CHAPTER FIVE

1

Catherine awakened slowly, glanced around her tranquil ivory and sage green bedroom and finally to the sun beaming on the last red leaves clinging to the big maple tree close to her window. She yawned, stretched, and sighed in contentment. Then the memory of yesterday flashed, making her feel as if she were free-falling from a soaring jet.

She struggled to a sitting position and glanced at her bedside clock. Ten fifteen. Always an early riser, Catherine knew she hadn’t slept this late for over a year.

Catherine nearly leaped from her bed. In less than five minutes, she ran down the stairs. The smell of burned pastry hit her on the bottom step and she heard the oven fan furiously whirring. Marissa had been trying to cook again. Fleetingly Catherine hoped the burned food was so far gone she wouldn’t have to eat some and pretend it wasn’t too bad.

She walked into the kitchen to see Lindsay sitting near Marissa, dutifully watching her pulling a cookie sheet of steaming cinnamon rolls from the upper wall oven. Marissa smiled beatifically at the rolls and then at Catherine. “I burned the first batch to charcoal. I baked them in the lower oven and I think it’s running too hot, because I’m sure I didn’t leave them in too long. At least I don’t think I did. Anyway, these look perfect!” Marissa’s smile wavered, and her carefully cheerful tone changed to cautious. “How do you feel this morning?”

“Oh, much better! I feel great!” Catherine realized she could fool no one, least of all Marissa, with her high, chirpy voice. “I slept just fine,” she said in a more natural tone, although she was lying. She hadn’t fallen asleep until near morning.

“Eric called around midnight,” Marissa said. “He wanted to reassure us that James is fine and he’d sent him home. I would have told you about Eric’s call, but when I looked in your room you were sound asleep. I couldn’t bear to wake you even for good news. You needed a full night’s sleep.”

Catherine nodded, although last night she had heard the bedroom door open and only pretended to be asleep. She just couldn’t talk to anyone, not even her sister. “I left my cell phone down here last night. Has James called this morning?”

“Not yet. He’s probably sleeping late like you did.”

“I hope so. He needed sleep even more than I did. Did Eric know anything more about the explosion?”

“Not last night, but he called again an hour ago. He’s meeting the fire marshal at the cottage this morning. They should be there now, in fact. He said he’d come by when they’re finished and tell us what he’s found out.” Marissa gave her a long, patient look. “I know you’re worried about James. If we don’t hear from him by eleven you can call him, but right now I want you to sit down, have some coffee and a couple of cinnamon rolls.”

“I’m too worried to eat.”

“I believe I heard a similar excuse last night. Now, I mean it, Catherine Faith Gray.” Marissa sounded exactly like their mother when she chose to issue a rare command. “Quit pacing and sit down. You can at least drink some coffee even if you don’t want a cinnamon roll.”

Twenty minutes later, as Catherine swallowed the last bite of her fourth roll, she grinned. “This experience seems to have supercharged my appetite. I can’t stop eating.”

“Good. You’re too thin.”

“Well, thank you very much.”

“You can’t deny you’ve lost nearly ten pounds lately.”

Catherine rose and carried her mug to the coffeemaker. “I probably have lost a few pounds, but I’ve been under a lot of stress the last few months. First, I moved back here, to my childhood home, and had to go through feeling fifteen again—it was a hard adjustment, no offense.”

“None taken. I understand,” Marissa replied, pinching off a bit of her cinnamon roll and dropping it down to Lindsay’s expectantly open mouth.

“Then I had to find a psychologist with an established practice willing to take a novice. Four turned me down. Thank goodness for Dr. Hite.”

Catherine knew she was rambling, that Marissa had heard all of this before, but she couldn’t seem to stop talking. She came back to the table with her full mug of coffee. “I’m so glad Dr. Hite and his wife are in Florida until next week for the birth of their first great-grandchild. They know I’m seeing James and they’d swoop down on me, trying to get information about the body.”

“You mean they’d start asking if the body is Renée’s,” Marissa said gently. “I know you’ve had a lot of big adjustments to make lately, but she is why you’ve lost weight. Ever since you and James really got serious, you’ve worried that Renée would come back.”

Catherine looked gloomily at her sister. “And she has.” Then a strong defensiveness surged through her. “But that’s not James’s fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.” Marissa’s gaze held Catherine’s. “Eric told me James was at the cabin when the explosion happened. Why was he there?”

Marissa’s tone was mild, but Catherine suddenly felt as if she sat in a courtroom witness chair and Marissa was a prosecutor. “He just couldn’t believe what had happened earlier. It hadn’t seemed real at the time. He felt a need to see the place again. I know it sounds weird—he says so, too—but that’s all it was. What else could it have been? Do you think he blew up the cottage?”

“Whoa, Catherine,” Marissa said, her eyes widening. “Chill out! I wasn’t making accusations. I was just curious.”

I was the one making accusations, Catherine thought. Most of the night, as she’d laid up there in her bed, she’d been furious and suspicious of James, the most steadfast, trustworthy man she’d ever known. What was wrong with her? How could she have for one moment doubted him?

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to make her voice sound as if she weren’t feeling a load of guilt nearly burying her. “I was still on edge from yesterday when I heard about the explosion last night.…”

“That’s understandable.”

The doorbell rang. They both jumped and Lindsay went on a barking spree.

Marissa attempted to laugh. “No one around here is nervous! Be right back.”

As soon as Marissa left the kitchen, Catherine’s hands tightened around her coffee mug. Don’t let this be more bad news, she thought in dread. I can’t stand more bad news this morning.

In a moment, Marissa called, “James is here, Catherine!”

Catherine walked into the family room feeling tense and resolute, not knowing in what emotional shape she’d find the man she loved. After one look at him, though, she didn’t think she’d ever been so glad to see James, as he stood tall and composed, his cheeks ruddy from the morning chill, his even teeth showing in a wide smile, his dark eyes twinkling beneath a shock of black hair the breeze had dragged across his forehead.

“James!” Catherine cried, every ounce of anger draining from her. She ran to him. “Why didn’t you call earlier?”

“I thought I might wake you.”

“You could have called Marissa’s cell phone.”

“And if you were sleeping she would have woken you up to speak to me.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” She hugged him fiercely. “I’ve been so worried.”

“That’s why she’s been sitting in the kitchen eating cinnamon rolls like she’ll never be offered food again,” Marissa said with teasing indulgence. “It’s amazing.”

“Nerves,” Catherine told James quickly. “I eat everything in sight when I’m nervous.”

James blinked at her. “Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

You’ve never seen me in a situation like this one, Catherine almost said, then caught herself. She didn’t want to say anything that might spark a thought of Renée, especially when a closer look at James’s face revealed shadows beneath slightly bloodshot eyes and a tight, controlled look around his mouth. Catherine beamed at him. “You don’t know how relieved I am to see you. I love you,” she murmured as she pressed her lips gently against his. James kissed her tenderly but quickly, his gaze shooting over Catherine’s shoulder to Marissa still standing in the room. He had a reluctance to show even small public displays of affection, which Catherine often found annoying.

She leaned back and tilted her head, gazing into James’s dark eyes. “Are you hungry?”

Right on cue, James’s stomach let out a long, loud growl, and he laughed. “I haven’t eaten since noon yesterday.”

Catherine raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t even have a snack?” James shook his head. “That’s awful! Your blood sugar must be dropping. You should have at least eaten some toast this morning.”

“Yes, ma’am. I know I should have, but I didn’t have any appetite.” His stomach growled again. “Until now.”

“Catherine left a couple of cinnamon rolls and I’ll start another batch,” Marissa said. “I think I’ve finally mastered baking something, if you can believe it.”

James grinned. “I could eat about ten cinnamon rolls and I’m suffering from caffeine withdrawal. I need strong coffee—lots of it.”

2

Eric arrived an hour later. Catherine immediately tensed, scared of what Eric would tell them about the fire. She took a breath and tried to ask steadily, “Have you been to the cottage this morning?”

Eric nodded. “The fire marshal and I just finished going over the place.”

Within five minutes, Marissa had taken Eric’s jacket and given him a large mug of coffee. He sat in an oversized recliner, his thick, tousled wavy blond hair at least an inch longer than advisors thought a sheriff should wear it, his dark brown eyes solemn. His face bore the shadow of stubble and he looked tired, the line between his eyebrows deeper than usual.

“I’m sure at night it looked like a bomb had gone off in your cottage, James,” Eric said, rolling the smooth mug in his hands as if to warm them. “We’re certain it wasn’t a bomb, though. Actually, we found the remains of Molotov cocktails.”

“Molotov cocktails?” James echoed in disbelief.

Eric nodded. “The fire did a lot of damage, but we were still able to retrieve enough material to be almost certain someone threw Molotovs at the cottage.”

“Where would someone around here get Molotov cocktails?” Catherine asked in shock.

“People usually think of Molotovs in connection with riots, or terrorist attacks, but it only takes one person to make and launch one. That’s why experts often call Molotov cocktails makeshift incendiary weapons, meaning they aren’t manufactured in arms facilities. All it takes is one person to prepare them,” Eric explained.

Catherine said, “I always imagined them as being a complicated mix of chemicals.”

“Most people do, but Molotovs can be made of a few simple chemicals.” He smiled at her. “With a few instructions, my grandmother could probably fix up one in her kitchen.” Eric’s smile faded. “But, Catherine, just because they can be simple doesn’t mean they can’t be deadly.”

“Like the ones last night.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“What makes you think someone used Molotov cocktails on the cottage?” James asked.

“Evidence. We found a lot of what the fire marshal thought was soda-lime glass and flat metal lids and screw-on rings used in home-canning jars like Mason jars or Ball jars. He said they’re often used to hold Molotovs and a quart jar would be easy for even a woman to throw quite a distance.”

“About how many of them were there?”

“We couldn’t tell for certain, James, but we found four lids. More could have been lying in the debris. Also, the marshal used to train chemical-sniffing dogs in the Armed Forces. He has his own now. The dog led us to several pieces of wood that must have had traces of the chemicals used. The fire marshal took them in for analysis.”

Catherine sat rock still, horrified. Then she leaned forward. “Have you ever come across anything like this before, Eric? I mean, do you think there’s any possibility that someone just threw the Molotovs as a prank?”

“I’ve never seen anyone go to so much trouble for just a prank.” Eric paused. “I think whoever made and threw those Molotovs did so out of pure hatred and rage.”

3

“I know you’re not crazy about spending the night when Marissa is here,” Catherine said.

“Tonight I’d stay if fifty people were here. I should have stayed last night instead of going to the damned cottage.”

They lay in Catherine’s bed, their naked legs twined together, his strong arms holding her gently, pressing the side of her face against the warm skin of his chest. “You didn’t tell me last night that Patrice had been at the cottage with you.”

“Well, you and I didn’t exactly have a long conversation. Besides, she just stopped by. She said she knew where I’d be.”

“And I thought that’s the last place you’d be. She must know you better than I do.”

“You sound like you’re implying something,” James said lightly. When she didn’t answer, he put his hand under her chin and raised her face, looking into her eyes. “You’re not, are you?”

“Implying something about you and Patrice? Not anything romantic. Just what I said—she knows you better than I do.”

“Maybe in certain ways. We’ve worked together for years and she could know some of my behavior patterns better than you do. Oh, and she’s madly in love with me, too.”

Catherine gave him a playful tap on his cheek. “With that huge ego of yours you think every woman in town is madly in love with you, but I know of two exceptions—Marissa and Patrice.”

“Do you really think I have a huge ego?”

Catherine giggled. “If you did, I wouldn’t be in love with you. Huge egos are a gigantic turnoff for me.”

“Is gigantic bigger than huge?”

“Oh, definitely.” Catherine snuggled closer to James. “I just love you so much, I’m bothered that another woman knows you better than I do.”

“Patrice might know me better in a superficial way, but she doesn’t know my heart.” He kissed the top of Catherine’s head. “You’re the only woman who’s known my heart, my soul.”

Catherine felt as if her own heart squeezed tight as deep and passionate love for this man washed through her. She ran her open hand down the side of his face. “Oh, James, when I think of what could have happened to you last night if you’d been closer, in the cottage, if one of those Molotov cocktails had hit you—”

“But I wasn’t in the cottage and nothing happened to me. You have to stop thinking what if, what if.”

“How can I when you came so close to being hurt or…”

“Or killed?” James pulled her closer. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to be more careful. Going to the cottage where Renée was murdered a week ago was downright stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking—not reasonably. But I promise you, I won’t be so careless again.” He paused. “And the same goes for you, Catherine. You heard Eric say he didn’t think someone was throwing those cocktails as a prank. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that I was at the cottage when they were thrown. Maybe someone has it in for me, too. And my obvious love for you—our relationship—might make you a target, too.”

“But I hardly knew Renée,” Catherine said vaguely, her mind focusing on his phrase “my obvious love for you.”

“We don’t know what’s going on here, sweetheart,” James said. “We don’t know why Renée was murdered or why someone might have been trying to hurt me last night.” He looked piercingly into her eyes, his jaw hardened, and his voice deepened. “You don’t know what you mean to me, Catherine. I can’t stand the thought of someone taking you away from me. If I lost you…”

“If you lost me?”

“I can’t even think about it. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I’ll be careful,” Catherine said gently. “I promise.”

After a moment, James’s face relaxed and he smiled and he pulled her on top of him, wrapped his arms around her so tightly she could hardly breathe, and pressed his lips to hers with tender, then growing, demanding passion.

*   *   *

Two hours later, James slept peacefully. Although Catherine had dozed after their lovemaking, she’d awakened a while ago and couldn’t go back to sleep. Instead, she lay on her side, looking at the moonlight touching James’s exposed chest and abdomen like a caress. He looked like the men in designer underwear ads, she thought, muscular and perfect. He could give David Beckham a run for his money, she thought. Telling him so would probably only embarrass him.

Earlier, he’d said “my obvious love for you.” He’d said, “I can’t stand the thought of someone taking you away from me.” Playing over the words in her mind thrilled her almost as much as hearing him say them to her.

Catherine reached out and lightly ran her fingers over his chest. God, how she loved him. How she wanted to make up to him for all the hurt Renée had caused. If only she hadn’t caused so much hurt he never wanted to try marriage again. Catherine knew many people found him cold and formal. Maybe she was the only person who knew just how sensitive he really was beneath the imperturbable façade. Maybe she was the only person who knew how deeply he could be hurt and how difficult it was for him to recover from hurt and disappointment. James was not a resilient man. He didn’t easily forgive or forget. In fact—

Suddenly James’s hand grabbed hers, nearly crushing it in an iron-like grip. “Damn you, Renée,” his voice low and growl-like, unrecognizable. “Damn you—”

“James!” Catherine yelped, thinking any moment a bone in her hand might crack. “James, stop it! James!”

He moaned, shuddered, and opened his eyes. Immediately he released her hand. “What happened? I think I was dreaming.” Then he saw Catherine rubbing her hand, her face white. “My God, Catherine, did I hurt you?”

“I … I don’t think so,” she said.

He took her hand in his left, gently touched it all over with his right. “I don’t think anything is broken, but do you want to go to the hospital for X-rays?”

“No. It’s all right.”

“We’ll wait a few minutes and see.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it several times. “I’m so sorry. I was having a nightmare.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you—”

“I know,” she said sharply, then lowered her voice. “I’m all right, James.”

But it wasn’t all right. He’d been cursing Renée with such fury in his voice, he’d sounded as if he could kill her.