The Secret of Cherokee Cove. Paula Graves
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than she’d intended.
Nix’s eyebrows twitched slightly, but he didn’t seem particularly offended by her response. “I’ll take that as a no.”
Still, she felt bad about snapping at him just for showing mild interest in her availability. She should feel flattered. Hell, she was flattered; Walker Nix was an attractive man. It wasn’t his fault that she didn’t care to involve herself in a short-term, dead-end fling.
She pushed her hair back from her face, meeting his gaze. “Sorry. I’ve spent a long time trying to get my fellow marshals to treat me like one of the guys. I forget my social graces sometimes.”
“I’d rather you just say what you’re thinking, straight out. Honesty goes a long way.”
“Okay. Then, honestly, I’m here in Bitterwood for two weeks. I’m not sticking around after that.”
“And you’re not interested in a short-term fling?” The corner of his mouth twitched as he cut to the chase.
“Not that you were offering?”
“No,” he said, the twitch becoming a whisper of a smile. “I wasn’t offering. For pretty much the same reason.”
She let out a long, slow breath. “Well, then.”
He walked slowly across the narrow space between them, reaching past her to put his mug of coffee on the breakfast bar. The move brought him so close she felt his heat pour over her, igniting another blaze of heat in her center. He bent his head, his breath hot against her ear. “Not that it ain’t mighty damn tempting.”
He stepped back, flashed her a smile that she felt right down to the tips of her toes and headed out of the kitchen toward the front door.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice embarrassingly hoarse.
He turned in the open doorway. “You may be on vacation, Marshal. But I’m not.” He lifted his hand in a brief, stationary wave, then pulled the door shut behind him.
She forced herself to stay where she was rather than trail him to the door and watch him leave. She might be feeling like a giddy schoolgirl right down to her tingling toes, but she had her pride.
And more important, she reminded herself sternly, she had a mystery to unravel. She just had to figure out where to start.
As she was walking back to the bedroom, the house phone started ringing. She picked up the bedroom extension, bracing herself to explain to the caller that her brother wasn’t available.
But it was Nix. “Sorry—I meant to mention this before I left. I don’t know how much truth there is to that story about your mother, but there’s a way you can find out.”
“Yeah?”
“In the story I’ve always heard, your mother was penniless, a charity case. And the couple whose baby boy she tried to take were well-off and reputable, which made what she did that much more scandalous.”
“If it really happened.”
“If it happened,” he conceded. “But if even a germ of the story is true, then what you’re looking for is a hospital that would treat both indigent and wealthy patients.”
“In other words, not a charity hospital or a low-income care facility.”
“Right. And there’s really only one hospital close that fits that description. Maryville Mercy Hospital.”
“That’s the hospital where Doyle is.”
“That’s right. Good luck.” He hung up the phone.
Good luck, she repeated silently. She had a feeling she was going to need all the luck she could find to cut through the years of rumor and innuendo to get to the truth about her mother’s secret life in Bitterwood.
But Maryville Mercy Hospital was as good a place to start as any.
Chapter Five
Nix walked slowly across the narrow two-lane street that bisected tiny Purgatory, Tennessee, wondering how long Alexander Quinn planned to keep him waiting. He hadn’t even taken his seat in the detectives’ office at the police station when his phone rang, and a low voice informed him that Merritt Cortland had been spotted in Purgatory.
It had been a few years since Nix had spoken to the old spymaster, but even with the man’s voice disguised, there was a certain tone to it that Nix found unforgettable. Many things had changed since the last time they’d met—Nix now carried a badge, not an M-16, and Quinn had recently left the CIA to start his own investigative agency in Purgatory. But Nix had a feeling Quinn would never fully give up his secret-agent ways.
Case in point—luring Nix to Purgatory with an anonymous tip. Nix doubted anyone had spotted Merritt Cortland anywhere near Purgatory. Which meant Quinn wanted him to come to Purgatory for some other reason but didn’t want to approach him directly.
On the other side of the road, Laurel Park was little more than a scenic overlook, a narrow strip of grass and trees that ended about thirty yards off the road where Little Black Creek meandered through the foothills just west of the Smokies. In the late nineteenth century, Purgatory had been a company town for a nearby Tennessee marble quarry, but by the end of the Second World War, the company had gone bankrupt as the demand for less expensive building materials drove most of the state’s marble quarries out of business.
Fortunately, the Great Smoky Mountains National Park was in business by then, and Purgatory, like other towns near the park’s border, had made a trade out of tourism for a couple of decades before other towns closer to the park and more easily accessible by interstate highway had lured most of the tourists away.
Now Purgatory was limping along on the back of a large auto parts plant that had opened in Barrowville. Corporate bigwigs at the plant had looked east to Purgatory for land on which to build large homes and estates that would provide them with both an easy commute and the pristine beauty of living in the mountains.
The town’s name was unfortunate, but some folks around Ridge County would argue that it was well-enough earned, since the little town had struggled more than thrived for most of its existence.
Nix settled on a wooden bench to wait for Quinn to make himself known. That he was watching from some hiding place was a given. Nix couldn’t imagine Quinn waiting in the open for someone to approach him first.
A man with long sandy-brown hair strolled slowly toward him. His knee-length hiking shorts, round, red-lensed sunglasses, grimy baseball cap and well-worn backpack were the typical uniform of a section hiker, one of hundreds of thousands who hiked the Appalachian Trail section by section over the course of several years.
Of course, even if Nix hadn’t recognized the long-haired man as the former CIA agent he’d come to see, he’d have been suspicious, since the Appalachian Trail was several miles to the east of Purgatory, winding along the Tennessee/North Carolina state line.
The hiker otherwise known as Alexander Quinn sat at the other end of the bench from Nix and pulled a water bottle from his backpack. “Warm weather’s finally here,” he said with just enough of a hipster vibe to make Nix bite back a laugh.
“That’s a new look for you,” Nix murmured.
“Recycled from about twenty years ago,” Quinn said in his normal accent, a neutral tone that had a chameleon-like ability to sound as if it could originally have come from almost any English-speaking country. “Thanks for coming.”
“Was there really a Merritt Cortland sighting?”
“Actually, there was, although I can’t vouch for it personally,” Quinn answered. His gaze moved lazily from side to side, as if he were just a tourist enjoying the view. But Nix knew the old spymaster never did anything casually.
“Are you expecting company?”
“Expecting?