The Pirate's Legacy Read online

  This was not working. And now that her knees were no longer shaky she realized she was hungry. As if the message went straight from her brain to the rest of her, Chloe’s tummy rumbled. Loudly.

  The nurse sat back against her chair.

  “You a teacher?”

  “No—”

  “Got one of those icky stomach bugs that’s been going around?”

  “No, I—”

  “Maybe it’s just starting then. Fill out the forms, and I’ll get you a bucket.”

  “I don’t need a bucket.”

  “Listen, sweetie, eventually you’re gonna need a bucket. Believe me, I’ve seen more puke this week than I’ve seen in years.” The nurse called over her shoulder to a candy striper who walked past. “Carla? A puke bucket from the closet, please. We’ve got another gut rumbler here.”

  Being long on patience had never been high on her list of positive character traits. Roller coasters had never been a favorite, either. Now, her patience for continuing the ride that the evening had become was gone. Not a shred remained.

  “I don’t need a puke bucket!”

  The room fell into stunned silence. The candy striper stopped dead in her tracks. The charge nurse stared, wide-eyed and mouth agape. No one behind her uttered a word, although she did hear a snicker. Maybe two.

  A voice, silky smooth, beside her shoulder made her turn.

  “That’s good to hear.”

  The nice shirt he’d been wearing was gone. It had been blood-spattered when he’d gotten into the ambulance, so it was probably trash. A damn shame, that. Kyle wore a white medical coat, with a black t-shirt beneath.

  She was glad to see him. Again, a calm presence in a maelstrom of crazy.

  “Hey.” Not the brightest thing to say, but it gave her a chance to take a deep breath. She waved a hand to the nurse, who had had the good sense to shut her mouth so she didn’t look like a startled carp anymore. “She thinks I’ve got some kind of…I don’t know…stomach virus or something. I tried to tell her I’m not—well, I’m not sick.”

  He chuckled and reached a hand out. Placing it on her shoulder, he began to massage, sending tiny, hot sparks of fire dancing from her tight muscles to her center.

  “Is that what’s going on, then?”

  She tried to ignore the heat pooling low in her gut. Hunger, perhaps. More likely, desire—something that stole her breath for an instant.

  It was hard to concentrate when his fingers were touching her. Magic fingers, and a magic touch—

  He interrupted her daydream with another low, sexy chuckle. “You sure you’re okay?”

  She shook her head. Her hair fell across his hand. He twined his fingers in the curls, stroking them so softly she wanted to melt.

  “I’m fine. It’s just some confusion.” She pushed the clipboard across the counter and gave the nurse a tight smile. “I said I wanted to see a doctor, and I guess that meant I was on the verge of being sick.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good thing, being sick when you’re looking for me.” He put his hands on his hips, which pulled the white coat tight across his chest. She noticed his name tag was not clipped to the pocket, the way it had been the last time she’d been here.

  “Stop—you know what I mean.”

  He turned to the nurse, gave her a wink, and asked, “Did she say I have that effect on her? That she wanted to see me so she could puke, Barbara?”

  Barbara put her hands up. “I don’t know a thing about how you affect her, Doc. All I know is she said she was here to see a doctor. I figured she was sick, is all.”

  Chloe met the nurse’s gaze. They smiled across the counter now. “Right. I wanted to see a doctor, not be sick.”

  “Listen, sweetie. You asked for a doctor—you never said nothing about wanting to see Doctor Dreamy here. That’s a whole different story.” She rose, grabbed a clipboard, and walked toward an open doorway behind the desk. Motioning to the candy striper, she said, “C’mon, let’s give the doctor here some breathing room.”

  Chloe raised an eyebrow and shot him a grin. “Doctor Dreamy?”

  He colored. Shrugged. “Hey, don’t believe the hospital scuttlebutt. By tomorrow the gossipers will have me married and us expecting twins. Triplets, maybe. That’s the way it is around this place.” He paused. Raked a hand through his hair. “Do you mind?”

  There were worse things than being romantically associated with a hunk, even if the gossip was pure fairytale.

  She shook her head. “Nope. My uncle says that when people are busy talking about him, they’re not gossiping about someone else. So, let ’em talk; it doesn’t make any difference to me. I mean, I’m not the one who has to work here.”

  Kyle took one step closer, which brought them so close his breath mingled with hers. Again, he smelled wonderfully masculine. The spicy aftershave he wore hadn’t diminished, so she inhaled deeply.

  “Your uncle is a smart man.” His voice lowered. “And you’re right, I do have to work here, in Peyton Place of Bar Harbor.”

  The television series had always been held up as the most gossip-minded show on the air.

  When he put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, she was too stunned to resist. Not that she would have resisted, anyhow.

  The instant before his lips touched hers, he murmured, “I say we give them something to talk about.”

  Chapter 13

  She’d been worried for her life. That’s why she’d run. But now seated in a hard plastic chair beside Chloe’s desk, “Hope” had turned stubbornly silent.

  Chloe pretended to look for something—anything—in a desk drawer. The cold gray steel number was so industrial looking that even the flower power and peace sign stickers she’d plastered on the side nearest the visitors’ chair couldn’t soften it up. A sparse philodendron trailed over the edge, but it looked as neglected as most, if not all, of the women she counseled.

  Her fingers closed around a plastic pencil sharpener. She pulled it, and a blue-leaded drawing pencil, from the drawer. With what she hoped was a voice to inspire confidences, she asked, “Do you draw?”

  The young blonde shook her head. When she did, the hair she’d kept draped across her left cheek moved. The bruise was ugly, with swelling that made her face lopsided.

  It must hurt like hell. A surge of anger invaded her usual calm. Anger that any man would touch a woman the way this one had been touched. Anger, too, that even with what must be the world’s worst headache brewing, the animal was being protected by the one he hurt.

  Sometimes the world sucked so bad it made her want to excuse herself from it. Not that she ever would, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t affected by the brutality she came in contact with. College had given her the facts, and tools for dealing with cases like this one, but there wasn’t a book around that could prepare someone for witnessing the suffering one human could inflict upon another.

  The blue pencil wasn’t in need of sharpening, so she gave it a fast twist before opening the drawer again and tossing it inside. When she glanced at the other woman, she realized she’d sparked some interest, so she dug around and got another pencil. Green.

  Chloe took her time sharpening the green pencil. A twist, then a fingertip across the colored point. Another twist. Another fingertip.

  “I do.” She met the other’s gaze and offered a friendly smile. It was imperative she establish some connection. Otherwise, helping someone who wouldn’t even share her real name would be nearly impossible. “I guess I fell in love with drawing in kindergarten. One of those kids who carried around the Crayolas everywhere she went.” The green pencil joined the blue one in the drawer. The next one out was magenta. She held it up. “My favorite color.”

  The only sound was the rasp of wood against steel as she shaved the pencil point. When it was nearly perfect, she stopped. Held it up. Blew the bits of shavings off. Then, she put the sharpener and nearly-sharpened pencil in the drawer. Closed it with a gentle push.

 
; A furrow appeared across her visitor’s brow. “Aren’t you going to finish that one?”

  She had left the pencil far from pointy. The lead was still rounded when she returned it.

  “Nope.”

  When the other woman didn’t follow up the line of questioning—which was typical of a battered woman, to not ask a question because often the innocent inquiry resulted in being thrown about—she went on.

  “I’m leaving that one the way it is because it’s my favorite. I use it all the time.” She tipped her head toward the framed drawings above her desk. Two scenes. Both Quinn Beach. One showed sunrise. The other, sunset. Both were peppered with magenta streaks in the blue sky.

  “You drew them?”

  “I did. I know they’re not great, but they make me happy. I live in Lobster Cove, so I spend a lot of time on that beach. So many good memories…”

  “I think they’re pretty neat. I could never do anything like that.” A small sigh escaped. It sounded so defeated, Chloe’s heart clenched. “Never…”

  The moment to break through presented itself, so she pushed the door that had just opened a crack, praying it would open wider.

  “You’re wrong about that. I think you can do whatever you set your mind to doing.” She leaned toward the woman, and when she saw the struggle on the pretty, albeit beaten face, she placed a hand over her nearest knee. The long, flowing tie-dyed skirt hid a slender form. She was careful not to place her hand roughly. Often the worst bruises were concealed from view. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Yes, you’re in a bad spot now, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to stay that way.”

  Another sigh. Looking down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, she said, “My life is shit. Total shit.”

  “That can change. I promise, I can help you.”

  Immediately the victim began to shake her head, the denial coming so quickly it coincided with the last words from Chloe’s mouth.

  “Nobody can.” A tear rolled down the bruised cheek.

  “You’re wrong. I can—and I will. But, you have to let me. Why don’t we start over? I’m Chloe. You are?”

  The gaze that met hers was heartbreaking. Emotions scudded across the watery blue eyes like clouds against a stormy sky. Fear—so strong she could almost smell it—came from the pretty woman.

  “I told you my name.” It was a whisper.

  “No, you didn’t.” She rubbed a comforting fingertip across the knee. “We both know your name isn’t Hope Partridge. Good try, though.”

  A small smile, just an ever-so slight twitch of the lips. “You think?”

  “First thing that came to mind, eh?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I guess I didn’t think that one out, did I?”

  “Well, it looks as if you’ve been dealing with some pretty heavy shit.”

  “Yeah.” A nod, which uncovered the bruised cheek again. “That’s for sure.”

  Time to seal the deal, Chloe thought. She leaned still closer, so their faces were just a few inches apart.

  “I can help you. But first, I need to know your name. No one else will know but me. I give you my word about that—to anyone who asks, you’ll be Hope Partridge.”

  “He’ll kill me if he finds me.” Spoken so low, had Chloe not heard the words uttered by other women she might have misunderstood. But she saw the truth in the pretty blue eyes.

  “I know.” She swallowed hard and hoped she could keep the promise she was about to make. “I won’t let him do that. I promise.”

  A long moment of silence, when she wondered if she’d been earnest enough to inspire confidence.

  “Jackie.” She cleared her throat. “My name is Jackie.”

  Chapter 14

  The sky was dark, the moon bright when Chloe closed the door to the short-lease apartment behind her. She waited until she heard the bolt slide into place on the other side before she walked down the hallway. It was dismal, the kind of place one imagined but never really thought to see. The hall reeked of stale urine, sweat, and underlying all the rest, despair. Trash, mostly cigarette butts and the occasional Hershey’s chocolate wrapper, spotted the dirty linoleum.

  She inhaled deeply when she exited the building and stood on its small front stoop. It was just one of a row of houses, nondescript and on one of the worst streets in Bar Harbor. Past the year-round residential neighborhoods and further still from the tourist spots, it was definitely on the wrong side of the tracks—if there had been any tracks, that is. It was just a sad street where no one looked too closely at anyone else’s life because most were too busy scrambling to eke out an existence in one of the wealthiest burgs on the east coast.

  An example of the haves and have-nots, Bar Harbor style.

  The rental suited the social workers’ needs. The last woman to occupy apartment 2C had vacated barely twenty-four hours ago. Thankfully she had been considerate enough to give the three miniscule rooms a cleaning. The threadbare sheets, laundered and folded with near-military precision, sat stacked on the foot of the lumpy, stained mattress in the bedroom.

  Before leaving, Chloe had helped make the bed. Tucked a bottle of milk, a jar of instant coffee, a dozen eggs, a loaf of Wonder bread and some Peter Pan peanut butter in the kitchen cupboards and noisy fridge. She’d rounded on the windows, checking to be sure each was locked and the roller shades were pulled.

  Only after she’d done all she could do—for now—did she leave.

  After being in the stuffy apartment, breathing hot, humid fresh air was heavenly.

  She had driven her bike, and Jackie had followed in her car. It was a rusty Dodge, but it was more than a lot of women had when they left abusive situations. They had parked it in the rickety, leaning garage behind the apartment building. Better to keep it—and Jackie—out of sight in case the man who thought she was his property came looking for her.

  Before leaving the office, Chloe had changed into jeans and Keds. Her skirt was stuffed into her backpack, which she shrugged into as she walked over to the curb. She put the helmet on her head and tucked in as much hair as she could fit before fastening the buckle beneath her chin.

  Climbing on the bike, she wished things could be different. Wished she didn’t have to drive away, back to her normal life where the only thing that went crash in the night was a tile falling from the leaky roof or the pipes as they made steam. Wished she didn’t have to leave behind yet another scared, maltreated woman who felt as if she’d never be happy. Valued. Loved.

  Damn, but the world could be cruel.

  Chloe looked up at the single light burning in what she knew was the apartment’s bedroom window. She hoped Jackie would have a restful sleep and begin to heal. They had a long, difficult road ahead, but she had no intention of letting her new friend down. Tonight was the first step forward; and as long as Jackie wanted to go forward, she would stand beside her.

  She pulled out, taking the road slow so as not to cause a disturbance. It was, after all, nearly nine o’clock. If anyone had small children behind the sad-looking doors, they should be getting ready for bed.

  When she hit the winding, two-lane main drag that led out of town, she gunned it. The roar gave her satisfaction that all the day’s paperwork, phone calls and financial wrangling had not been able to provide. For two or three miles, she enjoyed the kiss of warm breezes on her cheeks and the freedom riding brought.

  Just before she reached the spot where the boy had been hit on his bike was a mom-and-pop roadside burger joint. She pulled in and parked near the big neon sign that flashed Burgers—Fries—Rings.

  Business was brisk inside the small building. She skirted the crowd and headed for the back hallway. A pay phone hung on the wall between the two restrooms. She picked up the slightly greasy black handset, fished a dime from her pocket, dropped the coin into the slot, and dialed. The clicking noise as the big plastic dial rotated from number to number sounded loud in the hallway.

  She hoped the person who’d used the telephone before her
had washed their hands if they’d come from the bathroom. The thought that they might have head lice flashed through her mind, but she did what she did every time she used a public phone. She pretended it was in the house in Lobster Cove, not attached to a wall beside two stinky bathrooms.

  Three rings. Five. After the seventh ring, she shifted from foot to foot and tightened her grip on the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  Uncle Ted’s voice was loud, as usual.

  “I thought you weren’t going to answer. What took so long?”

  “In the back, playing some music for the girls.”

  The girls. They were such a help, keeping an eye out when she had to work. And all three had taken a course at the Bar Harbor YMCA on resuscitation. If he suddenly keeled over, they would know what to do, and that put Chloe’s mind at ease in an enormous way. Of course, he had no idea such a course even existed, and they all planned to keep him in the dark.

  “Reva’s nose in a book?”

  A major exam was on the horizon, so it didn’t seem likely her nose would be anywhere else. Nearly crunch time, although with Reva, it was always crunch time.

  “Nope. She’s got her harmonica. Man, that girl can play!”

  She smiled. So, he’d charmed even the Bookworm into having some fun.

  “Love it. Hey, have you all eaten? I’m at The Grill—want me to bring anything home?”

  “Hmm…”

  God, she knew him well. “Onion rings, it is. One order or two?”

  “Got enough bread for two?”

  Payday was still days away, but she had the trusty Emergency Stash in the side pocket of her wallet. The ten-spot currently folded and stored had been there for over a month. Time to break into the hobo bag’s Fort Knox and live a little.

  “I have plenty.” She rushed to add, “Listen, my dime is almost up. Anything else I can bring home?”

  “Nope, that’ll do. Thanks, sweet pea. Drive safely—we’ll be in the back when you get here. Just follow your ears, and your feet will find the way.”

  They hung up just as the operator came on to inform her that she needed to insert more coins into the slot if she wanted to continue speaking.