Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey
quiet. The faint lap of water against the shore, the occasional chirp of birds, the steady chug of a fishing boat as it sailed up the channel…the sound of a vehicle coming up the road. Ian turned toward the gate and watched an ancient Volkswagen bus approach. Whatever color it might once have been was indistinguishable beneath layers of dirt and rust.
It wasn’t likely to be the sort of approach Marco would make. Besides, the nurse Rosie had called was due soon, so this was probably her.
In another minute the minibus came through the gate and rolled to a stop in front of the house. Doors opened, and no less than half a dozen children piled out, followed by two women. Both had long, dark braids, and both were dressed in jeans. The smaller of the two carried a black bag. Indeed, the nurse had arrived.
Rosie stepped onto the porch. ‘‘Hi, Hilda,’’ she called. ‘‘That was quick.’’
Her voice carried to Ian, and he frowned, again looking at the footprints in the ground. If voices always carried this far this easily, whoever had been watching her could hear as much as he could see.
The taller of the two women, a robust woman with jangling earrings and bracelets, laughed as she approached the porch. ‘‘You wanted me to take my time getting here?’’
‘‘No,’’ Rosie said, giving her a quick hug. ‘‘But I didn’t expect that you’d hurry, either.’’ She held a hand out to the other person. ‘‘Mama Sarah, how are you today?’’
‘‘Same as yesterday,’’ she responded.
Rosie hugged her, too, a smile on her face. ‘‘Old?’’ she quipped.
‘‘Not so old that I can’t keep you in line.’’
‘‘Where is this wounded, gun-packing stranger?’’ Hilda asked. ‘‘Did you follow my advice and lock him in the storage shed?’’
Rosie shook her head and held the door open. Whatever her reply might have been was lost to Ian as they went inside. One of the kids threw a Frisbee to another. Another couple of the kids emerged from a shed, their arms laden with squirming kittens that they carried to the porch.
One of the older kids came out of one of the storage sheds pushing an old motor scooter, which started right up. A second later, Rosie’s dog came flying out the door and down the steps, prancing next to the scooter. The kid stopped, then helped the dog onto the scooter, where he sat on the seat in front of the kid, paws resting on the handlebars. They took off again, the dog’s ears flapping and his mouth opened in a wide doggy grin.
Ian watched them a moment, liking the fun and wondering how you went about teaching a dog to ride a motor scooter.
Descending the slope, he decided the reinforcements were good. If Marco stayed true to form, he wouldn’t try anything while other people were around. There wasn’t much likelihood he would mistake one of these kids for Annmarie—her towhead was nothing like the dark ones of the kids playing in the yard.
One of the children opened the door to the kitchen and asked, ‘‘Hey, Rosie, can we have some milk for the kittens?’’
Ian couldn’t hear her reply, but it must have been affirmative because the kid smiled and said, ‘‘Thanks.’’
A moment later she came onto the porch with a bowl of milk. She set it down, laughing at something one of the children said. She glanced around the compound, and her laughter died when her gaze lit on him. She watched him cross the compound, her expression frankly appraising, a look that left him feeling as though he hadn’t measured up in some way. He hated the feeling and the defensiveness that came with it. Annoyed with himself, he smiled…a defense he’d learned over time that hid his real feelings and that had the added benefit of making others believe he didn’t let much of anything bother him.
‘‘How’s your sister?’’ he asked.
‘‘Worried about Annmarie,’’ she said.
‘‘You didn’t tell her about our trouble?’’
‘‘Now why would I do that?’’ she asked, folding her arms over her chest. ‘‘She has enough on her mind.’’
‘‘She does,’’ he agreed.
‘‘She said that you had promised to stay with Annmarie even after bringing her here. That’s not necessary, you know.’’
‘‘It is to me,’’ he said. ‘‘I promised.’’ In his own mind it was just that simple. He didn’t have many rules by which he lived his life, but the ones he had were carved in stone. Keeping his promises was at the top of the list. ‘‘Are you satisfied that I’m who I say I am?’’
‘‘If you’re asking did Lily vouch for you, yes. Her best friend and a man of good deeds, she said, adding that my folks like you, too.’’
A man of good deeds. He wasn’t, but it sounded exactly like something Lily would say. As for her folks liking him—the feeling was mutual, though he doubted anyone else’s opinion would sway Rosie.
Hilda appeared in the doorway behind Rosie, and Ian met her gaze. Her eyes were dark-brown, their shape similar to Rosie’s, full of intelligence and curiosity. She was a head taller than Rosie. She came onto the porch and extended her hand. ‘‘Hilda Raven-in-Moonlight.’’
‘‘Ian Stearne,’’ he responded, taking her hand.
She firmly shook it once, then released it. ‘‘Let’s take a look at that wound.’’ She turned back to look at the kids playing in the yard. ‘‘Jonathan,’’ she called.
‘‘Yeah,’’ one of the Frisbee-throwing kids answered.
‘‘You come get me if you see anyone coming.’’
‘‘Even Uncle Josh?’’
She chuckled. ‘‘Especially Uncle Josh.’’
‘‘Who’s he?’’ Ian asked, the hair at the back of his neck suddenly raising.
‘‘Hilda’s brother,’’ Rosie answered, leading Ian back into the house. ‘‘He comes and goes. Mostly goes. Mama Sarah, this is Ian Stearne.’’
‘‘I’m pleased to meet you,’’ Ian said, extending his hand to the old woman.
‘‘How do you know?’’ she asked, keeping her own firmly wrapped around her mug of coffee. She met his gaze, her eyes magnified behind thick glasses.
He laughed and sat down at the table. ‘‘I’m an optimist, I guess.’’ He glanced briefly across the kitchen at Hilda, who stood at the sink scrubbing her hands.
A twinkle lit Mama Sarah’s eyes. ‘‘You don’t know?’’
‘‘Sure I know. How could a man not be pleased to meet a lady like you?’’ he asked with a grin, which earned a laugh from her.
Drying her hands, Hilda approached the table. ‘‘This man who shot you. What does he look like?’’ Without waiting for an answer, she added, ‘‘Take off your shirt.’’
Ian briefly met her gaze, then Rosie’s, before peeling off the sweatshirt. ‘‘That’s a strange question for a nurse.’’
‘‘That’s not why I’m asking,’’ she said, reaching for her bag. From it she pulled out a wallet and handed it to him.
Ian opened it, revealing a law enforcement shield.
She smiled. ‘‘The island’s only nurse, Mr. Ian Stearne, and the local law. Now, then. About the man who shot you.’’
‘‘Marco’s about five-ten or five-eleven. Wiry build, a narrow face, and a scar on his cheekbone. Since it was dark, who knows what color his hair and eyes are.’’
Without speaking, Hilda tipped his head to the side, her touch firm as she prodded the flesh around the wound