A butterfly symbolized acceptance of each new phase in life. To keep faith as everything around you changed.
In the periphery of her vision, she saw a bulldog making his way along the edge of the water. He was followed by a dark-haired stranger, whose alert gaze was fastened on Lucy.
The sight of him kindled instant unease. He had the strapping build of a man who earned his living outdoors. And something about him conveyed a sense of having been acquainted with life’s rougher edges. In other circumstances Lucy might have reacted differently, but she didn’t care to find herself alone on a beach with him.
She headed to the trail that led back up to the roadside turnout. A glance over her shoulder revealed that he was following her. That jolted her nerves into high gear. As she quickened her pace, the toe of her sneaker caught on the wind-scuffed basalt. Her weight pitched forward and she hit the ground, taking the impact on her hands.
Stunned, Lucy tried to collect herself. By the time she had struggled to her feet, the man had reached her. She spun to face him with a gasp, her disheveled brown hair partially obscuring her vision.
“Take it easy, will you?” he said curtly.
Lucy pushed the hair out of her eyes and regarded him warily. His eyes were a vivid shade of blue-green in his tanned face. He was striking, sexy, with a quality of rough-and-tumble attractiveness. Although he looked no more than thirty, his face was seasoned with the maturity of a man who’d done his share of living.
“You were following me,” Lucy said.
“I was not following you. This happens to be the only path back to the road, and I’d like to get back to my truck before the storm hits. So if you wouldn’t mind, either step it up or get out of the way.”
Lucy stood to the side and made a sardonic gesture for him to precede her. “Don’t let me hold you back.”
The stranger’s gaze went to her hand, where smears of blood had collected in the creases of her fingers. An edge of rock had cut into the top of her palm when she had fallen. He frowned. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in my truck.”
“It’s nothing,” Lucy said, although the cut was throbbing heavily. She blotted the welling blood on her jeans. “I’m fine.”
“Put pressure on it with your other hand,” the man said. His mouth tightened as he surveyed her. “I’ll walk up the trail with you.”
“Why?”
“In case you fall again.”
“I’m not going to fall.”
“It’s steep ground. And from what I’ve seen so far, you’re not exactly sure- footed.”
Lucy let out an incredulous laugh. “You are the most … I … I don’t even know you.”
“Sam Nolan. I live at False Bay.” He paused as an ominous peal of thunder rent the sky. “Let’s get moving.”
“Your people skills could use some work,” Lucy said. But she offered no objection as he accompanied her along the rough terrain.
“Keep up, Renfield,” Sam said to the bulldog, who followed with apoplectic snorts and wheezes.
“Do you live on the island full-time?” Lucy asked.
“Yes. Born and raised here. You?”
“I’ve been here a couple of years.” Darkly she added, “But I may be moving soon.”
“Changing jobs?”
“No.” Although Lucy was usually circumspect about her private life, some reckless impulse caused her to add, “My boyfriend just broke up with me.”
Sam gave her a quick sideways glance. “Today?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Sure it’s over? Maybe it was just an argument.”
“I’m sure,” Lucy said. “He’s been cheating on me.”
“Then good riddance.”
“You’re not going to defend him?” Lucy asked cynically.
“Why would I defend a guy like that?”
“Because he’s a man, and apparently men can’t help cheating. It’s the way you’re built. A biological imperative.”
“Like hell it is. A man doesn’t cheat. If you want to go after someone else, you break up first. No exceptions.” They continued along the path. Heavy raindrops tapped the ground with increasing profusion. “Almost there,” Sam said. “Is your hand still bleeding?”
Cautiously Lucy released the pressure she had been applying with her fingers, and glanced at the oozing cut. “It’s slowed.”
“If it doesn’t stop soon, you may need a stitch or two.” That caused her to stumble, and he reached for her elbow to steady her. Seeing that she had blanched, he asked, “You’ve never had stitches?”
“No, and I’d rather not start now. I have trypanophobia.”
“What’s that? Fear of needles?”
“Uh-huh. You think that’s silly, don’t you?”
He shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “I have a worse phobia.”
“What is it?”
“It’s strictly need-to-know.”
“Spiders?” she guessed. “Fear of heights? Fear of clowns?”
His smile widened to a brief, dazzling flash. “Not even close.”
They reached the turnout, and his hand dropped from her elbow. He went to the battered blue pickup, opened the door, and began to rummage inside. The bulldog lumbered to the side of the truck and sat, watching the proceedings through a mass of folds and furrows on his face.
Lucy waited nearby, watching Sam discreetly. His body was strong and lean beneath the worn bleached cotton of his T-shirt, jeans hanging slightly loose from his hips. There was a particular look about men from this region, a kind of bone-deep toughness. The Pacific Northwest had been populated by explorers, pioneers, and soldiers who had never known when a supply ship was coming. They had survived on what they could get from the ocean and mountains. Only a particular amalgam of hardness and humor could enable a man to survive starvation, cold, disease, enemy attacks, and periods of near-fatal boredom. You could still see it in their descendants, men who lived by nature’s rules first and society’s rules second.
“You have to tell me,” Lucy said. “You can’t just say you have a worse phobia than mine and then leave me hanging.”
He pulled out a white plastic kit with a red cross on it. Taking an antiseptic wipe from the kit, he used his teeth to tear the packet open. “Give me your hand,” he said. She hesitated before complying. The gentle grip of his hand was electrifying, eliciting a sharp awareness of the heat and strength of the male body so close to hers. Lucy’s breath caught as she stared into those intense blue eyes. Some men just had it, that something extra that could knock you flat if you let it.
“This is going to sting,” he said as he began to clean the cut with gentle
