can make love

new and real when it seems lost.

You know who you are. Thanks.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

December 30,

Shelter Island, Washington State

Lucas Roman protected his privacy as fiercely as he’d done most everything in his thirty-seven years of life. Nothing came past the gates or over the fences that surrounded Lost Point at the farthest northern point of the island. It was his safe harbor, the only spot in the world where he could breathe easily. He was totally alone here, and it wasn’t that he liked being alone—he needed the solitude to survive.

But that didn’t stop him from occasionally wondering if this was what his life would be like until he ceased to exist. He only knew that right now, this was his world.

He stood at the top of the thirty-foot bluffs near the stairs cut into the rocky side that led to the hard-packed, narrow ribbon of beach below. The dense fog of early evening surrounded him and the air that filtered into his lungs was bitingly cold. He pulled his old pea coat more tightly around his six-foot two-inch frame and headed to the beach. He eased down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and jumped over the last four, landing squarely on the rock-strewn sand.

He had nowhere to go or anyplace to be. He was just killing time, walking and thinking and staying out of the house until he had no choice but to go back inside. He looked left, then right, and arbitrarily chose the right, going west. After two years of being at Lost Point on his own, he pretty much knew every nook and cranny of the land, but the beach changed regularly. Rocks and seaweed washed in with the tides, and the sand eroded, pushed and pulled both into the water and back against the rugged bluffs.

Luke felt the wind growing, and he was about to turn and go back when he saw something, a vague blur in the fog ahead of him on the beach. It was a dark misshapen pile near the water’s edge. He approached, wondering if another seal had floundered on the shore, too weak to find its way into open water. But with each footstep, Luke dismissed the idea it was a seal—the object was too big, too irregular. When he got even closer, he stopped in his tracks.

He’d seen too many bodies in his life not to know that what he was looking at was human. He pulled his small flashlight out of his jacket pocket and directed the narrow beam on the body which was facedown on the sand. He hurried to get to the person, then dropped to his haunches and briefly took in the splayed arms and legs, soggy, dark jacket and equally dark hair crusted and fanned on the sand. The stranger didn’t appear to be breathing.

Luke acted on instinct, doing what he’d done so often in his life. He pushed the wet hair back and found himself staring at a woman. Pressing two fingers to the artery at her throat, he was relieved when he felt a pulse.

Pulling back, he looked at a face so pale that her lashes looked as black as night. Her lips were parted, and he quickly bent toward her, putting his left hand under her neck to drop her head back, then he pinched her nose and was about to start CPR when she suddenly coughed and lurched to one side. She rolled to her right, pressing one hand to the sand and half lifting herself up as she coughed and retched.

Luke waited, knowing the best thing was to let her clear her lungs—he couldn’t help her with that. He sat on his heels, watching her until she began to gulp in air and, finally, she fell weakly back onto the sand. Her eyes were closed, and she continued to struggle to breathe. Then, as he reached out to brush her hair back, her eyes flew open, looking for all the world like a waterlogged deer caught in the headlights of a car.

Her sand-caked hand lifted and she gasped, “What…what are you…?”

“Are you all right?” he asked, not making any move to get closer to her.

She exhaled, then her hand lowered to cover her eyes. “Oh, God,” she whispered as if the question had brought back whatever she’d faced in the water. Then she moved quickly, sitting up. She shook her head, then pulled her legs to her chest and pressed her face to her knees. “Oh, man,” she moaned.

“What happened?” he asked.

She twisted in his direction, and her huge amber eyes narrowed. “I fell off a boat,” she said, and that statement was followed by a shiver that shook her body.

There were always people in the sound—fishermen, sportsmen, visitors and commuters that traveled on the ferry from Seattle a number of times a day. “You fell off the ferry?”

“No, no,” she said as she turned and pushed up to stand. She was shaky for a moment, but got her balance. Her feet were bare, and what looked like jeans clung to slender legs. Her jacket was so wet it sagged almost to her knees, and her tangle of hair stuck to her cheeks and throat. She was probably five foot six or seven and had to tip her head slightly to look up at him.

“I was…” She hugged her arms around herself and shivered again. “I was in a boat and tripped, and…” She shrugged. “I fell over the railing.”

Luke took a step back without even thinking about it when she came toward him as she spoke. He knew that most islanders had given up trying to find out about the owner of Lost Point, but he had no doubt that there were reporters who still thought that finding Lucas Roman could be big news. She looked like a drowned rat, and he knew she’d been unconscious when he’d found her, but now he started to wonder just how far some people would go to get to him. He never let himself forget that people were devious and driven by what they wanted. Suddenly suspicion nudged at him; he lifted the light to her face.

“Could…you please get that light out of my eyes?”

He didn’t hesitate; he’d already memorized her face. The heart-shaped face, dark eyes, sharp chin. And he saw no signs of hypothermia beyond her unsteadiness. She looked cold, but her color was good. “So, you fell off a boat and…?” he prodded.

He heard her release a shaky breath, then mutter, “Hit the water, almost drowned, got to shore and here I am.”

She’d been unconscious moments ago and now she sounded almost annoyed that he was asking her anything about her presence here. “If you fell off a boat, someone must be looking for you,” he said.

“I wish.” She swiped at her hair again, making little leeway in getting it off her face. “I was alone on the boat, so no one knows I went overboard. At least, not yet.”

Alone on a boat in the sound at night in the fog? She was either crazy or stupid. He wasn’t sure which. “Okay, now what?” He knew he was being rude, but his manners had faded along with most of the remnants of his past life. He didn’t care. She was up and moving around, obviously cold but breathing and in one piece. He just wanted to get her out of there.

“I need to get to a phone. My boat’s out there unmanned.” She took another step toward him, and this time, he stood his ground. He felt his breathing hitch. “I need to call someone and find a way to get back to the mainland.”

He had a phone up at the main house, but it wasn’t in service—it could call 911 in an emergency, though.