Page 57 of Colton's Secret Weapon
Once they got through the present trials and had returned to their individual and very separate lives.
With differences. They’d say hello when they saw each other out and about. Maybe exchange aHow are you doing?now and then. And if either one of them was ever in serious need—the other would be there.
He might not get that part.
But she did.
And was content to hold that truth sacred for both of them.
Chapter 17
As he had the night before, Mitchell gave Dove time to get settled in upstairs before taking himself to bed. He’d talked to Peter Welding. But something wasn’t sitting right with him. How would Brad Fletcher have known about that underwater platform at the front edge of the dock?
He’d had Dove draw him a rough likeness of the docks, to take a picture of and send to Welding, and he and the local police officer could both see exactly what she meant by someone being able to get to the ropes that mooredLadybirdfrom in the water.
Overnight, the sea’s constant movement would have taken her from there. She could have crashed into the other boats. Floated for miles. Hit a glacier. Or another boat, potentially taking lives. More likely, she’d have crashed into any of the jutting pieces of land that were an integral part of the landscape in their portion of the world.
What if it wasn’t Brad Fletcher they were after?
Could it be Wes? Even as he had the thought, Mitchell shook it away. He’d known the man most of his life. Not closely but he was good people. Happily married, came from a good family, was raising one of his own.
And he was watching his livelihood sink into the sea because of Whaler’s inability to get control of his grief and quit drinking.
Hating the heartache such news would bring to Dove—and the potential harm that would come to St. James Boats if they were down their only experienced employee—he decided to keep his suspicions to himself until he knew more. He could be way off base. And didn’t want to hurt Wes’s reputation, either, simply due to a logical supposition. But he’d keep a closer watch on the docks, until he knew more.
Decision in place, he made quick work of his nightly routine, set his phone where he could see it, checked the gun he’d carried with him that day and lodged it between bed frame and mattress. Dove had covered herself with the same quilt she’d used before. Her choice to not get under the covers had been a wise one, but she needed her sleep. Needed to be comfortable. About to get another blanket to lay over her, he stopped.
She was a grown woman with the right to make her own choices. For all he knew, she’d put on warmer clothes—a wise decision all the way around.
Either way, not his business.
And if she was asleep, he most definitely did not want to risk waking her.
Careful to make as little movement as possible, he slid under the covers and lowered himself to the mattress.
As he had the night before, he closed his eyes, turned off the day and willed himself to a good night’s sleep.
Except that there was a woman lying a foot or so away from him, not quite hugging her side of the bed…and he smelled lavender again. A woman who’d suffered enough.
Who had to have some good coming her way. If there was any truth at all to the karma she believed in.
And… Wes had dropped everything to come help secureLadybird. Would a man who’d meant to harm her do that?
He’d come after Mitchell had already found her.
A man trying to avoid suspicion would do that. He’d been around his brother enough to know that perps often insinuated themselves into crime scenes. And investigations, too.
Had he told Wes anything about their suspicions regarding Brad Fletcher? He didn’t think so. But couldn’t speak for Dove. She’d known the man much more closely than Mitchell had—over a good period of years. It was feasible that she’d said something.
Welding already believed that Fletcher had been instrumental—had instigated, even—Hal Billows’s surprise departure that week. It stood to good reason that the businessman had approached Wes as well…
“What’s the matter?” Dove’s voice, floating softly to him, carried caution. And hit him like a fist to the gut. He was sleeping alone—not with someone.
They were two individuals in the same bed.
They weren’t together.
“Nothing,” he told her. His train of thought made sense in the dark of the night after a difficult day. He wasn’t going to be an alarmist, and possibly irreparably damage relationships, until he’d entertained them in the light of day.
