Page 194 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

He was supposed to be questioning her, but she somehow always managed to turn things around. Max stood. “We’d better get out to the Ojibwa burial ground.”

Becca dropped her napkin on her plate and stood. “Whatever you say.”

“I’ll remind you of that later,” he said with a grin. He liked her even though he didn’t trust her. He wished he didn’t.

Her long stride kept up with him. “What are you hoping to find at the burial grounds?”

“Names, anything that might jog an idea for this book. It’s amazing what you find in a cemetery.”

They drove along a dirt track with encroaching bushes brushing the truck at each side. Becca was clinging to the armrest with grim determination on her face as the truck bottomed out on several of the pits in the road. Though the rain had stopped, the moisture had turned the road into a muddy quagmire.

“Sorry,” Max said. “It’s the only way out here.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s beautiful out here.”

Max hadn’t noticed, but now that she’d said something, he saw the lush greenery and timberline with new eyes. “No one comes out here much anymore.” He pulled into a nearly hidden lane and stopped the truck. “We have to walk from here. It’s about ten minutes.”

The sound of the waves was muffled by the trees. “The Lake is just over the cliff here.” Max held the brush for her, and they stepped into the clearing. Broken headstones amid thick grass dotted the clearing at the top of the cliff. Beyond it rolled the white caps of Lake Superior, louder now without the trees.

“What a charming spot.” Becca approached the closest headstone and knelt down to look. “Rose Running Horse. Died 1875 when shot by a hunter.”

“See what I mean,” Max said, scribbling down the notation. “There’s a story in those simple words. What was the hunter doing? Was it accidental or murder? Was she where she shouldn’t have been?”

“I’ll never understand the creative process,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but I think you have the most amazing voice in fiction today. I’d read your laundry list if there was nothing else coming.”

A flush of pleasure heated his veins. “Is that why you contacted me?” When she looked away, he felt cold. This was just another ploy to breach his defenses. She was calculating and knew how much her words would affect him.

“Over here,” he said curtly. He stalked to another row of tombstones. “Write down anything interesting you see. I’ll check the next row over.” The sooner he figured out what she wanted from him and got her off the island, the better.

Becca’s handached from writing. Max had turned all prickly when she told him how much she liked his writing. She knew it wasn’t that though. It was when she couldn’t tell him her admiration for his writing is why she’d called him. She hated these half truths. A Christian was supposed to be honest, and she’d been anything but forthcoming. She’d comforted herself with the knowledge that she hadn’t exactlylied, but the assertion was failing to bring her relief from her guilt.

She needed a break. Max was clear over at the other end of the clearing, and she was too tired to go tell him. He’d never miss her for a few minutes. She saw a path lined with rock that led along the cliff face to a set of steps carved from rock. The sun was hot now that the storm had blown past, and the glistening sand beckoned.

She put her pad and paper down on a flat rock and walked along the top of the cliff. There was a rope to hang onto as she went down the rocky steps, but it looked rotten and frayed, so she didn’t dare put too much faith in it.

As she neared the bottom of the steps, she began to hear a tuneless whistle. Curious, she wandered in the direction of the sound.

A man stood stretching his fishing nets over the rocks. His muscular back was clad in a faded blue shirt, and she couldn’t see his face. His curly black hair glistened with perspiration.

She thought to back away and continue on her way undetected, but the man turned and saw her. His features came into focus, and she recognized him. Greg Chambers, Saija’s cousin.

“Hello,” he said, shading his eyes with his hand.

“Hi,” she said, praying he didn’t recognize her. That knowledge with Saija was dangerous enough.

“You visiting here?” he said. He dropped his net and came closer.

Becca’s gaze traced the line of strong jaw and firm lips. He’d been cute as a seventeen-year-old boy. He was handsome and virile as a thirty-eight-year-old man. She’d spent her last summer here mooning over him. He’d helped the gardener one summer and had been at the house nearly every day, though he’d paid more attention to Laura than to her.

“Yes, at the Baxter’s house,” she said.

He stopped then and his gaze probed her face. “Becky. You’ve come back.”

Heat rushed to her face. “Hello, Greg.”

“You weren’t going to tell me who you were,” he stated. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

“You can’t tell anyone you saw me,” she said.

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