Lakeview Protector. Shirlee McCoy
Diner, have omelets and hot chocolate before they went to Sarah’s doctor’s appointment. It was a plan anyway, and that was a lot better than sitting around moping about what might have been but wasn’t.
Ice crunched under her feet as she walked down to the lake and stepped onto the rickety dock. Wood boards wiggled as she walked, and she frowned. She’d have to call around, see who she could find to fix it before the next vacation season. Maybe get someone to landscape the overgrown yard. The way she saw it, she was already in trouble for paying off Sarah’s mortgage. She might as well dig herself in a little deeper.
Ignoring the icy wood and the frigid wind, Jazz lowered herself onto the end of the dock, letting her feet hang over the edge. The lake was peaceful this time of the day, silent as the sun rose to bathe it in gold. In a few hours, she’d have to get to work, calling for the security system, calling around for a handyman, bringing Sarah to breakfast and to the doctor. Right now, though, all that she needed to do was sit and listen to the quiet.
Her fingers traced the weathered wood at the end of the dock, unconsciously searching for the deep indentations she knew would still be there, her mind drifting to another time, to bright sunlight and excited giggles, to the deep rumble of John’s laughter. Her heart yearned to rewind the clock, go back and live those moments one more time.
“It’s not such a good morning to be on the lake.” The words were as soft as a butterfly’s kiss, but still loud enough to make Jazz jump.
She turned, saw Eli walking toward her—his long legs and broad shoulders making him look like some action hero come to life—and felt something stirring to life. Interest? Attraction? Whatever it was, she didn’t like it, and scrambled to her feet to face the man. “You’re out and about early.”
“Seemed a shame to waste any of the day.” His deep Southern drawl washed over her, inviting her to relax into the moment as he moved closer.
She took a step back, one foot slipping off the edge of the dock, her arms windmilling as she tried to regain her balance.
Eli grabbed her hand, yanking her toward him, then holding her steady. “You okay?”
“Dandy.” She tugged her hand away, resisting the urge to wipe it against her jeans. There was no way, after all, that she could wipe away the lingering heat of his touch.
“You look awfully tired for someone who’s feeling dandy.”
“Nice of you to notice.”
“I also noticed that your eyes are more green than blue this morning and that your cheeks are the color of Gran’s prize roses—the most delicate shade of pink I’ve ever seen—but I figured you’d be none too happy if I mentioned it.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “Did you go to school to learn lines like that, or do they just come naturally?”
“Depends on who you talk to. I’d like to say I’m just naturally charming. Gran would probably say she whipped gentlemanly charm into me.”
“Did I say I found you charming?”
“Don’t you?” He smiled and the warmth of it spread through Jazz, melting ice that had surrounded her heart for three years, the feel of it new and exciting and horrifying all at the same time.
She looked away, told herself she was imagining things. “Maybe we better get off the dock. It needs some maintenance.”
“I was thinking the same.” Before she could move past, Eli wrapped a hand around her elbow, escorting her off the dock and back toward the house, the gesture courtly and charming. “You didn’t tell me why you look so tired this morning.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“So now I am.”
“Sarah nearly screaming the house down, the sheriff’s visit and tea with a stranger didn’t leave me much time for sleep.”
“Now, I wouldn’t say we were strangers.”
“I wouldn’t say we were friends either.”
“Maybe we will be.” He smiled again, but this time his eyes were sharply focused and Jazz caught a glimpse of the hardness she’d seen in his gaze the day before.
Southern charm and warm smile aside, Jazz was pretty sure Eli had an agenda. One that wasn’t as simple as spending a month alone writing, as he’d claimed when he’d made reservations. “I doubt either of us will be here long enough for that to happen.”
“It doesn’t take long for friendships to form.”
“I guess you’ve traveled around enough to know that.”
“I sure have.” He grinned, but it didn’t ease the hard angle of his jaw.
“Last night, you said you’d been in the marines.”
“That’s right.”
“And that you’re retired.”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t say how you went from military to writing.”
“You didn’t ask.” His amusement was obvious. It might have been directed at her, at himself, or at the situation they were in. Probably, he was just the kind of guy who was amused by most things. The immature, unreliable type that Jazz’s mother had always been attracted to.
Even as Jazz told herself that, she knew it wasn’t the truth. There was something very solid about Eli, something that begged to be relied on. Not by her, of course. She had no intention of relying on anyone but herself. That would be asking for heartbreak and Jazz had definitely had enough of that to last a lifetime. “So, I’m asking. How does a person go from a military career to a writing career?”
“He gets half-near killed by a roadside bomb, gets shipped home, nearly goes crazy thinking about the good…no, the great…guys who died that day and then he decides he’d better find something edifying to do with his time, or he’ll end up wandering the streets with a bottle of whiskey in his hand.” He said it so matter-of-factly Jazz almost didn’t register the horror of the words.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”
“How could you have? My scars are pretty well hidden.”
“I’m still sorry.”
“It was a tough time, but I’m healing.” They were still walking, Eli’s arm brushing hers. Despite the poignant story Eli was telling, it felt nice to share the moment with him. Dawn had always been her favorite time of day, and she’d much rather spend it with a flesh-and-blood man than with a memory. Maybe she shouldn’t feel guilty about that, but she did.
She shoved the emotion to the back of her mind, not wanting to dwell on it, and turned her attention to the conversation. “What kind of writing do you do?”
“Human-interest stories. Mostly about injured veterans who’ve returned from the war and made something of themselves. Men and women who haven’t just survived, but thrived.”
“And you came to Lakeview to write a story?”
He hesitated, and she knew before he spoke that he wasn’t going to tell her the truth. “I’m researching.”
“That could mean a lot of things.”
“It could.” Before she could question him more, he released her elbow, stepped away. “It looks like we’ve made it back to the house. I’d invite myself in for tea, but I’m more a coffee kind of guy in the morning.”
She almost invited him in. Almost. Then common sense and the need for self-preservation prevailed, and she nodded. “Have a good day, Eli.”
“You, too.”
She started up the porch stairs, but was pulled up short by his hand on her arm. “If you have any more trouble, you know where to find me.”
“We