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Beckoned: Heartland Cove County Romance, #2
Beckoned: Heartland Cove County Romance, #2
Beckoned: Heartland Cove County Romance, #2
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Beckoned: Heartland Cove County Romance, #2

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Sandrine Crossman, former Sergeant First Class in the Canadian Coast Guard, has a couple little problems. The first one is Mayor Jeffries. The villain wants to get Cove Light in his evil clutches so he can turn it into a tourist trap. She won't let him win, come hell or high tide. The lighthouse has been in her family for generations.

The second problem is a lot less straightforward, in a tall, muscular and unforgettable way. Unfortunately, the so-called Charles is, well, forgetful. Once Sandrine rescues him from the storm, she realizes he has amnesia. He doesn't know who he is, where he came from, or where he's going. She'd like to wash her hands of this hunky landlubber, but then again, maybe he could help her out with the mayor. Especially when mysterious vandalism and physical danger turn into real threats.

Sandrine knows how to deal with touchy motors, perilous weather, and even the mayor. But where matters of the heart are concerned, she tends to flounder. In moments of emotional distress, she turns to her pen-pal, Zeb. But he's thousands of miles away, and some problems require a more personal touch. Maybe Charles could help with that too. If only he could remember who he was, and if only Sandrine could forget. Because there's a reason she won't get too close, and the memories threaten to drown her in a sorrow so deep, her only choices are to sink or swim. And right now? She's treading water.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherVicky Holt
Release dateOct 23, 2017
ISBN9781977535498
Beckoned: Heartland Cove County Romance, #2

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    Book preview

    Beckoned - Vicky Holt

    Dedication

    To Victoria Clapton, whose loyalty is unmatched and whose dedication to Yoga helped inspire Sandrine’s unique and beautiful personality.

    Chapter One

    Tree pose, she whispered to herself. Eyes focused on her favorite framed print, she let the vicious storm outside breathe threats under the eaves, whistle through the chimney and batter the windows. In through my nose, out through my mouth, she said and exhaled. Her eyes followed the path of light on the photograph. Shafts of sun spilled over and around the bridge at Heartland Cove. The photographer had captured everything about the bridge that made it famous.

    Not just its length. Or its age, or even its sturdiness. Somehow the Nat Geo photographer had also captured what the bridge represented. Tradition, hope for the future, respect for the past. And he did it with the light. The cool and dark interior of the long bridge juxtaposed with the streams of sunlight that held the wooden beams in a sacred halo. A fog from the St. Misty River dampened any harshness from the rays, and it created the effect of experiencing the bridge as a memory. When the photo made the cover of National Geographic magazine, the town had had a bit of a revival. Personally, she thought the photo was the finest depiction of the bridge ever created, and had searched for months to contact the elusive photographer and ask to purchase a print. He had been very gracious in the email, and now, three years later, the matted and framed photo was on the short list of her prized possessions.

    Her left thigh screamed, but Sandrine ignored it, keeping her right foot balanced on the inside of her left thigh. Rumor had it the mayor wanted to raze the bridge. Interesting, considering he had it in for the lighthouse too. She would not think about the mayor’s most recent email. She would not think about his ultimatums, tantrums, or any other ums. In. Out. Balance. Grace. Finally, her thigh would take no more, and she slowly slid her foot down to plant it firmly on the ground. More breaths. Left foot sliding up to her inner right thigh.

    CRA-AACK! BOOM!

    Sandrine’s eyes popped open and she dropped her foot. Her dearly won serenity came crashing down as she stumbled to the window to see what the lightning struck outside. Her lights flickered and went out. Sandrine peered through the fogged glass, swiping it with her sleeve first.

    Dang it. One of the pines took out a shed. And the storm destroyed the wind break surrounding the generator, which was why her lights hadn’t come back on right away. She didn’t know how long this storm was supposed to last, but they were somewhat rare this part of June, so the radio weather reporters would be having a heyday with this one. She grabbed the flashlight she kept on the mantle and made her way to her room. Swapping her yoga clothes for her work clothes, she was ready in minutes. Just like the old days as a Rescue Specialist with the Canadian Coast Guard. Storms usually brought action back then. Now, she was lucky to wipe down the glass on the Fresnel lenses in her lighthouse. Everything else was automated. It’s why the mayor was trying so hard to make her leave. He wanted to tear down the house and the outbuildings and make the Cove Light a tourist attraction complete with picnic tables and a tidy little parking lot.

    Sandrine shuddered. The Cove Light had been in her family for generations, each new child petitioning for and receiving the appointment to remain as the keeper for the last two hundred and fifty years. She knew her time was about up, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight. She just had to convince the mayor that there was ample reason to keep someone, namely her, stationed at the Cove Light. Computers and Wi-Fi could automate the lights and signals, but unless she was missing something, they didn’t do windows. They also didn’t maintain this part of the island with dignity, nor could they rescue hapless fishermen who might have been caught in a pop-up storm like this one.

    She shoved her feet into her boots and fastened her bright orange slicker up to her neck. With a deep breath, she opened her front door to the maelstrom outside. It was doubtful this storm would have blown a fisherman off course, as it was night and the fishermen would have long ago brought their boats in to port. She didn’t live close to the harbor where the lobster fisherman moored their boats, but rather by a dangerous grouping of rocky shoals. It’s why the Cove Light burned bright red at all times. It meant ‘stay away!’ But storms didn’t follow the rules, as the former Sergeant First Class in the Canadian Coast Guard was well aware. It’s why she was slogging her way through the now muddy yard to her flattened outbuilding.

    She shone the light on the collapsed tree. Its trunk took the hit about a third of the way up, so the top two thirds lay sprawled over the small hut, it’s branches looking for all the world like they were trying to do a plank. She panned her light over the whole tree, noting the foundation beneath the generator housing was firm as ever. Good. She wouldn’t have to pour a new one. She gingerly pushed the spikey branches out of the way to see if the generator itself had been smashed, or if it was just the wind break. As she poked her way through the thick limbs, she caught a noise. She paused and listened.

    Yep. It sounded like a man calling for help.

    Well blow me down, she said to herself. The nor’easter had brought her a fisherman after all. Forgetting the generator for the moment, she gripped her flashlight tightly and raced down to the Cove. Her lighthouse perched atop a knoll that boasted lush green grasses and shrubbery in the summer, but just underneath the jeweled hill jutted boulders and rocks for almost a mile into the bay. At high tides and storms, some of the sharpest ones lay beneath the steel gray water, waiting to bite their prey.

    She took the graveled path that led down to a sandy area where she kept her rowboat. It was seldom used, because of all the rocks. Rocks tumbled out from under Sandrine’s feet, but she kept her footing nonetheless.  When she used the path, it was because she needed to rescue somebody. She’d rescued close to a dozen souls in the last five years she’d lived here. She didn’t brag about it, (not that there was anyone to brag to) but she did feel some pride. She liked to think she numbered among the great lighthouse keepers of the past, namely Ida Lewis, who rescued so many people she was honored for decades afterward.

    She didn’t want accolades. She just wanted to be left alone, to live here on this beautiful knoll overlooking the water, keep her garden, do yoga, and forget things. Many things. She paused when she reached her rowboat and listened again. Rumbling thunder and pounding waves drowned out any other noise. She shone her flashlight across the water, running it over the waves and crisscrossing its beam over the places where the sharpest rocks jutted out like a leviathan’s mouth. There! A man clung to one of the rocks, completely soaked. Her light snagged his attention, and she saw his mouth open in a shout, though the waves made it difficult to hear. He was lucky she’d heard him earlier. He wouldn’t be able to hear her but she yelled anyway. I’m coming to get you! Hold on!

    Sandrine pulled a life vest out from under the bench and put it on. She quickly unwound the rope of her boat, piled it into the bow and climbed in, gripping her oars after stowing the flashlight into the gadget she’d rigged to hold it. It was a high-end flashlight with a powerful beam, and she valued it above almost any of her other possessions, except the photo, of course. Heaving the oars, she fought against wind and waves and worked her little dinghy toward the place where the man was marooned. Her own sweat mingled with the lashing rain on her face. Mentally reciting the Coast Guard’s mission statement, she directed the prow of the boat toward the man. She knew these rocks like the back of her hand, knew how the waves rolled this way and that, knew just where to lay into the waves and where to let the boat have its head. With powerful strokes, she maneuvered her boat to a spot just west of the rocks. With the boat heaving, she dropped anchor and then threw a preserver out to the man. More thunder cracked above them. The man grabbed the preserver and she pulled the rope, all but dragging him toward the rocking boat. With superhuman strength, she gripped him under the shoulders and with his help, yanked him on board. He heaved, spewing salt water, then coughed and sputtered. He mumbled something. Mindful of the boat’s instability, she leaned closer. What was that?

    His head lolled, but he repeated himself. You’re more beautiful than I imagined.

    Sandrine chuckled to herself. Something about cheating death made people say interesting things. She hauled up the anchor; it wasn’t very deep here, just choppy and perilous because of the shoals, and with more maneuvering, turned her dinghy around and headed back to shore. The man lay on the bottom, coughing up water and moaning a little. She thought she spotted a dark smear on his face, but the flashlight shone outward into the waves. She made it back to shore and hustled the boat up onto the beach. She secured it then went to the man. Hopefully he could walk. Her arms burned from the exertion. He was passed out in the bottom of her rowboat. She grabbed her light from its holster and scanned his body for more injuries. His arms and legs appeared to be bent at appropriate angles. She pocketed the light.

    Grabbing him under the shoulders again, she carefully pulled him out of the boat. He looked to have a head wound, the dark smear being blood that covered half his face. Can you hear me, mister? she asked. No response. She laid him on the beach with the rain beating down on them in a steady stream like waves from the sky. She put her head down to his chest and felt for his pulse at one of his wrists. He was still alive. He had kept it together long enough to hold onto that rock. It saved his life. But he was out cold now. She found the laceration on his scalp. It wasn’t bleeding freely, or at least, it would probably stop for good once they were out of the rain. She unfastened her orange poncho and lay it over him to protect his face from the downpour. Then she grabbed him under the arms and drug him as carefully as possible up the rocky path that led to her home.

    She didn’t have power, but at least it was dry inside. Another solid boom echoed around her head just as she kicked the door shut. She huffed and hefted; the man was no flyweight, and she dragged him to the rug in front of her fireplace. She made quick work to start one. Yes, it was summer, but New Brunswick could still grow chilly of a night. She kept dry wood and matches nearby all year round.

    With the fire going in the fireplace, she could check his pulse. Still steady and true. Trusting he would be fine for a few more minutes, she gathered candles and lanterns and had a warm glow suffusing her front room after no time at all. She changed into her dry clothes and gathered her first aid kit and some coveralls from the back of her cedar closet.

    Alright Charles, let’s get you sorted out, eh? She knelt by his head and further inspected his head wound. With clean cloths and water pumped from her tap, she cleared away the blood and some mud and sand. Fussing with the long gash that stretched from above his ear to his crown caused it to bleed again, but not in great amounts. Whistling a sea chanty, she wound a long strip of white gauze around his head, careful to lay his head gently onto the rug when finished. She noted long black eyelashes fanning downward, a strong nose, a few days growth of stubble on his jaw and a very fine looking mouth. She didn’t let her eyes linger there. From dragging him up the beach, the gravel pathway and then into the house, she gathered he weighed in the neighborhood of a hundred eighty pounds.

    Sweeping her poncho aside, she began to disrobe him. She removed his shoes first, thankful he hadn’t lost them in his wreck. She had some spare things tucked away but not shoes. Setting them by the fire, she removed his socks next, then trousers and button down shirt. An odd choice of outfit for sailing, she thought to herself in passing. She allowed his boxers to stay. They were a light fabric and should dry shortly in the warmth of her front room. Careful of his head, she removed his T-shirt once she had his arms out of the sleeves. With a clean towel, she dried him off the best she could. She noted a stark contrast of tanned skin from his neck up, and the pale skin of his chiseled chest. By now her knees were aching from being on the hard floor. She grimaced when she stood up, hearing the popping and feeling the shifting. There was a reason she wasn’t in the Coast Guard anymore.

    She retrieved the coveralls from the bench and began to dress him. She didn’t have much by way of men’s clothing up here in the sticks, so the coveralls would have to do until she could launder his clothes. Satisfied that he wouldn’t come down with hypothermia, she steeled herself for hefting his weight one last time onto her couch. She managed to pull him up by standing on the cushions and pulling his top half up, then placing his legs up next. She arranged a throw pillow under his head and covered him up with grandma’s homemade quilt.

    Sandrine stood with her hands on her hips and looked at her sleeping beauty a moment. His wet hair looked black, but was probably more of a dark brown. Very fine lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, even in sleep. It suggested either a lot of smiling or a lot of squinting into the sun. In repose, he was quite handsome. I bid you sweet fairy tale dreams, Charles, she whispered. His pants had yielded no wallet or ID of any kind. She named him after the author of her favorite fairy tales until he could wake up and introduce himself properly. She made up a pallet of blankets on the floor, just in

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