Page 6 of Christmas Harbor Secrets
Echo’s hackles rose. Rone set a boot on the springy finger of a dock line and listened. Over the slap of water and the tick-tick-tick of a cooling engine on some other rig, he caught the softest scuff. Above. Inside. Skittering away.
He could leave. Let the coming dark swallow this woman along with his better intentions. If he didn’t get involved, he couldn’t fail her. If he didn’t step forward, he wouldn’t have to see that look again, the flash of betrayal that said he should’ve been enough and wasn’t.
Echo gave that idea the contempt it deserved and put two paws on the rub rail, chest rising on a sharp breath.
There it was on the window. Another warning.
Rone hopped the gap to the stern swim platform, the boat not giving even an inch to his weight due to the sixty-five thousand pound yacht’s solid features. Echo flowed beside him like smoke. The aft deck was slick with spray and the kind of Florida grime that never quite dried.
Echo went low and quiet, nose down, breath measured. The smell inside the salon hit like a memory—diesel and damp, a hint of cedar-musk he didn’t welcome. The blanket that had been tossed across the L-shaped settee littered with parts was gone.
He crossed the salon without sound and took the narrow passage to the pilot house stairs. Echo paused at the foot, ears triangulating. He pointed his muzzle upward, then toward the bow, then to the starboard side where the guest cabin built-ins lined the wall. A faint draft brushed his wrist. Not ventilation—fresh air from a door opened recently. Someone had moved.
“Clear,” he breathed, tapping two fingers up. Echo slowly climbed, each placement of paw deliberate. He followed, palm light on the rail because the second tread on these spiral steps always sang like a rat trap.
Halfway up, light bled across the landing, but when hereached the top, no one was there. Echo sat back on his haunches, confirming his assessment. Squeaks sounded behind him so he about-faced to find Isobel.
She was paler than she’d been on the dock, but her chin was up. A tremor rode the tendon in her throat when she swallowed, and that made something he didn’t like shift in his chest.
Her eyes settled on the overturned cushions and the open drawers and mess scattered across the table.
“Echo followed the smell of trouble, so I came to keep him from jumping through a window to get to it.”
She looked past him, out the window as if to see something in the distance, the stubborn line of her mouth sharpening. “I don’t run because someone tells me to.”
“And I don’t threaten people with cryptic messages. If I have something to say, I won’t be a coward and scratch it into some ornament.” He stepped closer. “But whatever Shade was into those final months before he died is obviously spilling over onto you.”
She moved to the helm and hung the ornament on it as if it belonged there, then turned back to him. “Someone was looking for something, but what?”
“I don’t have the answers.”
“And let me guess. You think I should leave.”
“Already told you that.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and scanned the boat, searching, as if digging for her own answers in this boat.
Rone took her measure—arms locked, chin set, that look that said she’d rather drown than ask for a rope. It hit a place he didn’t visit. The same hard light his old partner used to throw when she decided a door was opening, with or without him.
Stubborn enough to get herself killed,he thought, and hated the way the words tasted like prayer and warning at once.
Echo shifted, bringing the moment back to ground. Theshepherd nosed under the helm, fished out a loose wing nut from God-knew-what, and padded over to Isobel with a careful, almost courtly gait. He set the tiny prize in her palm, then sat and tilted his head in that dramatic arc that made anyone smile, no matter how angry they thought they were.
It worked. The corners of her mouth curled up. “Thanks,” she murmured, and because Echo had impeccable timing, he lifted a paw as if to shake. She huffed—almost a laugh—took the paw automatically, and Rone felt the tension in the room ratchet down half a notch.
“Traitor,” he told the dog without heat.
“Don’t mind him, he’s jealous of the attention.”
She wasn’t wrong. The woman would be beautiful and a catch if he was looking for anything, which he wasn’t. Nothing but some peace and quiet. “Name’s Isobel, by the way.” She said in a sweet tone while scratching under Echo’s chin.
“Isobel,” Rone said, “What’s your endgame here? With this boat.”
She blinked, recalibrating. “Endgame?”
“You said you don’t run because someone tells you to.” He nodded toward the overturned cushions. “So what’s the plan after you ignore the warning? Fix it? Sleep on it? Pretend last night didn’t happen?”
Her shoulders drew back. “Fix it and sell it.” No wobble there. “I’m not afraid of hard work. I can make this boat presentable, get it listed, and be out of here before New Year’s.”
