“Please don’t let it be one of our own. I can’t let these people down. Not when they’ve done so much for me. No, this can’t be one of them.” Wes pushed the horrid idea out of his mind as he pushed his windblown strands of hair out of his eyes. He would know if someone had gone missing. He ran a tight ship here, questioning every happening and every outsider who disembarked the Sunday ferry. This skeleton had to be ancient, put here long ago, before his time. Before his father’s, the previous Sheriff Grant’s, time. Before any of the islanders’ time.
Wesley thought of the history of the island and remembered a couple hundred years ago, pirates used to sail these seas and stop off on the island to count their loot. Yes, that had to be it. He latched on to this theory quickly. This skeleton had to have been buried here by one of the eighteenth-century swashbucklers, killed by a warring foe who broached the shores. Wesley felt sure Dr. Simon Webber, the forensic anthropologist who would be arriving on the island any minute now, would confirm it. But a check of his watch only brought up another question: What was keeping the doctor?
Deputy Derek Vaughn had left over five hours ago to pick up the man the medical examiner was sending out here to assess the situation. Vaughn had been instructed to bring the forensic anthropologist over to this side of the island as soon as they arrived. It was a two-hour trip each way. That made Vaughn an hour late. Nothing new there. The deputy couldn’t follow simple orders on a good day.
Wes thumbed the radio at his shoulder and called his other deputy, Owen Matthews. Maybe he knew what was keeping Vaughn. “Matthews, what’s your location?”
The radio crackled in his ear as Wesley studied the skeleton’s pelvis that lay exposed in the sand at his feet. Most of its ribs couldn’t be seen, just the front of the rib cage protruded out of the earth. Only one hand stuck out, too. Wesley figured the other one was either still buried, or the wildlife had made off with it. Or, because the guy had once been a pirate—Wesley was sticking with this theory for the time being—there was the chance he’d lost it premortem.
The idea made him cringe and he pushed the radio again, a little harder than before. “Matthews or Vaughn, what’s your twenty?”
His radio chirped followed by Deputy Matthews’s voice. “Sorry, Wes. I’m pulling up now. Vaughn brought the doctor to the station instead. A little misunderstanding, I guess.”
Wesley bit the unprofessional comment about Vaughn from his tongue and asked, “Where’s the doctor?”
“She’s sitting right beside me.”
“She?” He spoke louder than he meant to, then remembered the boys who had found the skeleton that morning stood on the other side of the tall sand mound behind him. They didn’t want to be near the “dead guy” as they’d put it. Their older sister, Pat, joined them as the responsible party, so she waited with them on the other side of the mound, too. None of these people needed to hear him lose his cool about an unexpected outsider showing up instead of the expected Dr. Webber.
“Yup. She’s a she,” Owen said. “Go a little easier on her than you did my wife when she showed up in Stepping Stones, would you?” Before the radio chirped out, Owen added, “I’m sure you’ve learned by now that not everyone is like Jenny Carmichael.”
Owen was right. He also knew Wes had a hard time with outsiders. He’d put the last outsider who disembarked the ferry through the ringer. And Miriam Hunter, now Miriam Matthews, hadn’t been guilty of anything but caring about Stepping Stones as much as he did.
Owen proved his point. Not all people who broached his shores were trouble. They weren’t all like his ex-fiancée, Jenny Carmichael. Wesley recoiled at the memory of the destruction Jenny brought to his life five years ago, but that didn’t mean the lady doctor was anything like Jenny.
He hoped she wasn’t, anyway.
The motor of a boat beyond the sand mound signaled Matthews’s arrival. Wes climbed the steep slope and got his first glimpse of the bone doctor sitting beside his deputy.
A pretty face behind dark-rimmed glasses.
So what? A face meant nothing. He knew this from Jenny. And don’t you forget it, Grant, he told himself as he approached the water and watched the brown-haired woman with a tight bun at the nape of her neck stand to her full, tower-like height. A pretty face and the height to go head-to-head with him.
That didn’t necessarily mean trouble, he reasoned as this new outsider was about to broach his shores.
But even as Deputy Matthews slid out the metal gangway, the uncertainty in Wesley’s mind rang louder than the screeching metal against metal.
All he could wonder was if this outsider would be friend or if she would be foe?
* * *
“I’m here to examine the skeleton.” Lydia Muir stepped off the police boat and down the temporary metal dock Deputy Matthews slid out for her exit. She carried her tool kit in her left hand, her SLR digital camera hung from her neck, swaying with each step. She would hold off donning her forensic white coverall clean suit and rubber boots until she had the chance to assess the scene, but deep down under her grayish-blue wool coat and matching pants, Lydia squirmed in anticipation of suiting up. She hoped her excitement didn’t show too much, pretty sure the five islanders standing in front of her wouldn’t appreciate her smiling in their disturbing situation. They wouldn’t understand that forensic anthropology, the study of human remains for evidence, was her life. A dug-up bone to the ordinary person was a treasure to behold for her.
“I’m Sheriff Grant.” A shaggy-haired officer stepped forward. She didn’t know too many officers of the law who kept their hair on the longer side. Most looked like the clean-cut deputy who brought her over to this side of the island, or the balding one who brought her out from Rockland. “I wasn’t expecting you,” the sheriff said in a disgruntled tone that had her putting aside her thoughts on his reclusive hairstyle and focusing on his obvious disappointment at her arrival.
Her excitement fizzled a bit. Apparently, he’d been expecting her boss.
“I’m Dr. Lydia Muir.” She offered her hand to shake, glad to see him remove his black leather glove and take it. All hope wasn’t lost yet.
The feeling of his warm grip seeped into her chilled skin, reminding her she should have brought gloves to this frigid, windswept place. She let go and felt the chill in the air more now than before. The first thought that jumped in her head was to take his warm hand in her own again. How silly, she thought, since she much preferred the company of the stiff and dead. But then, Sheriff Grant was pretty stiff. He gripped his jaw so tight, his temporomandibular joint protruded. The man was really mad that Webber wasn’t here.
“I work under Dr. Simon Webber. He sent me in his stead.” Lydia brought her tool kit in front of her to show the sheriff as well as all their onlookers that she had the credentials for being here. She cleared her throat. “I assure you, I’m well qualified to assess the situation. I have a Ph.D. in forensic anthropology, and I—” She bit the inside of her cheek to stop any more insecure blabbering from spilling forth. She had nothing to prove here. I’ve earned this. I’m a doctor—even if Dr. Webber still calls me Miss Muir.
But that would all change after this case. Running a top-notch examination here was exactly what she needed to prove herself in her field, once and for all. God had seen to it. He wanted her to succeed in her own right. Not because of who her father is in the world of science, but because of her own merits.
Lydia breathed deep and silently prayed. God, You have given me the skills and the desire to understand the basic makeup and structure of Your creation. I am ready to handle whatever anyone, even the hard-faced sheriff giving himself TMJ, throws at me.
She straightened all twenty-seven vertebrae of her spine and hoped the onlookers missed her trembling shoulders. She hoped they shook from the whipping