She fought back tears she had no intention of shedding. By God, she could take care of herself. She could stand up for Hannah. She didn't need Clate insinuating himself into her relationship with her aunt, into her problems with the anonymous caller, the treasure, her life. Anything.
She stared out at the marsh, could feel fog settling in; her wet clothes were cold against her skin. "I can see why Hannah waited eighty years to tell anyone about that night. Even if she didn't remember until recently, her subconscious could have just been trying to protect her. Telling makes it real. The calls—" Suddenly breathless, she had to gulp for air. "If I don't tell anyone, I can pretend they didn't happen."
Clate didn't respond at once. Whether he was absorbing what she'd said or just waiting for her to continue, she didn't know.
"Except I can't," she said quietly. "I have to look life straight in the eye."
Without responding, Clate got to his feet. It occurred to Piper that he hadn't explained why he was in her yard. She hadn't asked. This trespassing thing obviously wasn't going to be tit for tat.
"Let's go inside," he said. "I'll fix you something to drink. We'll figure out where to go from here."
She nodded, not just because she was too confused and upset to argue. She appreciated having him there.
He followed her into her tiny office adjoining her keeping room and waited while she checked her messages. She could feel him surveying her small office from the doorway, taking in her cluttered antique rolltop oak desk, her drop-front bookcase, her old side-by-side oak filing cabinet, her oak swivel chair. She had sewed a cushion for the chair herself, refinished the furniture, and framed the cross-stitched sampler that hung on the wall, stitched in a careful hand by an Abigail Macintosh in 1803, perhaps an ancestor, perhaps not.
The message tape whirred as it rewound. "Most of my work is hands-on. I don't spend hours and hours at a time in here. I like the view of the flower garden."
"It's pretty," he said.
"Thanks. This house hasn't had as many additions and updates as the Frye—as your house. The kitchen fireplace was plastered over, and the place had been ranchified to a degree, but that's it." She glanced at him, aware of how sexy he was slouched against the door frame. She couldn't remember the last man, other than her father and brothers, and Stan Carlucci and Paul Shepherd, she'd had over. Her social life, somehow, had dried up in recent months. Hannah maintained it was all part of her destiny. "Your house in Nashville is new, isn't it? You built it?"
"That's right. Piper—"
"I know, I know. You're not going to be distracted from tales of threatening phone calls and hurled cell phones." She sighed. "You are nothing if not relentless, Mr. Jackson."
He smiled. "Remember it."
The tape started on its six messages. Tension gripped her neck and shoulders, made her breathing shallow. She had to concentrate to keep from shaking. Clate remained in the doorway, apparently calm.
The first three messages were inquiries about her various classes, the fourth from a friend about sailing next week, the fifth from Andrew, the sixth from her father.
Andrew wanted to know when she planned to come clean about "whatever the hell else you've got going on." Her father wanted to know if she had any idea why her brothers ground their teeth whenever her name came up.
"Well." She rolled her shoulders in an effort to uncrick the muscles. "Nothing nasty at least. But whoever's harassing me has been careful not to let his voice be recorded."
Clate drew himself up from the doorjamb. He looked every inch the hard, competent, I'11-take-charge-now male that Piper had long vowed she would avoid. "That's why you got the charming rap excerpt yesterday. What did he say in this last call?"
"Nothing much, just that he was losing patience."
"That's enough."
"I still can't be sure it's a man."
"Understood."
His quiet tone, his easy stance, were not to be misjudged. He was alert, processing every nuance of what she said, how she looked, what his next move ought to be. And he wasn't happy about what he was hearing. No question. But he was controlled, measured in his responses. He wasn't the sort of man who exploded.
Piper bit back a touch of panic at the image—it was almost like watching herself from a camera—of her in her car, driving along in her business outfit, feeling okay about her ability to handle her family, Clate, her work. Until the call. Until she'd heard that unrecognizable, mean, insidious voice on the other end of the line and knew the calls weren't going to stop just because she wanted them to stop.