That was even more frightening. The future Mrs. Derrick Wilkinson, who would be the Deacon’s wife some day with all the rights and privileges pertaining thereto, had no business thinking such things. But on the other hand, she didn’t want to be responsible for a man missing the way to heaven. What was she going to do?
She looked up and saw she’d arrived at the worn granite steps that led up the cliff face, where the Hamilton River leaped over timeworn ledges of stone on its way into the lake. There was a small park at the top. She’d go up to the overlook and then head home.
Deep in thought, she kept her head down until she rounded the semicircular rock wall that formed the overlook. She didn’t see the big motorcycle parked in the shadows until it was too late.
Ross had seen the woman approaching since she’d emerged from the trees, and had wondered why anyone would go beachcombing in a dress. She gesticulated toward the sand, as if she were having an argument with someone in her head. It wasn’t until she was climbing the steps that he’d seen her face clearly, and recognized the hair that was always trying to escape its confinement.
A ripple of dismay ran through him at the thought of sharing his solitude with a cult-conditioned woman, of getting close to her in any way. But it was his job to get close to her. Kids were dying, and he had less than three weeks to find out why.
Controlling his face, he spoke in what he hoped was a light, bantering tone. “‘Once, and but once found in thy company, all thy supposed escapes are laid on me.’” A sound halfway between a gasp and a moan issued out of the shadows close to the shrubbery, where he’d parked the bike. “Except I’m the one who escaped,” he added conversationally. “Didn’t look like you made it.”
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