“I’ve learned my lesson,” Emma said. “I promise.”
They drove back into town, both of them striving to come to terms with what had just happened. It was too soon to talk about it, too soon to put a name on it—even if it was love.
“It’s not too late to change your mind about Sitka,” John said. “I’ve got another mail run the day after tomorrow. I can take you with me—or even take you sooner, if you want.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, retrieving her pack from where she’d stowed it by her feet. “If it’ll put your mind at ease, I’ll even stay inside the hotel while you’re gone.”
“That would help. I’m learning how stubborn you can be.” He pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel and came around to bring the bike. “Are you sure I can trust you with this?”
“Like I said, I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Call me,” he said as they stood on the curb. “I mean it. I need to know you’re okay.”
“I will.” And she would. Everything had changed with that soul-searing kiss. For the first time, she felt stirrings of hope, as if her shattered heart was already beginning to heal.
* * *
John left her and drove away, his heart still thudding in his chest. The euphoria from that kiss was mixed with uncertainty. Had he found something real with this tender, brave, impossibly stubborn woman? Or was it just a passing attraction that would fade when she no longer needed a protector?
Emma had believed completely in Boone and the future they would have together. But Boone had crushed her dream and her faith in the cruelest way possible. She would be a long time healing. Meanwhile, she was vulnerable, clinging to any refuge she could find. Right now he was that refuge.
He’d be wise to keep that in mind.
He glanced at his watch. It was barely eleven. He’d been headed back to Refuge Cove, but a sudden thought changed his mind. He had plenty of time. Why not check around town and see if there was any truth to Boone’s boast that he had people watching for Emma?
He’d seen Boone’s camouflage truck vanishing south down the highway with Lillian driving and Ezra sitting next to her, probably headed back to the homestead. Except for Marlena and David, who wanted nothing to do with him, Boone had no other family in town. But John knew most of Boone’s friends and where they hung out. Maybe they’d seen Boone recently. If so, they’d be more apt to talk to him than to the police.
At the top of his mental list was Sherman Philpot, the fake preacher who’d officiated at Emma’s so-called wedding.
Philpot lived on the lower floor of a cheap rental house in a part of town that dated back to the gold rush days. The dilapidated structure was peeling blue paint. Two rusted junk cars and a motorcycle were parked in the front yard. A feisty-looking mongrel dog yapped from the front porch but slunk off as John mounted the sagging steps.
The doorbell seemed to be broken. After trying it and hearing nothing, he rapped on the door. There was a scurrying sound from the other side. The door opened a few cautious inches, then more. A girl, slim and doe-eyed, with a face from a milk carton, was gazing up at him. She was dressed in a cut-down muscle shirt and ragged jeans. John couldn’t help wondering whose daughter she was and whether her parents were looking for her.
“Hey, John!” Sherman Philpot wandered out of the kitchen smoking a joint. He was wearing stained khakis with suspenders and no shirt. His carrot-colored hair hung down around his skinny shoulders. “What brings you here, old buddy?”
“Just looking for a friend. All right if I come in?”
“Sure, long as you ain’t the cops.” He opened the door and John stepped inside. He hadn’t been in the house before, but it was what he’d expected—mattresses and pillows on the floor, an Indian print cloth over the window, wine bottles, and the odor of weed permeating everything. A woman with a family resemblance to the girl wandered in from the kitchen looking stoned.
Sherman held out the joint, offering to share. John shook his head. Years ago he might have accepted, but not now. “Are you saying you’ve had trouble with the police?” he asked, knowing Sam Traverton had planned to question him.
“Yeah. Those ball-busters hauled me out an’ grilled me up one side and down the other about a joke I helped Boone Swenson play on this woman he’d met. She was one of them Sunday school types who wouldn’t go to bed with him lessn’ they were married. So I just helped him along a little. Boone paid me a hundred dollars, just like the last time. Hell, it was only a joke. No harm done. But I’ll bet those ladies were madder than hell when they found out they weren’t really married.”
Just like the last time.
John’s pulse slammed. Was Philpot saying Boone had done this before?
“How many of these so-called weddings have you done for Boone,” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Just two. This one and one last spring. Boone doesn’t usually have trouble gettin’ his women in the sack. The last one was a cute little thing. White wedding dress and all. Hell, she was so happy she even cried. The first one was older and as plain as a mud fence. Big thick glasses, had old maid schoolteacher written all over her. I can’t figure out for the life of me what Boone saw in her.”
“I’m guessing it didn’t work out.”
“I guess not. Boone never said.”
John would have pushed him for more, but he didn’t want to set off any alarms. “Speaking of Boone, he and I need to settle some unfinished business. Any idea where I might find him?”
“Not a clue. Haven’t seen him since the wedding.” Philpot’s grin showed a missing incisor. “Far as I know, he’s still off on his happy honeymoon.”