Chase wasn’t aboard.
He was at that moment fidgeting in a chair in Lorne Tibbetts’s back office, answering a thousand and one questions. A command performance. A woman, after all, was dead; an investigation was called for; and as Lorne so succinctly put it, the choice was between talk or jail. All the time Chase sat there, he was wondering about the Jenny B. Had it reached Bass Harbor yet? Was Miranda stable?
Would Lorne ever finish with the damn questions?
It was two in the morning when Chase finally walked out of the police station. The night was warm, warm for Maine, anyway, but he felt chilled as he walked to his car. No more ferries to Bass Harbor tonight. He was stranded on the island until morning. At least he knew that Miranda was out of danger. A phone call to the hospital had told him she was resting comfortably, and was expected to recover.
Now he wondered where to go, where to sleep.
Not Chestnut Street. He could never sleep under Evelyn’s roof again, not after the damage he’d done to the DeBolt family. No, tonight he felt rootless, cut off from the DeBolts, from the Tremains, from the legacy of his rich and haughty past. He felt born anew. Cleansed.
He got in the car and drove to Rose Hill.
The cottage felt cold, devoid of life or spirit, as if any joy that had ever existed within had long since fled. Only the bedroom held any warmth. This was where he and Miranda had made love. Here the memory of that night, that one night, still lingered.
He lay on the bed and tried to conjure up the memory of her scent, her softness, but it was like trying to catch your own reflection in water. Every time you reach out to hold it, it slips from your grasp.
The way Miranda had slipped from his grasp.
She’s not one of us, Evelyn had once said. She’s not our kind of people.
Chase thought of Noah, of Richard, of Evelyn. Of his own father. And he thought, Evelyn’s right. Miranda’s not our kind of people.
She’s far better.
* * *
“Happy endings,” said Miss St. John, “are not automatic. Sometimes one has to work for them.”
Chase took the advice, and the cup of coffee she handed him, in silence. The advice was something he already knew. Hadn’t experience taught him that happy endings were what you found in fairy tales, not real life? Hadn’t his own marriage proved the point?
But this time it will be different. I’ll make it different. If only I could be certain I’m the one she wants.
He sipped his cup of coffee and absentmindedly scratched Ozzie’s wild black mop of hair. He didn’t know why he was petting the beast, except that Ozzie seemed so damn appreciative. A glance at his watch told Chase he had plenty of time to catch the twelve-o’clock ferry to Bass Harbor. To Miranda.
All night he’d lain sleepless in bed, wondering about their chances, their future. The specter of his brother couldn’t be so easily dispelled. Just a few short weeks ago Richard had been the man she loved, or thought she loved. Richard had taken her innocence, used her, nearly destroyed her. And now here I am, another Tremain. After what Richard did to her, why should she trust me?
Events, emotions had moved at lightning speed these past few days. A week ago he had called her a murderess. Only hours ago he had come to accept her innocence as gospel truth. She had every right to resent him, to never forgive him for the things he’d once said to her. So many cruel and terrible words had passed between them. Could love, real love, grow from such poisoned beginnings?
He wanted to believe it could. He had to believe it could.
But those doubts kept tormenting him.
When Miss St. John had come knocking at the cottage door at ten o’clock with an offer of coffee and a morning chat, he’d almost welcomed the intrusion, though he suspected her invitation was inspired by more than neighborly kindness. Word of the night’s goings-on must already be buzzing about town. Miss St. John, with her mile-long antennae, had no doubt picked up the signals and was probably curious as hell.
Now that she’d been brought up to date, she was going to offer an opinion, whether he wanted to hear it or not.
“Miranda’s a lovely woman, Chase,” she said. “A very kind woman.”
“I know,” was all he could answer.
“But you have doubts.”
He sighed, a breath that seemed weighted with pain and uncertainty. “After all that’s happened...”
“People are entitled to make mistakes, Chase. Miranda made one with your brother. It wasn’t a terrible sort of mistake. It had nothing to do with cruelty or bad intentions. It had only to do with love. With misjudgment. The mistake was real. But the emotions were the right ones.”
“But you don’t understand,” he said, looking up at her. “My doubts have nothing to do with her. It’s me, whether she can forgive me. For being a Tremain. For being this symbol of everything, everyone who’s ever hurt her.”
“I think Miranda’s the one who’s searching for forgiveness.”
He shook his head. “What should I forgive her for?”
“You have to answer that.”
He sat in silence for a moment, rubbing the ugly head of that ugly dog. What do I forgive you for? For showing me the real meaning of innocence. For making me question every stuffy notion I was brought up to believe in. For making me realize I’ve been an idiot.
For making me fall in love with you.
With sudden determination he put down his coffee cup and rose to his feet. “I’d better get going,” he said. “I’ve got a ferry to catch.”
“And then what happens?” asked Miss St. John, walking him to the door.
Smiling, he took her hand—the hand of a very wise woman. “Miss St. John,” he said, “when I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”
She waved as he headed out to his car. “I’ll count on it!” she yelled.
Chase drove like a crazy man to the ferry landing. He arrived an hour early, only to find a long line of cars already waiting to board. Rather than risk missing the sail, he decided to leave his car and board as a foot passenger.
Two hours later he walked off onto the dock in Bass Harbor. No taxis here; he had to hitch a ride to the hospital. By the time he strode up to the patient information desk, it was already two-thirty.
“Miranda Wood,” said the volunteer, setting down the phone receiver, “was discharged an hour ago.”
“What?”
“That’s what the floor nurse said. The patient left with Dr. Steiner.”
Chase felt ready to punch the desk in frustration. “Where did they go?” he snapped.
“I wouldn’t know, sir. You could ask upstairs, at the nurses’ station, second floor.”
* * *
Chase was about to head for the stairwell when he suddenly glanced up at the wall clock. “Miss—what time does the ferry return to Shepherd’s Island?” he asked.
“I think the last one leaves at three o’clock.”
Twenty minutes.
He hurried outside and glanced up and down the street for a taxi, a bus, anything on wheels that might take him to the landing. They had to be at the landing. Where else would she and Dr. Steiner go, except back to the island?
It was the last ferry of the day and he’d never catch it in time.
Happy endings are not automatic. Sometimes one has to work for them.
Okay, damn it, he thought. I’m ready to work. I’m ready to do anything it takes to make this turn out right.
He took off at a sprint down the street. It was two miles to the ferry landing.
He ran every step of the way.
* * *
The deckhand yelled, “All aboard!” and the engines of the Jenny B growled to life.
Standing at the rail, Miranda stared out over the gray-green expanse of Peno
bscot Bay. So many islands in the distance, so many places in the world to run to. Soon she’d be on her way, leaving memories, good and bad, behind her. There was just this one last journey to Shepherd’s Island, to tie up all those loose ends, and then she could turn her back on this place forever. It was a departure she’d planned weeks ago, before Richard’s murder, before the horrors of her arrest.
Before Chase.
“I still say it was an idiotic idea, young lady,” said Dr. Steiner, hunched irritably on a bench beside her. “Checking out just like that. What if you start to bleed again? What if you get an infection? I can’t handle those complications! I tell you, I’m getting too old for this business. Too old!”
“I’ll be just fine, Doc,” she said, her gaze focused on the bay. “Really,” she said softly, “I’ll be just fine....”
Dr. Steiner began to mutter to himself, a grumpy monologue about disobedient patients and how hard it was to be a doctor these days. Miranda scarcely listened. She had too many other things on her mind.
A quiet exit, some time alone—yes, all in all, it was better this way. Seeing Chase again would be too confusing. What she needed was escape, a chance to analyze what she really felt for him. Love? She thought so. Yes, she was sure of it. But she’d been wrong before, terribly wrong. I don’t want to make the same mistake, suffer the same consequences.
And yet...
She gripped the railing and gazed off moodily at the islands. The wind had come up and it whistled across the water, blew its cold salt breath against her face.
I do love him, she thought. I know I do.
But it’s not enough to make a future. Too much stood in the way. The ghost of Richard. The shadow of mistrust. And always, always, those metaphorical train tracks on whose wrong side she’d grown up. It shouldn’t make a difference, but then, she was merely Miranda Wood. Perhaps, to a Tremain, it made all the difference.
“Bow line’s free!” called the deckhand.
The engines of the Jenny B throttled up. Slowly she pivoted to starboard, to face the far-off green hillock that was Shepherd’s Island. The deckhand strode the length of the boat and released the stern line. Just as it slipped free there came a shout from the dock.
“Wait! Hold the boat!”
“We’re full up!” yelled the deckhand. “Catch the next one.”
“I said hold up!”
“Too late!” barked the deckhand. Already the Jenny B was pulling away from the dock.
It was the deckhand’s sharp and sudden oath that made Miranda turn to look. She saw, far astern, a figure racing toward the end of the pier. He took a flying leap across the growing gap of water and landed with only inches to spare on the deck of the Jenny B.
“Son of a gun,” marveled the deckhand. “Are you nuts?”
Chase scrambled to his feet. “Have to talk to someone—one of your passengers—”
“Man, you must want to talk real bad.”
Chase took a calming breath and glanced around the deck. His gaze stopped at Miranda. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Real bad.”
Miranda, caught standing against the rail, could only stare in astonishment as Chase walked toward her. The other passengers were all watching, waiting to see what would happen next.
“Young man,” snapped Dr. Steiner. “If you sprained your ankle, don’t expect me to fix it. You two and all your damn fool stunts.”
“My ankle’s fine,” said Chase, his gaze never leaving Miranda. “I just want to talk to your patient. If it’s all right with her.”
Miranda gave a laugh of disbelief. “After a leap like that, how could I refuse?”
“Let’s go up front.” Chase reached for her hand. “For this, I don’t need an audience.”
They walked to the bow and stood by the rail. Here the salt wind flew at them unremittingly, whipping at their clothes, their hair. Above, gulls swooped and circled, airborne companions of the plodding Jenny B.
Chase said, “They told me you checked out early. You should have stayed in the hospital.”
Miranda hugged herself against the wind and stared down at the water. “I couldn’t lie in that bed another day. Not with so many things hanging over me.”
“But it’s over, Miranda.”
“Not yet. There’s still that business with the police. And I have to settle with my lawyer.”
“That can wait.”
“But I can’t.” She raised her head and faced the wind. “I want to leave this place. As soon as I can. Any way I can.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. I’ve thought about heading west. Jill Vickery walked away from her past. Maybe I can, too.”
There was a long silence. “Then you’re not staying on the island,” he said.
“No. There’s nothing here for me now. I’ll be getting the insurance money from the house. It will be enough to get me out of here. To go some place where they don’t know me, or Richard, or anything that happened.”
The water broke before the bow of the Jenny B and the spray flew up, misting their faces.
“It’s not an easy thing,” she said, “living in a town where they’ll always wonder about you. I understand now why Jill Vickery left San Diego. She wanted to wash away the guilt. She wanted to get back her innocence. That’s what I want back, Chase. My innocence.”
“You never lost it.”
“Yes, I did. That’s what you thought. What you’ll always think of me.”
“I know better now. I have no more questions, Miranda. No more doubts.”
She shook her head. Sadly she turned away. “It’s not as easy as that, to bury the past.”
“Okay, so it’s not.” He pulled her around to face him. “It’s never easy, Miranda. Love. Life. You know, just this morning, Miss St. John said a very wise thing to me. She said happy endings aren’t automatic. You have to work for them.” He reached up and framed her face in his hands. “Don’t you think this happy ending is worth working for?”
“But I don’t know if I believe in them anymore. Happy endings.”
“Neither did I. But I’m beginning to change my mind.”
“You’ll always be wondering about me, Chase. About whether you can trust me—”
“No, Miranda. That’s the one thing I’ll never wonder about.”
He kissed her then, a sweet and gentle joining that spoke not of passion but of hope. That one touch of his lips seemed to rinse away the terrible grime of guilt, of remorse, that had stained her soul.
The renewal of innocence. That’s what he offered; that’s what she found in his arms.
It seemed only a short time later when the gulls suddenly burst forth into a wild keening, a raucous announcement that land was close at hand. The couple standing at the bow did not stir from each other’s arms. Even when the boat’s whistle blew, even when the Jenny B glided into the harbor, they would still be standing there.
Together.
* * * * *
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin ebook. Connect with us for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Subscribe to our newsletter: Harlequin.com/newsletters
Visit Harlequin.com
We like you—why not like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
Read our blog for all the latest news on our authors and books: HarlequinBlog.com
ISBN: 9781459248946
PRESUMED GUILTY
Copyright © 1993 by Tess Gerritsen
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
Tess Gerritsen, Presumed Guilty
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends