But she couldn’t. He was faster. Stronger. She could hear his ragged breathing as he drew closer.
A sob rose in her throat. There were lights up ahead. People. Activity. In another two minutes she’d—
A hand gripped her arm.
Another clamped over her mouth.
She was yanked backward and dragged into the woods. She kicked. Twisted. Scratched. Nothing loosened the man’s vise-like grip. He slammed her to the ground. Pressed a knife to her throat. Told her if she screamed she’d die.
Waves of terror washed over her, sucking her down, down, down. And then the screams came anyway. Over and over and…
Kelsey shot upright in bed, chest heaving as she gasped for breath and choked back the terrified cries clawing their way past her throat. Slowly, the familiar outlines of her cozy room came into focus, illuminated by the soft light from the lamp she lit each night to keep darkness at bay.
She was safe.
Choking back a sob, she closed her eyes and forced herself to take deep, even breaths. To focus on a mental picture of the placid, sparkling lake outside her bungalow. To imagine drinking the rich hot chocolate Gram used to make.
The comforting images worked their magic. Her heart resumed its normal rhythm. Her respiration slowed. Her shaking subsided.
When she felt steadier, she swung her feet to the floor and stood, one hand resting on the new life growing within her as she padded through the snug bungalow, double-checking every lock. It had been more than three months since she’d had such a graphic dream. Once she moved here and settled into Gram’s house, they’d dissipated. Here, she’d felt safe.
But things had changed. Thanks to her new neighbor.
And he was going to be around until the end of the summer.
With a sigh, Kelsey made her way back to her bedroom.
It was going to be a long few weeks.
Chapter Two
“Teatime, my dear.”
Setting aside the pattern she’d been sketching, Kelsey swiveled away from her desk and toward the front of Not Your Grandmother’s Quilts. Dorothy Martin stood a few feet away, holding a delicate china cup of tea—and a plate containing two mini homemade scones.
Kelsey shook her head and smiled as she took the offering. “If you keep spoiling me like this, I’m going to have twenty extra pounds to lose after I have this baby.”
The older woman waved her objections aside and tucked one stray strand of white hair back into her perfect chignon. “Nonsense. You haven’t gained enough weight, if you ask me.”
“The doctor says I’m fine.”
“Hmph.” Dorothy fingered the single strand of pearls around her neck, skepticism quirking her mouth. “You look tired to me. And you seemed a little stressed on Saturday. I meant to get over here and visit with you, but we were swamped.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have talked you into letting me rent half your space for my shop. You’ve had to turn customers away at Tea for Two ever since I moved in.”
“Don’t be silly. It was a fine idea. This place was way too big for me.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned closer. “I’m seventy-five years old, Kelsey, even if I don’t look a day over sixty-five.” With a wink, she straightened. “I’d have retired if you hadn’t made me that offer. This lets me keep my finger in the business without as much pressure. Serving a light lunch to fifty is a lot easier than dealing with two or three times that many people. This has worked out well for both of us.”
“I know I’ve benefited. I get perks like this.” She lifted her cup. “I’m not sure what you get out of the deal.”
“Companionship.” The older woman’s usual sunny expression dimmed a few watts. “I surely do miss your grandmother. She used to drive into Douglas for a visit almost every afternoon. I looked forward to our chats—even if she did insist I serve her tea in a mug.” An affectionate smile tugged at the older woman’s lips.
In the silence that followed, Kelsey took a sip of the herbal tea from her china cup. How Dorothy and her grandmother had ever connected was beyond her. They’d been as different as two women could be. Dorothy wore silk, cherished tradition and liked order. Bess Anderson had favored jeans, loved to experiment with new ideas and thrived in chaos.
But they’d shared common values, lively intellects and kind hearts. Apparently that had been enough to seal their friendship for more than forty years.
“Gram was one of a kind, wasn’t she?” The words came out choked, and Kelsey set the cup back on the saucer.
“That she was.” Dorothy patted her arm, then straightened her own shoulders. “And she wouldn’t want us to be moping around on her behalf. I never did meet a person who could wring more joy out of a day than Bess Anderson. I expect she’d be disappointed if we didn’t follow her example.”
“I agree. It’s just harder some days than others to do that.”
Dorothy gave her a keen look. “Any particular reason why it’s harder today?”
Kelsey lifted one shoulder. “I haven’t slept very well the past two nights.”
The older woman wrinkled her brow. “Bad dreams again?”
“Yes.” Dorothy was one of the few people who knew Kelsey’s story. Her grandmother’s never-married best friend had always been like a cherished great-aunt, and since Kelsey had moved to Michigan, Dorothy had done her best to fill the role vacated by Gram.
“How odd. You’ve been doing so well. Did something trigger them?”
“Not something. Someone. My new neighbor. A man in his thirties who’s staying at the Lewis house. Alone, as far as I can tell.” She traced the delicate gold-edged rim of the saucer with a fingertip. “He came up behind me on the beach Saturday.”
“Oh, my.” Distress tightened Dorothy’s features. “I can see how that would have been upsetting.”
“To make matters worse, I dropped a book while I was down there, and when he came by to return it I was changing a lightbulb on the porch. I was so startled I fell into his arms. Literally. I almost hyperventilated.”
The bell over the front door jingled, announcing the arrival of tearoom customers, and Dorothy called out to the two women who entered. “I’ll be right with you.” Then she leaned closer to Kelsey and lowered her voice. “Maybe you should talk to Dr. Walters again.”
“Maybe.” She’d made weekly trips to the therapist in Holland during her first six weeks in Michigan, but her visits had tapered off as the nightmares grew less and less frequent. She hadn’t been to see the woman in more than two months.
Now the nightmares were back. Thanks to Luke Turner.
As Dorothy seated her luncheon guests on the other side of the building, Kelsey forced herself to focus on more pleasant thoughts. Nibbling at a blueberry scone, she examined the row of quilts, displayed on large racks, that separated Tea for Two from Not Your Grandmother’s Quilts in the high-ceilinged space they shared. The two in the middle were Gram’s, and they were stunning. Creative, contemporary and abstract, they were pieces of art—and not at all what most people pictured when they heard the word quilt.
The ones on either end were hers. One was a commissioned piece she’d finished a couple of weeks ago and would soon be shipping off to the buyer. The other—an intricate, modernistic, three-dimensional design—wasn’t for sale. Gram had praised it highly, calling it a breakout piece when Kelsey had sent her a photo of it last year. It had taken her three years to make, squeezing in a few minutes of work on it here and there. As she’d discovered,