Karen Leabo - Twilight Man

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

Dusk fell early on that dismal March day. Already aggravated and way behind schedule, Faith Kimball flipped on her car lights and peered intently through the windshield for some sign of the turnoff that would lead her to the campgrounds.

Every motel within casting distance of Caddo Lake was full this weekend, thanks to some fishing tournament. At least she’d brought her camping supplies with her on this trip, although she wasn’t looking forward to pitching a tent and fixing dinner in the dark.

Black Cypress Campgrounds was supposed to be three or four miles down FM 23, according to the manager at the last motel she’d tried. But, dammit, she’d driven four miles already and she hadn’t seen—no, wait a minute. What did that sign say?

She slowed way down as she approached the faded, peeling sign, which was hung too high for her headlights to illuminate. Yes, that was it!

Her triumph was short-lived. She looked up to see a huge dump truck barreling toward her at an alarming speed. His headlights were off, and he was driving dead center down the narrow, two-lane blacktop road.

Several thoughts flashed lightning fast through her mind. My God, didn’t the idiot see her? She should honk. She should veer off the road and take her chances in the ditch. She did neither when it seemed the truck would miss her after all. Then it swerved and slammed head-on into her compact car without ever hitting the brakes.

Faith’s car folded in on itself as it spun around and around, then rolled end over end like a nightmarish carnival ride. She was conscious of her head striking the windshield and a pressure against her left thigh, but there was no pain.

She wondered if she was about to die. Oddly, that idea didn’t frighten her. She felt only a few regrets—that she hadn’t married or had children, that she hadn’t told her mother goodbye, and that her doctoral dissertation would go unfinished. Then she felt nothing.

A voice brought Faith back through a dark curtain. “Wake up, dammit. Unfasten your seat belt! Lady, I know you’re alive. Wake up! ”

Unable to disobey, she opened her eyes. Now she felt the pain and the fear. Her clothes were soaked with blood, and her lungs were filled with smoke. She coughed and tasted more blood.

Oh, God, she didn’t want to die!

“Unfasten your seat belt,” the commanding voice said again.

Although the effort cost her, she did what he asked.

“Give me your hand.” Now that he had her attention, the voice was gentler.

There was a whoosh of heat as something nearby caught fire. Closing her eyes against the blinding, stinging smoke, Faith reached out.

Strong hands caught hers in a crushing grip. She bit her lip to keep from screaming from the pain as he pulled her up or sideways—she wasn’t sure which way was up anymore.

“That’s it, almost there,” he crooned as the crumbled safety glass from a shattered window scraped her bare legs. As soon as she was free of the twisted metal that had once been her car, her rescuer clutched her against his chest and ran like hell.

Moments later a deafening explosion sent them both flying. As they hit the ground, the blow knocked the breath out of her—what little breath was left. Her world went black.

She awoke to the strange feel of her rescuer’s hard mouth on hers, breathing life-giving air into her lungs. She pushed him away, coughing from the thick black smoke she’d inhaled, but breathing on her own.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “Just relax. Help is coming. I flagged a car down, and the driver called from his mobile phone.” As he spoke in low, reassuring tones, his strong but gentle hands probed for injuries.

She opened her stinging eyes just once so that she could see what he looked like. As he removed a headband of some sort, she got only a fleeting impression of longish, dark hair and deep-set eyes, a straight nose and a square chin with a cleft.

He tied the headband around her upper thigh.

“Hurts,” she mumbled.

“I know it hurts, darlin’,” he said, brushing a lock of her curly blond hair from her face. “Hear that siren? Help is here.” Then he stood and walked away.

“Wait. Wait!” she called out with the last bit of strength she had in her. “Don’t leave me! Who are you?”

He never broke stride.

As the April day dawned warm and clear, Jones Larabee had nothing more pressing on his mind than whether to go fishing or simply work on his tan. Nothing, that is, until he looked out the window of his cabin and spied Miss Hildy’s canoe heading toward him through the swamp.

He wondered how she kept from tipping over. She was wider than the boat, which sometimes wobbled alarmingly. But she always managed to deftly maneuver the canoe to shore without mishap.

Jones went down to meet her. Although she was meddlesome and tended to hover over him worse than any mother hen, he liked Hildy. A descendant of the Caddo Indians who had settled in the area centuries ago, Hildy was known as the local medicine woman. Some people disliked her, others feared her, but everyone on both sides of the Texas-Louisiana state line respected her knowledge of the swamp and its flora and fauna.

“Howdy, Jones,” she said as she heaved herself over the edge of the canoe and waded in the last few feet, soaking her ragged, much-patched tennis shoes.

“Mornin’.” He grabbed the boat’s bow and eased it onto the muddy shore. “What brings you here? It’s not your usual day to come calling.”

“A body doesn’t have to have a reason to call on a friend, does she?” Hildy reached into the canoe and retrieved two large plastic buckets, in which were stored a variety of treasures from her vast garden. “‘Sides, with all this rain we’ve had, my early crops are already out of control. I’ve got to get rid of this produce somehow. I can’t sell it all at the stand.”

Jones relieved her of the heavy buckets. “I haven’t finished what you gave me last week.”

“Then you’re not eating enough greens,” she scolded. “What about the tea? You’re drinking my special tea, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m almost out.”

“Then it’s a good thing I came today,” she said as they headed toward Jones’s rough-hewn pine cabin, dwarfed by the towering cypress, pine and oak trees surrounding it. “I brought you a big jar.”

Months ago, when Jones had first come here, Hildy had sniffed him out like a bird dog hunting quail. She just wanted to have a look-see at her closest neighbor, she’d claimed, but Jones doubted that. He didn’t know where she lived—somewhere deep in the swamp, where a man could get lost and wander for days—but he didn’t think it was anywhere close to him. She was just nosy.

Since her first visit, she had paddled to his island once a week, whether he’d invited her or not. Eventually he’d found himself charmed by her backwoods philosophy and her no-nonsense approach to life, and he now counted her as a friend.

His only friend. None of the other locals came near his cabin, and that was fine with him.

A chair in Jones’s kitchen creaked as Hildy plopped down in it. “I really did come for another reason,” she said, watching Jones where he stood at the sink washing the greens she’d brought. “There’s a gal lookin’ for you.”

His whole body stiffened. “Who is she?” But who else could it be except Mary-Lynn?