Page 24 of Alaskan Blackout
And in each instance, she’d been disappointed that the newcomer hadn’t been Quinton. It had been a pathetic display of feelings for a man who hadn’t given their night half as much thought as she had. She hammered on the gas as she hit the main road, very ready to let the sea take her mind off her problems. She’d asked a neighbor to care for her pets, and she’d nailed up heavy plastic sheets over the places on the house that were still missing some siding. She’d covered her bases. With any luck, maybe Quinton would be far from Dutch Harbor by the time she returned home.
Unfortunately, the thought gave her no comfort.
Four days into his self-imposed hotel room isolation, Quinton finally had McKenna’s cyber harasser nailed.
With the damning evidence in hand to share a hard copy with McKenna, Quinton drove to the Cyclone Shack after four interminable days without seeing her. He’d told himself that the time spent apart would help cool the fire between them, and it was satisfying as hell to have the evidence needed to prosecute the bastard who had betrayed her trust.
Although, as he steered the rental SUV onto the road that led to the Cyclone Shack, he couldn’t deny a big part of his satisfaction in tracing the origin of that original video upload had been that it meant he could see McKenna again.
Because of course she deserved to know.
He’d been outraged on her behalf that her privacy had been invaded that way, so he could only imagine how hurt she’d been to discover what her ex had done. Quinton hadn’t made any more progress on tracking Clayton these last few days, but at least he’d done this for McKenna.
Now, pulling into the empty parking lot of the Cyclone Shack, he wondered if she was even here. Normally, the lot was at least half full by midafternoon. Today, there wasn’t a single vehicle. Not even her truck in its normal spot far off to one side.
Was she ill? Guilt nipped at him for not checking in with her these last days. Her asthma could have returned. Or she could have fallen off the ladder trying to replace that siding on her own. His mind whirred through a hundred possibilities in an instant, making a lie of all his attempts to put distance between them.
He was about to drive around to the back of the building to see if her truck was parked there when he noticed a white piece of paper taped over the window beside the front door. After shoving the SUV into Park, he stepped out onto the pavement and charged toward the building.
Closing the gap between him and the note, he could make out crisp, bold handwriting in black marker.
Closed For Two Weeks.
His stomach dropped as he absorbed the import of the words while the bottom edge of the white paper curled in the breeze. Quinton smoothed the paper with one hand to better read the rest. Beneath the headline, in a lighter hand, McKenna had written, “Took a group of stranded birders to Attu when another tour guide’s boat sustained storm damage. Your first drink is on me when I return and sorry for the inconvenience.”
Her name was signed in a feminine scrawl beneath. Not that there could have been any doubt who’d penned it. But what date had she pinned the note there? Had she just left this morning? Or four days ago?
Leaning against the side of the building, he berated himself all over again for not staying in touch. Memories of the way they’d parted circled through his head now, chastising him for the way he’d retreated. They’d shared an incredible night together, yet he’d withdrawn the moment reality had set in the next morning. Was it any wonder she’d jumped at the chance to leave town for a couple of weeks? Because he had to wonder if her motivation for leaving had really been to help a fellow tour guide.
Or, more likely, had McKenna been very ready to head anywhere to escape him?
Withdrawing his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans, he tapped out a message to her and hit Send, knowing the chances were slim to none that she’d respond.
Attu was the westernmost Aleutian Island on the other side of the International Date Line. He’d studied enough maps of the area the day he’d been stuck in Anchorage waiting to fly out here. No doubt cell coverage on her boat would be intermittent at best.
Then again, she could just as easily be ignoring him after the way he’d left her place.
Damn it.
Turning on his boot heel, he peered into the window beside the front door, taking in the darkened bar where McKenna normally served up drinks and fish tales. He didn’t know what he was hoping to find. Traces of her, maybe. The sense of loss kicking through him now told him how deeply she’d gotten under his skin.
While the wind blew around him, still rattling the note she’d taped up, Quinton’s gaze took in the neatly arranged liquor bottles behind the bar. A few fishing nets hanging from the ceiling for decor. The digital register. Behind that, the bulletin board crammed full of local ads and a few photos from McKenna’s trips.
He’d seen them all before from the hours he’d spend seated in his usual evening spot. Well, all except one.
A postcard hung in the bottom corner of the board, in a place almost hidden behind the bar. Quinton held a hand up to shade his eyes so he could see into the glass better, curious about the new addition.
Curious about McKenna.
The card featured an image of a gray wolf padding through the snow. Nothing unusual. Yet something about it made him wish he could take a better look at it, if only because it hadn’t been there before.
Quinton knew better than to think the card was from Clayton. McKenna guarded her stepbrother’s secrets so thoroughly, she wouldn’t make a mistake like that. Still Quinton couldn’t shake the sense that the image had some relation to his half brother.
Or else he was seeing connections that weren’t there because he hadn’t come across a single lead on Clay’s location.
Turning away from the Cyclone Shack in disgust with himself, Quinton knew he’d have plenty of time to dig deeper in his search for Clay. Because there was no doubt in Quinton’s mind that he wasn’t going anywhere for the next two weeks.
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