Chapter Seven
“It’s not the battery,” Gus Peratti, the mechanic said. “My guess is the alternator or maybe the starter. I’ll let you know after I’ve checked it at the shop.”
The shop. You never wanted to hear those words from a mechanic. Even one you knew and trusted.
“You have to tow it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t want to take the chance of starting it here and having it conk out on the road.”
Oh, man. “I appreciate that.”
Gus’s auto shop was on the outskirts of town, about a mile east of my place on the way to the highway. Gus, or Augustus, as his mother called him, was another one of the locals I’d grown up with and an all-around great guy. He owned the garage with his father and uncle and always took good care of his customers. We chatted as he attached the giant hook to the front of my truck and slowly lifted it off the ground.
“I’m sorry I dragged you out here on a Sunday,” I shouted over the noise of the tow crank.
“No worries, babe. I was working today, anyway.”
He’d been calling me babe since he was ten years old. Some men were just born to be chick magnets, and Gus was one of them. He was tall, with wavy black hair, dark eyes, and a sexy smile, and he always wore his T-shirts a touch too tight over his muscular arms and chest. Unlike half of the women in town, I had never been involved romantically with him, so maybe that’s how we had managed to remain such good friends.
“I should have it ready for you by Tuesday afternoon. You need a loaner for a few days?”
“No, I’ll manage,” I said. But I gave my shiny chrome baby one long, sorrowful look as Gus readied her for her trip to the car spa. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”
“Always,” he said, and after a quick hug, he drove off with my truck bouncing along behind his tow truck.
“Now what?” I wondered aloud. The day was too pretty to stay in the house all afternoon. Besides, I needed to move around and work off some of the negative energy that Wendell had infected me with.
I could ride my bike. A Sunday bike ride was the perfect solution. I wouldn’t have time to drive out to the lighthouse to see the mansion, but I could get some exercise and see what was going on around town.
This would also be a good time to stop at my friends’ shops and drop off the herb and flower cuttings I’d worked on a few weeks ago. They had been hanging from the rafters all this time and would be dry enough to display by now.
After changing into jeans and a light sweater, I wheeled my bike out of the garage and secured the three bundles of flowers and herbs in the big white basket attached to the handlebars.
My father had bought this retro bicycle for me last Christmas. It had three gears, wide white-wall tires, and a comfy seat for easy riding. And it was pink, of course.
Before going into town, I rode down to the bike path that loosely paralleled the boardwalk and breezed along the beach for over a mile. Gaining speed, I felt the wind rush past me before I slowed down to turn around and head back to town. It wasn’t the most grueling workout ever, but it made me feel better.
After locking my bicycle to one of the many bike posts scattered around the town square, I walked into Paper Moon. Hal was busy at the cash register and Lizzie was helping a customer pick out the perfect note cards, so I carefully set on one of the display shelves the little old teapot filled with dried red tea roses interspersed with sprigs of lavender and rosemary, and headed for the door.
“Oh, that’s adorable,” Lizzie’s customer said. “How much is it?”
“Shannon,” Lizzie called. “How much shall I charge for this beautiful thing?”
I turned and smiled. “It’s just for display, not for sale.”
“I’ll give you forty dollars for it,” the woman countered immediately.
Lizzie flashed me a brief but meaningful look, then turned to the woman. “Sold.”
I laughed and walked out. I’d fished that old teapot out of a neighbor’s trash bin, knowing I could use it for dried flowers. Lizzie and I would work out the details later, but I knew she would insist on giving me the money—which I would use to buy more trinkets and old bottles to fill with flowers for her store.
At Emily’s place, I set a shallow wicker basket filled with long, graceful stalks of dried lavender on top of the deli case near the front door. I caught Emily’s eye as she was taking an order and she smiled and waved. I knew she would divide up the stalks later and put them in tall bud vases around the shop.
Next door at Marigold’s Crafts and Quilts, I dropped off my last delivery: a small wooden box filled with dried rose petals, lavender seeds, bay laurel leaves, and some dried spiny pods from my sycamore tree.
“Smells wonderful,” Marigold said as she sniffed the concoction. “So fresh and light.” She set it down on the front counter near the cash register. “I’m putting it right here so I can enjoy it. Thank you, Shannon.”
Marigold was the only one of my friends who could actually take the herbs and flowers I gave her and turn them into pretty, flower-strewn soaps. It was something she’d learned to do as a child growing up in an Amish community.
The store was empty, so I was able to spend a few minutes catching up with Marigold on the latest news. She, too, had blown off all talk of the recent murder in favor of gushing over MacKintyre Sullivan’s move to town. That was fine with me. I would much rather chat about the popular author than the fact that I was still uncomfortably high up on Chief Jensen’s list of suspects.
When three new customers walked into Marigold’s store, I took off and headed for the diner. I’d decided to treat myself to Sunday lunch.
Before I’d gone halfway down the block, I saw Luisa Capello climbing out of a navy blue Porsche her older brother was driving. She wore a light pink sweater over dark jeans, and was still as fragile and pretty as she’d been in grammar school.
“Luisa?” I said.
She turned and her eyes lit up. “Shannon. It’s great to see you.”
“How are you?”
“I’m good.” She glanced at her big, handsome brother. “Buddy, I want to talk to Shannon for a minute. Why don’t you go meet Mama and Papa at the café? I promise I’ll be quick.”
“Yeah, okay. Hey, Shannon,” he added before strolling to the restaurant.
Luisa watched until Buddy was far enough away for us to talk without being overheard. “We’re having Sunday lunch at the Blue Moon Café.”
“I like that place,” I said.
“Me, too.” She pressed her lips together pensively, then blurted, “I wanted to call you this week, Shannon, but I . . . I couldn’t get up the nerve.”
“Why not?” I asked, playing dumb. “What’s up?”
“I heard what happened to you with Jerry. I’m so glad you defended yourself, but it never should’ve happened. I should’ve warned you. I should’ve warned every woman in town about him. He was a manipulative predator.” Her breath trembled and she had to swallow a few times before continuing. “For months I was so afraid of saying anything to anyone for fear of him coming back and . . .” She couldn’t complete the sentence, and I thought the worst. Would he have beaten her? Killed her?
I’d meant to call her last week, too, after Sean told me that she’d shown up with a black eye and her family had suspected it was from Jerry. I didn’t want to say anything now, though, because my reasons for contacting her hadn’t been the most noble. I had wanted to gauge her anger at Jerry in the hopes that the police would add her to the suspect list. It was no fun being on the list all alone.
“Well,” she continued, after shaking her head in self-disgust, “it might be terrible of me to say so, but I’m happy you kicked him. I wish I’d been there to see it.”
I had to ask. “Luisa, did Jerry hurt you physically?”
Apparently, the question was traumatic, because she seemed to gasp for air, taking a few deep breaths before she could finally make eye contact. “Yes. He punched me in the face. More than once. I still can’t see very well out of this eye.” She touched the left side of her face. “The doctor says I’ll be fine, eventually, but it was so awful, Shannon. And now I’m always flinching at noises and things. I hate that.”
“Your parents and brothers must’ve been furious.”
“They wanted to kill him,” she said, then pressed her fingers to her lips. “I shouldn’t have said that. And I didn’t mean it. Not really. I mean, yes, they were furious with Jerry, but that’s just natural. The police even talked to them because they had told people how much they hated him. But, luckily, they all have alibis.”
“I’m glad.”
“Me, too.” She glanced around to make sure we were alone. “I know they didn’t kill Jerry, but I also know they wanted to. And I hate to say it, but a small part of me wanted them to do it, too. That’s a horrible thing to confess, but it’s true. I was so angry at him, and even more angry at myself for allowing it to happen.”
“I know how you feel,” I said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. “But you were smart and brave to stop seeing him.”
“Not really,” she whispered. “I went back to him after he hit me the first time. He promised never to do it again. And I really thought I loved him. He was so handsome and such a good listener. But then he hit me again. I’d heard of women getting caught in that cycle, but I never thought I would be one of them. I’m lucky I escaped before anything worse occurred.”
“I don’t care what you say. I still think you were brave to walk away from him.” But now I had to wonder why she’d never pressed charges against him. Why hadn’t her family? What were they afraid of?
“Do the police know who killed him?” she asked in a low voice.
“No,” I said. “They’re still investigating.”
She nodded. “If you find out, will you call me?”
“Sure.”
“Good,” she said firmly, as her hands bunched into fists. “I want to know who to thank.”
My breath caught, but before I could respond, she grabbed me in a tight hug, whispered, “Thanks, Shannon,” and let me go. She walked quickly down the sidewalk and across the street.
I stared after her, still unsure what to make of the conversation. Especially her last statement. So much for that shy, fragile facade of hers. Shaking off my perplexity, I walked the rest of the way to the diner.
“Howdy, Shannon,” Cindy called. She stood in front of the order spindle, looking into the kitchen. “Sit anywhere you’d like. I’ll be right over.”
The entire front counter of the homey restaurant was filled with diners, as were most of the booths and tables. I glanced around and saw Penny sitting at the far end, talking with two women I recognized as tellers from her bank. She saw me and waved, so I approached her booth.
After greeting them all, I turned to Penny. “I’m glad I ran into you. I won’t be able to make it to the gym on Tuesday. My truck has a dead battery.”
“Oh, so that’s why I saw you riding your bike earlier,” she said.
“Yeah, that’ll be my transportation for the next few days.”
“At least it’s a really cute bike.” She briefly described my pink retro bike to her friends.
“Can we do the gym on Thursday instead?” I asked.
“Sounds good.” She gave me a sympathetic smile and went back to her conversation.
I walked over and sat at a small booth by the bay window and perused the menu, just to find out if anything on there had changed lately. I was impressed to see that they had added some local wines to the list. We were only a short drive away from the Anderson Valley, the latest wine-growing region to hit the big time, so some of the newer wineries were now represented on the list.
“What’s it gonna be, hon?” Cindy said, her notepad and pen ready. She wore the world’s largest frilly handkerchief corsage with her name tag pinned to her white uniform. Her blond hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. She was somewhere in her forties and had been working at the diner since I was in high school.
“I’ll have the cheeseburger, medium-rare; crispy fries; and a root beer float.”
“Onion on the burger?”
“Why not? A big slice of raw onion, please.”
“Sounds like heaven,” she said, grinning. “I’ll bring you some water.”
“Thanks, Cindy.”
As I waited for my order, I thought about Luisa. She claimed that her father and two brothers each had an alibi. But what about Luisa herself? As soon as I asked the question, I felt guilty. There was no way Luisa could have killed Jerry Saxton. Despite her heated statement about wanting to thank his killer, she was simply too sweet and passive. And short. Heck, she probably couldn’t even lift my pink wrench, let alone swing it hard enough to smash his head in. Not like I could, anyway.
And wasn’t that a miserable thought? To distract myself, I pulled out my smartphone and scanned through my appointments for the week. Since I wouldn’t get my car back until late Tuesday, I would have to plan the early part of my week more carefully. I studied my calendar entries, trying to figure out where I could shift things around.
Generally, I didn’t approve of people mindlessly fiddling with their smartphones in restaurants, but I was willing to break my own rules to keep my mind from wandering back to the murder scene.
“Hey! Are you deaf or something?” a man at the counter snapped angrily. “How many times do I have to tell you I want another cup of coffee?”
I looked up and almost lost my appetite. The loudmouth was Wendell Jarvick. I was surprised I hadn’t seen him when I first walked in. He sat alone at the end of the counter, looking utterly outraged that Cindy wasn’t paying enough attention to him. I’d been on the receiving end of that pinched look of his more than once over the past week, so I felt for Cindy. But as usual, she handled it professionally.
“Right away, sir,” she said cheerily. “I was just brewing another pot and you’ll get the first cup.” Her soothing tone should have calmed him down, but this was Wendell. He continued to fume.
Cindy grabbed the full pot of coffee and poured it neatly into his coffee mug. Wendell didn’t acknowledge her speed and efficiency, just muttered, “About damn time.”
He reached for the cup and took a big gulp. Suddenly, he spewed liquid across the counter and jumped up from his seat. “It’s too damn hot! Are you trying to kill me?”
Cindy’s eyes widened as the color in her face drained. “I’m sorry, sir, but you were demanding coffee so I gave you the first cup off the burner.”
“You bitch!” Wendell grabbed his water glass and gulped down the entire thing—to cool his mouth, I assumed.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard him shout that offensive word. Besides the world in general, he seemed to have a particular problem with women.
I could see Cindy’s hand shaking. She backed away and set the pot back on the burner.
“Don’t you walk away from me,” he shouted. “Bring me more water.”
“Right away, sir.”
He pounded his fist on the counter. “The service in this place sucks.”
The kitchen door swung open and Rocky the cook and owner walked out to the front counter. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“You’re damn straight there’s a problem,” Wendell bellowed. “This bitch was trying to burn my mouth with that crappy coffee you serve.”
“You’re welcome to leave,” Rocky said. “Coffee’s on the house.”
Wendell’s shoulders tightened in aggravation. “I’m not leaving until I finish my lunch.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Rocky said, standing directly in front of Wendell. “Lunchtime’s over.”
I could almost see Wendell’s devious mind spinning as he scrutinized the situation. This time the obnoxious jerk wasn’t facing down a woman like me or even a well-mannered police chief at the pub. No, Rocky was a 250-pound ex-Marine with a tattoo of a snake on his neck.
Wendell turned around and slowly panned the room, glowering at every single person in his line of sight. His face turned redder and redder, and when he saw me, I thought his head might explode.
“God, I hate you people,” Wendell said, his voice dripping with malevolence. Without warning, he grabbed his coffee cup and dumped the hot liquid on the floor where Cindy and Rocky were standing. Then he flung the cup against the wall, causing it to shatter, and stormed out of the diner.
“I hate him more,” Cindy said, scowling at his back.
Rocky watched him leave. “Don’t go away mad,” he taunted loudly.
“That guy is a menace to society,” one of Penny’s friends said.
“You should warn the police about him,” another customer suggested.
I’d never seen Cindy so angry. Her lips trembled and I thought she might start to cry.
“What an ass,” Rocky said, glancing out the door to make sure he was gone for good. “I don’t want to see that guy back here again.”
“You and the whole town, Rocky,” one of the guys said.
Rocky’s voice softened. “You okay, Cin?”
She sniffled but nodded briskly. “I’m fine. Thanks, Rocky. I’ll be around to serve y’all in a minute.”
There was a moment of silence and then everyone in the restaurant burst into applause.
“Good riddance,” someone shouted.
Cindy looked ready to cry again, so she grabbed a mop and began to sop up the dark liquid off the floor. The busboy ran over and nudged her aside. “Let me do that.”
Through clenched teeth, she said, “Thanks, Kenny.” She took a few seconds to breathe before going right back into service mode. She picked up the coffeepot and, pasting a bright smile on her face, walked around the restaurant, refilling coffee cups.
When she got to my table, her gaze narrowed in on me. “Do me a favor, will you, Shannon, honey?”
“Anything you want.”
She glared at the doorway where Wendell had exited, then looked back at me. “Next time you’re looking to emasculate someone, you give that one a swift kick in the you-know-what for me.”
? ? ?
Later, as I rode my bike home, I couldn’t help but dwell on the irrefutable fact that I wanted to get rid of my hateful tenant. I couldn’t help it. He’d been a complete ass with me, but what he’d done to Cindy and Whitney was a crime. And I didn’t even like Whitney! But nobody had the right to treat another person like that. I thought of him spewing ketchup at Whitney. And then to dump the coffee on the floor of the Cozy Cove and smash the cup? Maybe Wendell hadn’t been potty- trained as a kid, because something was horribly twisted inside his head.
? ? ?
Monday morning, I was halfway through my usual getting-ready routine before I remembered that I didn’t have my truck. It didn’t really matter, since there were no high-powered business meetings scheduled today. But I’d been planning to swing by some of my job sites to check on things and I supposed I could use the bike for those trips. My guys wouldn’t dare make fun of me.
Who was I kidding? They lived to make fun of me. Out of love and respect, of course.
As I poured my second cup of coffee, the phone rang.
“Morning, Shannon.” I recognized Tommy’s friendly voice.
“Hey, Tommy, what’s up?”
“I’m calling to give you the go-ahead on the Boyers’ house. It’s no longer a crime scene, so you and the guys can go back to work.”
“That’s great, Tommy. I appreciate it.”
I hung up and immediately phoned Wade to tell him the good news. We had planned for this eventuality at our Sunday meeting, so he was prepared to call his crew members to alert them to the change of assignment.
I pulled out my computer tablet and made some minor adjustments to the crew list and the Boyers’ estimated completion date. Then I contacted Carla and gave her the same information.
I let both of my foremen know that I was without a car today, but I would be willing to stop by a few of the nearby places on my bike. The one exception was the Boyers’ house. I could make the trip, but I didn’t want to take the chance of running into the Boyers on my bike. For reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I wanted to present the most professional image I could to them, at least until the murder of Jerry Saxton was solved.
Both Wade and Carla insisted that they had everything under control on all the jobs. I knew it was true, but that didn’t mean I could shirk all the other duties I had to take care of today. Like payroll, for instance. I could always stay home and write checks and clean up some paperwork.
And I would. Maybe this afternoon. But what I really wanted to do this morning was check out the lighthouse mansion. It was less than three miles up the coast, so I could make the trip there and back, along with an hour of wandering around the house itself, in a few hours. The road twisted and turned in a few sections, but the surface was smooth most of the way and the ride was partly downhill on the trip back.
I worried for a minute that I might run into the new owner, but decided it wouldn’t happen. The house wasn’t livable yet, especially for a pampered celebrity author like MacKintyre Sullivan. No, he was most likely staying at Glencannon Green or the Royal Coast Hotel up near Mendocino, both of which were world-class establishments.
Since I would be gone most of the morning, I packed some munchies and a bottle of water in a small backpack and tucked it securely in the bicycle basket.
I wore jeans and a sweater topped by a down vest that I could take off once the cool marine layer dissipated.
I paced myself for the ride north, coasting leisurely along the bike path until it ended and I crossed onto the Old Cove Highway. Traffic was light this early in the morning and I felt safe as long as I kept within the narrow lines of the bike lane painted along the edge of the smooth blacktop surface. Going around some of the curves freaked me out a little, so my brakes got a good workout, especially when the occasional truck rumbled by.
For the next mile and a half, the highway twisted and inclined gradually so that by the time I reached the turnoff, I’d gotten a good workout. I waited for a milk truck to pass and then crossed the highway and turned onto Old Lighthouse Road and headed toward the ocean.
The condition of the old road had not been improved since the first time I remembered coming out here with my family when I was five years old. Dad would park the station wagon along the dunes and we would trudge over the hills of sand to watch the waves crash against the craggy breakwater. It never got old.
The road was still crusty, pockmarked and pitted with bumps and cracks and gaps along the edges. Sand had blown across the surface recently, so I took it nice and slow in case my tires lost their grip. The flaws in the road made me wonder about our famous new resident. How much time would pass before Mac Sullivan demanded that the county repave this road? Maybe he had already done so.
I followed the narrow lane as it curved along the dunes for another quarter of a mile. Finally there was a break in the line of tall cypress and redwood trees and I stopped in the middle of the road to breathe in the cool, sea-scented air and take in the overwhelming, up-close sight of the lighthouse tower.
Even though the tip of the lighthouse could be seen from the highway, this first up-close, full-length view was always spectacular.
The tower rose one hundred feet into the sky and stood as straight as an arrow, thanks to a series of steel reinforcement rods encased in concrete. Inside the walls of the tower was a solid stone-and-iron spiral staircase, which I had climbed twice in my life. Gazing up at the top of the structure, I could see that the narrow balcony surrounding the glass-walled lantern room appeared to be in good condition. I itched to inspect it more closely, but that moment would have to wait. Not long, hopefully—assuming Sullivan allowed for open bidding on his rehab job.
The tower was separated from the house by only a few feet, a convenient commute for the lighthouse keepers of times gone by. As I leaned my bike against the aging latticework frames that camouflaged the subfloor area under the front porch, my only thought was that those frames would have to be replaced.
After carefully testing the stairs, I walked up to the front door. The veranda was just as spacious and potentially fabulous as I remembered it. Its wood-plank floor was basically solid. To augment my notes, I took out my phone and snapped photos of everything I saw, from the worst problem areas to the unexpected delights.
Crossing to the opposite side of the house from the tower, I peeked through the glass walls of the small solarium. It was empty except for its old brick floor, but I could already imagine it filled with lush greenery and a wonderful chaise longue or two for reading and napping.
Wandering around to the back, I noticed several shutters leaning drunkenly from their window frames and suspected they were rotting from years of rough winds, salt air, and neglect. One of the three chimneys had bricks missing and I worried that they’d fallen through the roof. Everywhere, the serviceable white paint was faded and peeling off the wood siding. Adjacent to what I thought might be the kitchen, a thick wooden door leading to a root cellar had been broken off and left to deteriorate, leaving the old concrete stairs within accessible to the elements.
I rubbed my arms briskly to banish the cold shivers I got from staring down those steps, which led to darkness. God only knew what was down there. Dead animal carcasses? Spiders? Rats? Humans?
I backed away fast. Who needed a real body in a basement when I could use my own imagination to scare myself to death?
“I’m done here,” I muttered, and scurried around to the front of the house. I checked my notes to make sure I’d written down everything that I wanted to remember. Reaching again for my phone, I scanned the photos I’d taken, then took a bunch more of the house from every angle.
Turning away from the house, I took shots of the spectacular views: the ocean waves spewing white foam against the rough rock barrier to the west; the weathered cypress, pine, and redwood trees bordering the property to the east; the soft curve of the coastline to the south.
Without access to the house’s interior, I’d done as much as I could do here today. Standing my bike up, I packed my notebook and phone securely in the basket and walked the bike to the end of the driveway. At Old Lighthouse Road, I put my foot on the pedal, eased onto the seat, and began to ride back home.
I was going downhill now, but I rode the hand brakes, trying to hold back from gathering too much speed because of the difficult twists and turns of the highway.
About a mile into the trip, I approached one of the more treacherous curves and gripped the brakes tightly to slow down.
Nothing happened.
I continued to gain speed and pumped the brakes as hard as I could, but I felt no connection reaching the tire walls. I downshifted to second gear and then to first. That helped slightly, but then the road declined more steeply around another curve and my pace accelerated again. I tried to press my foot down against the road’s surface, but my foot kept bouncing up. I couldn’t get any traction. I was going too damn fast. This was going to end badly if I didn’t come up with a plan quickly.
A car passed me and honked.
“Not helpful,” I shouted. Careening downhill, trying to stay within the narrow bike lane, I had to think fast. Coming up in less than half a mile was Travers Meadow, a pastoral field that belonged to one of the local dairy farmers. The meadow was relatively flat and if I could find a break in the short steel posts that lined the curving road, I would be able to coast to a stop.
My front tire wobbled over a patch of pebbles in the road and I had to strengthen my grip on the handlebars to keep control of the bike. I rounded another curve and now I could see the meadow a few hundred yards away. I steadied my nerves, knowing I would have to swerve quickly to angle the bike through one of the breaks in the row of barriers.
I counted the posts, held my breath, and veered sharply right. My thigh slammed against one of the steel barriers and I felt my jeans rip, but I didn’t care. I’d made it through the break and hit the open field with a jarring bump. The bike and I continued to bounce across the wet, uneven ground until my front wheel hit a gopher hole and abruptly ejected me.
As I flew through the air, my only thought was Don’t land on your head. Don’t land on your head. I was wearing a helmet, but that wouldn’t be enough to protect me at this velocity.
For a few seconds it felt like I was moving in slow motion. But then I hit the ground fast, breaking the fall with my hands and left shoulder. I tumbled another few yards in an awkward somersault before skidding for a few feet on my hands, arms and stomach and finally collapsing in the muddy grass, facedown.
I lay unmoving, my cheek pressed against the wet, grimy ground, for a few long, humiliating minutes.
I wanted to cry. The palms of my hands were already stinging and I knew they had to be scraped bloody. I could feel the cold grass against my knees, which meant that my jeans had ripped there, too. My chin had taken a hit, as well, because my jaw was stiff and my neck felt jarred.
But I could breathe, so chances were that I hadn’t broken any ribs or collapsed a lung. A small victory.
I heard car brakes squealing along the highway, but ignored them.
After a minute, I lifted my left shoulder an inch to test whether it was broken or not. I did the same with both arms and legs, and then arched my back slightly to make sure I hadn’t damaged anything else too badly.
Sudden footsteps pounded on the ground and a man yelled, “Are you all right?”
I was alive, so yeah, I was all right. I held up my hand as well as I could, given my awkward position, and waved to let him know I was conscious.
I hoped it was a friend or even a stranger, because then it wouldn’t matter that I wasn’t exactly looking my best. As long as it wasn’t someone horrible from town who would ridicule me and make sure everyone knew about this.
You’re an idiot, I thought, and shoved those concerns aside. Because who cared what I looked like? I was alive. Hallelujah.
Still, I had to look awful, what with my face caked in mud and stained with grass and dirt. But again, who cared? It wasn’t like I was trying to impress anybody with my grace.
It must’ve been quite a sight, though, to see me flying off my bike and landing in a heap. Pure elegance. Ugh.
I flinched when a warm hand touched my back. “Hey, are you okay? Can you move?”
“I’m fine.” I struggled to push myself off the ground and managed only to make an oof sound.
“Fine, huh? Hold on,” he said, pressing his hand down more firmly. “Don’t move yet. Can you tell if anything’s broken?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me check.” His hands moved gently up my back, along my spine, across one shoulder, then the other, and down my arms. He had a firm, expert touch, but still managed to be gentle, like he did this sort of thing every day. I’d never felt anything so wonderful in my life. Which was a little pathetic, but I wasn’t going to complain.
“Really, I’m okay,” I said.
“Yeah, I think you are,” he said. “You took quite a leap there. I passed you on the road, but then I caught a glimpse in my rearview mirror from the top of the hill. You really went flying.”
“And all in front of an audience.”
His chuckle was deep, sexy. He continued to rub my back lightly. “Can you turn over for me?”
For that amazing voice, anything, I thought dreamily, then wondered if maybe I’d hit my head after all.
He helped me roll over, his arm cradling my back to cushion me until I was settled on the ground. That’s when I got a close-up look at him for the first time. And almost groaned out loud.
It was MacKintyre Sullivan, world-famous author and newest resident of our little village. Oh, lucky me.
He was so much more handsome than his book covers portrayed him. Everything about him was more intense, more striking than those posed Photoshopped pictures could’ve ever revealed. His hair was darker, richer, short cropped, and utterly masculine. He always looked so dangerous and serious on his book covers, so when he flashed me an easy smile, it was startling. His teeth were white and straight and his soulful dark blue eyes actually twinkled. He had a shadow of a beard, which gave him a rugged, heroic look that made me want to crawl into his strong arms and stay for a long, cozy nap.
Good grief. Where were all these fanciful thoughts coming from? I had definitely hit my head on something.
He shifted his weight until he was sitting companionably on the ground next to me. Shoving up the sleeves of his faded forest green cable-knit sweater to reveal tanned, muscular arms, he gently brushed my cheek with his fingers to get rid of some attractive dirt clods or weeds that were still stuck to my skin.
“So, what happened here?” he asked.
“My brakes gave out.”
“You were going awfully fast.”
I sighed. “I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop.”
“Scary.”
“I was terrified.”
“Good thing you were wearing a helmet. And you’re sure nothing’s broken?” He reached over and lifted my leg at the knee, moving the joint up and down. “Does that hurt?”
“No.” I didn’t mention the thousands of tingles I felt from his touch. I figured they weren’t related to the fall.
He did the same with my other leg. Nothing was broken or sprained.
“You were lucky,” he said.
“Except for having my brakes go out, I guess I was.”
“My name is Mac, by the way,” he said.
“I’m Shannon.”
He grinned. “Irish. It suits you. So, let me know when you’re ready to stand up, Shannon.”
“I think I’m ready.”
“I’ll help you.” He rose easily to a standing position and held out his hands for me to grab hold of.
Once I was on my feet, he gripped my upper arms until I was no longer swaying. When he took a step back, I tried to roll my shoulders, but the slight movement had me biting back a moan. “That hurts,” I admitted.
“You’ll probably be aching for a few days.” He walked over to where my bike lay fallen in the grass. Lifting it effortlessly, he checked the tires, then played with the hand brakes. Standing the bike up with its kickstand in place, he gripped the left brake line between his thumb and index finger and followed it all the way to the back wheel.
“The brake wire is frayed right here. A strand of this thin plastic coating is all that’s holding it together.”
“How can that be possible?” I wondered. “The bike is less than a year old.”
“I’m familiar with this model,” he said, running his hand over the bike’s wide back bumper. “It’s expensive.”
“I wanted a good one,” I said, slowly bending at the waist to test my stomach muscles. “I like to ride.”
“Yeah, me, too.” He got down on one knee to take a closer look at the fraying and I stepped next to him to see what he was looking at. After a moment he glanced up at me, a frown marring that gorgeous face. “See this row of indentations on the wire? Looks like the brake line was cut intentionally.”