Tucking the paperwork the man had given him under his jacket, he hit the remote and jogged toward his rental car.
Fifteen seconds later, he put the key in the ignition. Tapped the wheel.
Should he drive up to Pelican Point and pay Skip’s folly a quick visit, or save that disagreeable task for later?
No contest.
Later.
He was fading fast—and the lighthouse wasn’t going anywhere.
Unfortunately.
After checking for traffic, he pulled onto Dockside Drive. Maybe, as with the prophets of old, a solution to his dilemma would come to him in a dream.
And if it didn’t?
He was going to be beating the bushes to find a buyer for his unexpected—and unwanted—legacy.
At the sudden peal of her doorbell, Marci Weber’s fingers tightened on the tube of toothpaste, sending a minty-striped squirt arcing toward the mirror over her bathroom sink.
Who could be on her front porch at this hour of the night? No one in Hope Harbor came calling after eight o’clock, let alone ten-fifteen.
Pulse accelerating, she dropped the tube onto the vanity, ignoring the sinuous line of goo draped over her faucet and coiled in her sink.
Rubbing her palms down her sleep shirt, she crept into the hall, sidled up to the window in her dark bedroom, and peered down into the night.
Drat.
The tiny arched roof over her small front porch hid the caller from her sight, despite the dusk-to-dawn lights flanking the front door.
And the notion of going downstairs to get a better view from one of the front windows goosed the speed of the blender in her stomach from stir to puree.
No surprise there, given her history.
The bell pealed again, jolting her into action. She scurried over to the nightstand, snatched her pepper gel out of the drawer, and yanked her cell from the charger. Finger poised to tap in 911, she tiptoed back to the window, heart banging against her ribs.
Breathe, Marci. This is Hope Harbor. Bad stuff rarely happens here. They caught that teenage vandal who was getting his jollies destroying other people’s property, and there haven’t been any serious incidents since. You’re overreacting.
True.
Nevertheless, she kept a tight grip on the phone while she waited for her visitor to vacate the porch and walk away.
But if he or she didn’t leave . . . if her uninvited caller did have malice in mind . . . she had a first-rate alarm system that was already armed for the night, the Hope Harbor police would be here in minutes, and a faceful of pepper gel would stop anyone in their tracks.
She’d be fine.
Still . . . why couldn’t Great-Aunt Edith have chosen to live in the middle of town rather than on the fringes? The Pelican Point cottage might be charming, but the old saying was true.
There was safety in numbers.
If no one answered the door, what was he supposed to do about the stuck cat?
Ben planted his fists on his hips and frowned. There were lights on upstairs. Someone must be home.
On the other hand, it was kind of late. Not by his standards, perhaps, but Hope Harbor tended to shut down by ten o’clock on weeknights, as far as he could recall. He might have caught the owner preparing for bed.
The very thing he should be doing instead of prowling around in the dark.
Except he was too wired and wide awake for sleep, thanks to the four hours he’d spent comatose in Skip’s guest room after meeting with the attorney. Much as he’d needed to rack out, he should have forced himself to wait until a normal bedtime. Now his body clock was more out of whack than ever.
The hike up the rocky path to the lighthouse, with only a peekaboo moon and flashlight to guide him, had dispelled some of his restless energy, but if he’d known a stuck cat was waiting for him on the winding Pelican Point road, he’d have returned to town on the more dangerous cliff path.
Giving up on the occupants of the Cape Cod–style cottage, Ben expelled an annoyed breath and stepped off the porch.
A plaintive meow greeted him as he circled around the house to the adjacent tree, and he aimed his flashlight at the amber-eyed feline.
If the cat didn’t have a bleeding paw, he’d walk away. It might be easier for kitties to climb up trees than descend, but hunger motivated most of them to return to solid ground on their own.
Unless they were hurt or scared.
And the cowering cat above him was both.
Ben eyed the limb-free lower trunk of the hardwood tree. No way could he climb that. Besides, an encroaching human might further freak out the cat.
He could rouse the volunteer fire department—but asking them to rescue a kitty at this hour wouldn’t endear him to the locals.
Stymied, Ben surveyed the yard. A weathered garden shed off to the side might hold some useful implement.
He strode over to the structure and tested the door. Open.
Aiming the flashlight inside, he poked his head in and swept the beam over the contents, taking a fast inventory. Six-foot ladder. Broom. Twine.
Those would work.
And if the occupants of the house didn’t like him borrowing their stuff? Tough. They’d surely heard the cat’s pitiful meows of distress. If they didn’t want to deal with the little critter, they should have called someone for assistance instead of letting a helpless creature suffer.
Mouth tightening, he stripped off his knit hoodie, wrapped it around the bristles of the broom, and secured it with the twine. Ladder hooked over his shoulder, he returned to the tree.
“Hang in, kitty. We’ll get you down and fix that hurt paw.” He used his most soothing tone as he set the ladder against the tree. The one he reserved for the hurting, frightened civilian children he’d treated, casualties of a vicious war that spared no one, who’d understood only his inflection, not his language.
After testing the ladder, he ascended to the second-highest rung, lifted the broom above his head, and nudged the cat
