Mirroring the rescue technique he’d seen a friend use, Ben eased the broom away from the tree. With its front claws locked into the fleece, the cat’s back claws lost their grip on the tree. As the distance between tree and broom widened, it scrabbled to snag the hoodie with all four claws.
The instant the writhing cat latched onto the broom, Ben slid the handle down through his fingers and gripped the kitty gently by the scruff of its neck. Dropping the broom, he supported the cat in the crook of his arm while descending the ladder one careful rung at a time.
Back on firm ground, he turned—only to be blinded by a piercing beam of light.
“What the . . .” He released the cat’s scruff and lifted his hand to shade his eyes.
Apparently the cat didn’t like the intense light any better than he did. With a banshee-like screech, it swiped a claw down his forearm, twisted free, leapt to the ground, and vanished into the darkness.
“Keep your hands where I can see them while we have a little talk. I’m Officer Jim Gleason with the Hope Harbor Police Department.”
The disembodied voice came from the blackness behind the light.
Squinting against the glare, Ben watched a rivulet of blood run down his arm from the claw gouge as the theme song from The Twilight Zone began to play in the recesses of his mind.
How could so much go so wrong so fast?
From the moment the call had come in with the bad news about Skip, he’d known this trip would be difficult—but that word didn’t begin to describe his first eight hours in Hope Harbor.
And if inheriting a lighthouse and being mauled by a cat weren’t bad enough, now he’d attracted the attention of the police.
This visit was beginning to border on surreal.
Even worse, it was going downhill fast.
“His story checks out, Marci. We can cite him for trespassing if you want, but . . .” Officer Gleason lifted one shoulder.
He didn’t have to finish the sentence for her to know what he was thinking.
But it would be pretty low to punish a man who’s come to town to bury his grandfather and who just got mauled trying to do a kind deed.
From the shadows inside the front door where she’d tucked herself, Marci peeked out at the tall, lean intruder.
He was standing ramrod straight at the edges of the light cast by the lanterns on either side of her front door, a shredded hoodie clutched in his hands. His dark hair was beginning to glisten from the heavy mist descending on Pelican Point, and while his features were dim, his pallor was impossible to miss.
The man’s face was as white—and tense—as her own had been when she’d glanced in the mirror after throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt while waiting for the police to arrive.
He did not look like a troublemaker.
He looked like someone who’d found himself caught in a nightmare.
“So what’ll it be, Marci?” The law officer flipped up the collar of his jacket as the mist intensified.
She hesitated. If the story the man had told Jim Gleason was true, he was more a cat rescuer than a cat burglar.
“You’re certain he’s legit?”
“I ran his ID, and Eric verified that the two of them met this afternoon. He also has a fresh scratch. I only caught a quick glimpse of the cat before it zipped into the darkness, but I heard it screech. The evidence supports his story.”
Yes, it did. Annabelle got stuck in the same tree every few days. She’d rescued the feline herself after several similar incidents until she’d realized Mrs. Schroeder’s pet was perfectly capable of getting down herself, despite her yowls for assistance.
But the stranger in her yard didn’t know that—and how could she punish a good Samaritan?
“Okay. Let it go. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother at all. That’s what we’re here for.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll let him know he’s off the hook.”
The officer started to turn away, but Marci stopped him with a touch on his arm. “Did he say why he was up here at this hour?”
“Yep. He’s fighting a serious case of jet lag and couldn’t sleep, so he went for a walk. He flew in today from the Middle East. Can you imagine how many time zones he must have crossed?”
She did the math.
Middle East.
Grandfather’s funeral.
Compassion for an injured animal.
Gaze fixed on the man, who was keeping his distance, Marci leaned closer to Jim and lowered her voice. “Is that Ned Garrison’s grandson?”
“None other.”
Her stomach bottomed out.
She’d called the cops on the army surgeon Ned had loved to brag about. The one who’d won medals for heroism and spent years near the front lines patching America’s fighting men and women back together.
Major Ben Garrison deserved far better than the homecoming she’d given him.
“I, uh, think I owe him an apology.”
Jim gave the man a dubious once-over. “You might want to wait on that. I think he’s had about all he can take today—and he’ll be soaked if he stands out here much longer. I’m going to run him back to Ned’s house.”
Marci bit her lower lip. Jim was probably right about the timing—but if she didn’t try to make some initial amends she wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight.
“I won’t delay him long.” She edged past the police officer. “Give me one minute.”
The shadowy figure at the edge of the light stiffened as she approached, and her step faltered.
Just do it, Marci. Say you’re sorry and get it off your conscience.
Right.
She straightened her shoulders and picked up her pace, stopping a few feet from the man. “I want to apologize for the hassle I caused you. I live alone, and I’m not used to callers at this hour. Officer Gleason explained what happened.”
“You’re not going to file a complaint?”
“No.”
“That’s one bright spot in this day, anyway.”
Weariness—and a hint of sarcasm—scored his words.
Jim’s assessment had been correct. The man wasn’t in
