The Raven Master. Diana Whitney
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the fence, thorny stalks stood barren amid the clutter of shriveled blossoms and dead leaves—all that remained of Marjorie’s beloved garden. A brick chimney rose from an elongated heap of charred and blackened debris; everything else had been completely consumed by the raging flames.
Both repulsed and ghoulishly fascinated, she was unable to look away. That scorched skeleton had once been a home, a safe haven that had suddenly and inexplicably turned deadly. The grim scene was a bleak reminder of how fragile life was, how easily destroyed.
As Janine contemplated that sobering thought, a movement beyond the ruins caught her attention. She shaded her eyes and was stunned to see her newest tenant lurking in the shadows beyond the burnt hulk of Marjorie Barker’s house.
Quinn Coulliard emerged from behind a tree not thirty feet away. Apparently unaware of her presence, he walked to the edge of the rubble and bent to examine a charred remnant. After a moment he dropped the object then stared at the cold ashes with an expression of regret and utter despair that touched Janine to the bone.
As she studied the man’s jagged profile, she noted that his features appeared softer, less intimidating than she’d first thought and the subtle slump of his shoulders hinted at an unexpected vulnerability that was oddly appealing.
A breeze swirled through the site, scattering ashes and whipping the few loose hairs that had escaped the binding at his nape. Standing, he absently brushed the long strands from his face, turned into the wind and looked straight at Janine. The grief in his eyes took her breath away.
In less than a heartbeat that intense sadness dissolved into an impassive stare. He nodded an acknowledgment, ducked under the yellow police ribbon haphazardly stretched around the perimeter and sauntered toward the sidewalk. Tucking his hands in his jacket pockets, he gestured toward the fire scene with his head. “How did this happen?”
Janine shrugged weakly. “I don’t know. Since our fire fighters are all volunteers, the investigation team will probably come from Eugene, which is about fifty miles west of here.”
“When is this team expected?”
“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
“The site is unprotected,” he replied curtly. “When a death is involved, authorities aren’t usually so cavalier about preserving evidence.”
A cold chill skittered down her spine. “How did you know that someone died here?”
“Word gets around, even to newcomers.” His wintry eyes held her captive. “Some say it was arson.”
Although the last comment was issued like an afterthought, Janine was nonplussed by the intensity of his gaze. She moistened her lips, reminding herself that a man so deeply affected by a stranger’s tragedy must be more compassionate than those secretive eyes would indicate. “Small-town gossip tends to be overly dramatic, Mr. Coulliard. The fire was probably started by a spark from the fireplace or an electrical short.”
“It wasn’t.”
“How do you know that?”
Without answering her question, he gazed at the burned rubble. A muscle below his ear twitched. His jaw clenched and beneath his sculpted cheekbones deep hollows suddenly appeared as though the flesh had been gouged away by demonic fingers. Shaded by a thick fringe of darkness, Quinn’s eyes were as cold as frozen ponds and his sharply angled features hardened like a stone mask, revealing a leashed rage that frightened her half to death.
She stumbled backward, her heart pounding wildly.
Suddenly the fearsome expression dissipated and was replaced by one of calm concern. As Janine followed the direction of his gaze, she saw two frightened children cowering behind a tree at the edge of the burned property.
Quinn greeted them softly. “Hello.”
A brown-eyed boy of about nine emerged towing a blond girl who appeared to be a year or two younger. Janine recognized them as Rodney and Sara Drake, who lived a few houses up the block.
The boy nervously returned Quinn’s smile. “Hi.”
After Janine completed the introductions, Quinn squatted down to the children’s level, smiling at the girl who peeked out shyly from behind her brother.
“Sara is a pretty name,” Quinn told her and was rewarded by a happy giggle. He turned his attention to the somber young boy. “I’ll bet you take good care of your sister, don’t you, Rodney?”
The boy nodded. “I have to, ’cause she’s a girl and all.”
An amused twinkle warmed Quinn’s pale eyes and the transformation was stunning. As Janine watched in mute fascination, the man who had terrified her only moments ago now exuded a magnetism that shook her to the soles of her feet.
And she wasn’t the only one affected. Quinn was speaking softly, gesturing toward the burnt house, and both children were listening with a rapt attentiveness that bordered on reverence. “How did you feel last night when you saw the fire?” Quinn asked.
“I was real scared,” Rodney replied quickly, then jammed his hands in his jeans pockets and studied his scuffed sneakers. “Don’t tell my pa, though. He says real men never get scared.”
“Hmm.” Quinn laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Well, I certainly would have been scared.”
The boy peeked up uncertainly. “Really?”
“It’s okay to be frightened. Fear is what makes us cautious and gives us the ability to protect ourselves.”
While Rodney considered that, Sara stepped forward with huge eyes. “Miss Barker was real nice. Sometimes she gave me flowers to take to my mommy.” The girl’s tiny lip quivered as a fat tear slid down her cheek. “Do you think she got scared when the fire came?”
“I don’t know, Sara.” Quinn gently touched the child’s face, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “It’s very sad when someone dies, isn’t it?”
The girl hiccuped and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
Quinn smoothed the child’s shiny bangs. “Are you afraid that what happened to Miss Barker might happen to you?”
Sara twisted the hem of her T-shirt and nodded.
“Let’s talk about that,” Quinn said softly, sandwiching the child’s small hand between his own large palms. To Janine’s surprise, the girl responded, blurting out her feelings as though she’d known Quinn Coulliard all her young life.
After encouraging both youngsters to express their feelings, he listened intently then responded softly, calming their fears without mocking them. To Janine it seemed as though he’d actually established a kinetic mind-link with the children, and she couldn’t help comparing Quinn’s perceptive interaction with Charles’s rigid intolerance.
Charles. Even the silent echo of her ex-husband’s name brought exquisite sadness and regret. It seemed a lifetime ago that she’d been deeply in love, looking forward to starting a family with the man who had stolen her heart. During the courtship, Janine had been honest with Charles about her desire for children. In retrospect, however, she realized that he’d never specifically responded to her excited chatter about having a houseful of babies; still, she hadn’t expected that Charles would deliberately deceive her.
But he had deceived her, and the betrayal had been shattering.
A childish voice broke into the sad memories. “We gotta go home,” Rodney was saying. “Ma gets real worried if we’re gone too long. Are we gonna see you again, Mr. Coulliard?”
Quinn stood. “Sure. I’ll be around.”
Smiling, Rodney waved goodbye, then took his sister’s hand and led her up the hill toward their house.
When the youngsters had disappeared from view, Janine tilted her head, regarding Quinn with new respect. “You’re very good with children.”