Page 94 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
“Leave her alone!” Edgar shouted.
Rebecca’s fingers closed around the knife that she had freed her bonds with.
Mercer adjusted the rifle against his shoulder. “Where are the papers?” he demanded.
A genuine look of honesty crossed Edgar’s face. He looked at Rebecca and then back at Mercer. “I don’t know where they are.”
Mercer stalked forward, jamming the barrel of the rifle into Edgar’s chest. “Tell me or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
“Then you’ll never find out where they are!” Rebecca mustered the courage to challenge him. “If you hurt him, I’ll never tell you!”
Mercer spun, bringing the rifle with him to aim in her direction. “Where are they at then, you little chit?”
Rebecca hid the knife behind her back. She glanced at Edgar, who shook his head in warning.
Edgar. Sweet, darling, crotchety old Edgar. She didn’t understand how he’d loved her mother if Annabel was married to Hilliard, but he had. If he was her father ... Rebecca almost wished it were true. She shifted her attention back to Mercer. It would be wise to reveal where she’d buried the papers. It wouldn’t thwart Hilliard’s grandiose plans of power and wealth, but it would potentially spare Edgar now. Would Hilliard leave them to the lighthouse once and for all if she capitulated to the demands?
Rebecca opened her mouth to reveal the location just as Edgar pushed himself from the floor. There was viciousnessin his eyes that stunned Rebecca into stillness and momentarily shocked Mercer. With a guttural growl, Edgar stumbled and launched himself at Mercer, shouting at Rebecca simultaneously, “Run!”
The rifle in Mercer’s hands fired, and Edgar lurched backward with the blast.
Rebecca screamed and without thinking flew at Mercer, wielding the knife. She sunk it deep into the man’s shoulder, and he dropped the gun, falling away in agony. As Mercer writhed on the floor, Rebecca fell to her knees, grabbing the rifle and pulling it with her even as she hurried to Edgar’s side.
The elderly man lay on his back, his chest heaving. A poisonous red spread along his shirt.
“No, no, no!” Rebecca wept over him as she pawed as gently as she could at his shirt, trying without success to stop the bleeding. She grabbed at her dress, ripping the bodice until her chemise was exposed. She wadded the strip of material into a ball and pressed it firmly against the gunshot wound.
Mercer rolled on the floor behind her, spitting vitriol as he clawed at the knife that was embedded in his muscle.
“Edgar!” Rebecca leaned over the lightkeeper while holding the wad of material against his chest.
Edgar’s hand curled around her wrist in a weak hold. His eyes were glazed but soft, with moisture in them that could only be attributed to unshed tears. “Get out of here, child,” he rasped out, demanding she flee for her freedom.
“I won’t leave you!” Rebecca cried, her own tears falling on Edgar’s weathered face.
He lifted his hand to her cheek. “I’m old. I’ve lived my life. You ... live yours now.”
“Edgar, I—”
His eyes closed and then snapped open. “So many regrets.”
Rebecca pressed a bloodied hand against Edgar’s face. “Are you—?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m not ... your father. That’s Hilliard. Though he don’t believe it. Two can love ... and not do all wrong. Annabel wouldn’t.”
Disappointment coursed through her. “But you loved her—my mother.” Rebecca’s statement filled the air between them even as she heard Mercer in the background, gritting out words she would never repeat.
Edgar grimaced, then gasped out, “More than I should have.”
Rebecca frowned. “What do you mean?” She was desperate to know the truth—the truth about her mother Annabel and about Edgar. If he wasn’t her father ... then what? Had he tried to save her as she fled the hands of Hilliard? To rescue her from the icy waters of the lake?
Edgar’s eyes widened, and for what seemed an eternity he stared deep into Rebecca’s. “I saved us from him,” he said. “Run. Go live.” His eyes slid shut, and he expelled a long breath.
“No!” Rebecca screamed. She spun when she heard Mercer behind her, stumbling to his feet, the bloody knife in his hand which he’d pulled from his shoulder. She snatched up the rifle, pumped the lever, aimed and pulled the trigger.
SHEA
Marnie’s fingers squeezed oxygen from Shea’s throat, blocking her airway. Shea reached up and grabbed at the woman’s wrists and threw her weight against the waitress, Edna’s daughter. She’d not expected to recognize the woman in the lighthouse. Now she wrestled not with a ghost or an idea, but with a woman whose anger she felt in every clawing scrape left on Shea’s throat.
