Page 3 of Moonlit Hideaway
Hank’s smile faded as the woman turned her face toward him. He didn’t expect her to stare back at him, but even behind those sunglasses, he could sense her displeased glare.
And he couldn’t help noticing how her hands gripped the steering wheel.
They were shaking.
This was a mistake.
Sierra shot the nosy man with a withering stare that screamed, “Mind your own business.” To her relief, he averted his gaze. She couldn’t believe how stupid she was to be stuck on a ferry for an entire hour. This was literally the dinkiest ferry boat she’d ever seen. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, except for a few fancy tourist SUVs filled with vacationers paging through the brochures.
Without a cell phone or GPS, she had relied on road signs to navigate toward Washington, D.C. But the very idea of boarding a plane with its security checks and the barrage of personal questions had her nixing that idea. Her father’s organization had tentacles everywhere, and who knew which security guard was compromised, not to mention the many cameras in use at the airport.
So she’d driven on, using the dashboard’s floating ball compass as her lone guide. She stuck to the back roads, where her beater truck blended with the country roads. As the moon rose and the rain subsided, she caught a sign for the Outer Banks. Its name promised seclusion at the ends of the earth. As she passed sleepy towns on the silvery strip of sand with the moon shining above, she’d allowed a grain of hope to seep into her outlook. This detour offering a hideaway might give her the rest she needed to determine her next step.
She’d stopped for gas, snack foods, and a cheap knockoff brand hair dye—dull brown, and she didn’t know where she’d stop—until the road ended with the highway sign pointing to the ferry terminal.
Now, what was she going to do?
The man who looked at her went and stood at the front of the ferry, leaning against his pickup truck—a massive one with double wheels in the back. It had a camper shell with tinted windows. She tried to tell herself he wasn’t working for Marco. He couldn’t have known she would flee her father’s wake. He was too busy giving toasts and speeches to pay attention to her.
But Marco had underlings—eyes and ears everywhere, and she couldn’t trust her blabbermouth mother not to be worried about her precious daughter driving in the rain—and not realizing she was putting her in danger.
Checking her watch, Sierra couldn’t believe how slowly the ferry chugged. It seemed to be taking a roundabout route,crawling between the buoys away from the island instead of toward it. No one else seemed concerned, and people left their windows down as they wandered back and forth on the narrow boat.
Gripping the steering wheel with nowhere to go, she observed the man discreetly. He was rugged with a build shaped by physical labor. Appearing to be in his mid-thirties, he had a way of standing, a confident, relaxed readiness that suggested a particular watchfulness. The wind whipped his hair from his face, showing rough-hewn features creased by the outdoors. He spoke on the phone with someone he loved, smiling as he shook his head and hung up. The ferry’s horn sounded as it bypassed another ferry coming in the other direction. People from both sides waved and grinned at each other.
Sierra decided he was likely an islander, which relieved her—although she hoped he hadn’t recognized her. People should mind their own business, just like the guy who sold her the truck. However, she’d better come up with a cover story.
She pulled her jacket tighter around her, trying to turn her focus inward and steel herself for what lay ahead. After what felt like hours, the ferry docked, and everyone drove off single file. Sierra was glad her lane got to go first as she distanced herself from the stranger’s truck by at least ten intervening cars.
Fitting in on this remote island was the top priority, and her first stop would be a thrift shop.
Chapter Three
The welcome center was unmanned, but Sierra picked up a few maps and brochures from the wall-holders before proceeding into town. Moonlit Harbor lay on the sound side of Hattokwa Island. While the rest of the barrier islands were thin strips, Hattokwa was shaped like a ladle, thin like spaghetti on one end with a cup-like bulge on the other with a protected harbor facing the sound.
Sierra stopped at a thrift shop on the edge of town well before the main drag. The clapboard house was built with a raised latticed foundation and had a hand-painted sign. Instead of open hours, it read, “Knock, and if I’m awake, come on in.”
The tired-looking woman who’d opened the door was friendly, although not inquisitive. She was too busy speaking on the phone to pay attention to Sierra, who flipped through the racks, looking for a new discreet style. She’d decided on a cover story of a burned-out songwriter, a behind-the-scenes type of person, who was on the island for a stress break. Perhaps she’d concoct a nasty breakup to give gossipers something to discuss. The last thing she needed was to look like a fugitive, as that would stir the townspeople’s curiosity.
Humming a tune to herself, Sierra selected casual beach clothes in natural colors—sea-foam green, sandstone beige, and calming blue. She favored soft chambray shirts and distressed jeans and picked up a loose, cotton kimono-style cardigan for lounging around. A flannel-lined barn coat and a pair of worn hiking boots would help her weather the inevitable storms or a late hurricane.
She added a wide-brimmed hat and passed a rack labeled “Tourist Mistakes” full of loud tie-dyes with smiley faces and “I Love OBX” hoodies with huge hearts.
She might as well play the role, so she chose a tie-dye with a heart pattern and an “I Love OBX” hoodie with a throbbing heart design.
As she approached the counter, a turquoise and silver necklace caught her eye. The stone was the color of the ocean on a sunny day, and she thought of the melodies she could claim to be composing—songs that mirrored the ebb and flow of the tides of Moonlit Harbor.
The woman set aside the phone and eyed Sierra’s choices with a nod of approval.
“You’ve got an eye for the island style,” she said with the warm, raspy voice of a chain smoker. “Got a gig at the local bar?”
“Something like that.” Sierra decided to skirt as close to the truth as she could. “Gotta work on the songwriting and looking for a place to get the creative juices flowing.”
The woman chuckled, packaging Sierra’s new wardrobe with care. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Hattokwa Island has a way of singing its own song to those who listen.”
Wearing her new old clothes, a relaxed chambray shirt and a pair of jeans over hiking boots, Sierra swaggered with more confidence to her clunker truck. Thrift Shop Patty had recommended an out-of-the-way bed-and-breakfast, Moonlit Inn, in the middle of renovations and unlikely to have many guests.
Driving through town, Sierra realized she didn’t need a GPS or cell phone. The tourist brochure laid out the main roads, and the Moonlit Inn sat at the end of the crescent-shaped spit of land, facing the inlet while the rest of the town encircled the harbor.
