As they prepared to hit the road, Callan finally broke the silence. “I think we should talk, lass.”
Daisy paused, her hands gripping the edge of the camper van’s door. “I know,” she said softly, her eyes downcast.
Callan moved closer, reaching out to touch her arm, but he hesitated, unsure if the gesture would be welcome. “I...”
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of apprehension and hope.
“Can we... can we talk while we drive? I think I need some time to gather my thoughts before we go visit your friends.”
They were not his friends. He did not know them, but Callan simply nodded, understanding her need for time to gather her thoughts. “Aye, of course.”
They climbed into the camper van, the tension palpable in the confined space. Callan started the engine, the familiar rumble filling the silence between them. As they pulled out of the campground, the dogs sensed the awkwardness, their usual enthusiasm subdued.
He gripped the steering wheel, searching for the right words to bridge the gap between them as he drove over the bridge. They could eat breakfast and then mayhap talk, but if she would not trust him to honor his word, then he must find his own way.
Alone.
CHAPTER 23
The voice on the wee phone told Callan to turn left in five hundred feet. She was most insistent, repeating herself just as he caught sight of the blue and white house the police chief told him to look for.
Whilst the house itself was only a short distance from their campground, it took fifteen minutes instead of five because of all the Saturday traffic today.
He and Daisy had been excruciatingly polite to each other, neither of them willing to discuss her overreaction and what came next. Pain lanced through him at the thought of never hearing her laugh or seeing her eyes light up, but he refused to spend the rest of his life with a woman who always assumed he would leave, no matter how much he loved her.
A man singing about taking it easy had Callan drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for a break in the traffic to turn. Finally, a bright yellow sports car stopped, motioning him to go ahead. With a nod of thanks, Callan turned into the space under the house. A carport, Daisy called it. It was shaded so the dogs would have somewhere cool to wait as they talked to Lucy’s kin.
It was cloudy today and by the way his shoulder ached; he knew it would rain before the day was done. The wind off the water carried the tang of the sea, the salt sticking to his bare arms.
Normally, his lass would be talking, pointing out an interesting dune or bird, but she had been quiet this morning, her face drawn. Before he picked up Brodie to lift him out of the van so he wouldn’t jump down on his injured paw, Daisy picked him up, holding the dog in her arms like a wee babe, talking softly to him, before kissing him on the top of his head.
Callan was jealous. Of a wee injured dog. He was a hopeless dolt.
“It’s cool under the carport. I’ll hook their leashes through the fence and fill their bowls with water.”
Frankie patiently waited as the lass attached his leash and checked to make sure he had enough room to move around comfortably. Then she did the same with Brodie, who was wiggling around, eager to be somewhere new.
She didn’t meet his gaze, her back stiff. “I’ll wait outside if you prefer to talk to them alone.”
“Nay, you have been with me every step of our journey. I wish ye to come with me.” He paused. “If you wish to.”
“Okay.” She nodded, pouring water into the bowls of the dogs. “It’s so beautiful here.” His lass looked out past the dunes to the water. “I could live here and be happy for the rest of my life.”
With a glance at the steps, he swallowed. “Shall we?”
She simply nodded as they climbed the steps leading to the back porch, leaving the dogs comfortably lounging under the carport, the sound of the waves and the calls of the gulls doing nothing to ease his nervousness as if he were a green lad facing his first battle.
Squaring his shoulders, Callan raised his hand and knocked, blinking as the wind gusted, kicking up the sand on the porch.
“Might I help you?”
For a moment, Callan hesitated, something about the cadence of the words ’twas familiar, reminding him of William. The man was older, with the bearing of a warrior. Tall with dark hair threaded through with silver and sharp blue eyes.
“Aye, perhaps.” He took a breath as the man tilted his head, hearing Scotland in Callan’s voice.
“Will, the Chief of Police in this village of Holden Beach, told us we might find ye and Mistress Merriweather here.”
He stood, feet apart, hands loose at his sides, wondering how many blades the man had hidden on his person, for Callan swore he could smell the steel.
