Safe In His Arms. Anna J. Stewart
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Phoebe sighed.
“Until I get the lay of this place and figure out where everything is, I don’t want you wandering around on your own. You stick by my side or by the house, okay? Phoebe?” He gave her a look that told her he expected an actual answer. “Either by the house or here in the motor home.”
“Okay.”
“It’s going to take a few days to get used to everything. It’s okay to be scared of new places, Phoebs. But I won’t let anything happen to you. This is our big adventure, right?”
Did she have to look at him as if he was losing his marbles?
“Right. Maybe it’s just my big adventure. Let’s check this place out and find the keeper.” He shoved open his door and dropped to the ground. He grimaced as he realized thirty-two wasn’t nearly as young as it had felt a few weeks ago. Hunter pressed his hands into the base of his spine and arched his back, shook out his legs and tried to remember what it felt like for his toes to move. “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken those last six hours in one stretch.” He swore he even heard the motor home sigh in relief as he slammed the door and headed around to help Phoebe out. First things first, unload then get something to eat. Preferably something that didn’t come out of a box or a can.
As he rounded the front of the white-and-gray motor home, he saw a woman striding around the side of the lighthouse. A woman who made him stop in his tracks. As a photojournalist, he was an observer by nature. He found people fascinating. The way they moved. The way they didn’t. But there was an aura about this woman, a power—the way she stood under the midafternoon sun, her dark hair pulled severely back into a ponytail, wearing worn, snug jeans encasing long legs and a gray sleeveless tank that made him shiver in response.
How was she not covered in goose bumps in this cool ocean air? Because the goose bumps would have been chased off by the muscles on this woman’s arms. Toned didn’t have anything on her. Neither, it seemed, did pain. Even from a distance, he could see the scars. Scars that marred her left arm and shoulder and reached up the side of her neck. Angry scars. But ones that spoke of strength and resilience.
“We aren’t open to tourists.” The woman’s voice danced along the wind, strong, clipped, no-nonsense. She planted her hands on her hips and pinned cool silver-gray eyes on him.
“I know. I’m Hunter MacBride.” He glanced back at the motor home before walking toward her, hand outstretched.
The caution in her eyes as he approached had him slowing.
“We aren’t open to hunters, either.”
Hunter grinned. Was that a joke? “Ah, good to know.” He chuckled and made sure to keep his distance. She was a woman alone out here. He didn’t blame her for being suspicious. “I’m a friend of Gil Hamilton’s from college. He’s hired me to write a book.” He jerked a thumb toward the carriage house. “Said I could stay here while I work.”
“Gil hired you to write a book?” She couldn’t have sounded more dubious if he’d told her he was a fairy-tale prince. “About what?”
“Butterfly Harbor. The Liberty here.” He inched his chin up to get a closer look at the lighthouse tower. “You must be part of the restoration crew.”
“I am the restoration crew.” She dropped her hands to her sides. “Gil didn’t tell me anything about this.”
Hunter winced. This was going so well. “Don’t know what to say. I’m a little earlier than expected. Maybe he hasn’t gotten around to it. You, ah, living in the carriage house?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, great. I guess we won’t be putting you out, then. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t throw it.” She looked over his head, scanning the motor home as a door slammed. “You here with your wife?”
“I’m not married.” First time that statement didn’t come with a ping of regret. He was one of those men who’d expected to be married and well into a family the size of a softball team by now. But with his on-the-road job, the right woman had never presented herself. “I can’t just yell hey you, can I?”
“I’ve been called worse. If you’re not here with your wife, who—”
Had Hunter not been watching her, mesmerized with the way the light played against the odd color of her eyes, he would have missed the color draining from her cheeks and lips. Shock drifted across her face before tipping those eyes of hers into pools of misery.
Hunter felt Phoebe grab hold of one of the loops of his jeans as she circled around him. “Well, there’s my girl. Hey there.” He bent down and hefted Phoebe into his arms, not too difficult given she was such a little thing. Her jeans and dark T-shirt were warm from the sun. “This is my niece, Phoebe.” He took a step toward the woman.
The woman took a step back. And stared unblinking at Phoebe.
Unease uncoiled inside him. “Phoebe, this lady is refurbishing the lighthouse. I’m guessing we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”
Phoebe clutched the back of Hunter’s neck and met the woman’s gaze.
“It would help if we knew your name,” Hunter pressed. What was wrong with the woman? Hadn’t she ever seen a single father before? Why was she looking at Phoebe as if she were an alien who’d landed from outer space? Her expression made him grip his niece tighter.
“Kendall,” the woman choked out. “Kendall Davidson.” And with that, she walked toward the keeper’s house, opened the weather-beaten green door and closed it firmly behind her.
KENDALL PRESSED HER back against the closed door and slowly slid to the floor. The scarred wood welcomed her as it always did, with firm support and splinters to spare, absorbing the trembling she had no control over. She drew her knees into her chest so tight and so hard she could barely breathe. She didn’t want to breathe. She didn’t want to feel. She didn’t want to... She squeezed her eyes shut until she saw stars. She didn’t want to see.
A tiny sob escaped her lips. She slapped her hand over her mouth and rocked until she banged her head against the door.
In the past six years, Kendall had faced down terrorists in Afghanistan, watched most of her squad get blown into the afterlife and survived thirty percent of her body being lit on fire. She’d walked among others who’d been harmed or killed with bullets and hate, heard the screams of terror and grief of families suffering. Every day she got out of bed was a gift.
But put one little girl in front of her, a little girl with big brown eyes and even bigger dark curls, and Kendall wished Matt Knight had never rescued her from that burning SUV in Afghanistan.
She knew what it was like to be bone-shivering cold. But that wasn’t why her arms and legs were shaking. She couldn’t feel anything—hot or cold—as the image of a little girl in her uncle’s comforting arms burned through her mind.
Even as the thought of another little girl—one she couldn’t save—singed her heart.
Hunter MacBride and his niece, Phoebe. They were going to be staying here. In her sanctuary, where for the last seven months she’d finally found the peace and solitude that had eluded her since she’d come home. Where she’d finally begun to put the past behind her as she fixed the lighthouse and surrounding buildings stone by stone, shingle by shingle.
This Hunter man would have been intrusion enough. Him she could have managed. But the idea of Phoebe popping up around every corner, her laughter coating the air, little girl squeals of excitement and happiness—that was going to take some getting used to. If she ever could.
She rubbed a hand against her chest, hard, shoved herself to her feet and went to the small shuttered window above