Back behind the wheel, he wadded up his empty brown bag, downed the last swig of his soda, and stuck the key in the ignition.
Some yard work, a trip to Grace Christian with all the boxes of quilting fabric he’d stacked in the kitchen, and a meeting with the realtor to discuss putting Skip’s house on the market would round out his afternoon.
And tonight, maybe he’d treat himself to a movie in Bandon or Coos Bay. After more than two weeks without a break, he was ready for some R & R.
As he approached Marci’s bungalow, which was tucked into a curve on the winding road that led to the headland, he frowned.
Her bright blue Civic hadn’t been parked in the gravel drive when he’d passed by forty-five minutes ago. Nor had he expected it to be. Hadn’t she told him the day of Skip’s service that she often spent part of Saturday at the Herald?
It was past noon now, though. She might have clocked out for the weekend.
Just because she was home didn’t mean they had to cross paths, however. She was probably inside, doing laundry or cleaning the house or dealing with some other typical Saturday chore. He’d be willing to bet she wasn’t the outdoorsy type who might be puttering around in the . . .
Whoops.
She came around the side of the house, a ladder hooked over her shoulder—and he pressed on the brake.
A futile attempt to avoid detection if ever there was one.
There was only one driving route down from Pelican Point—and it went right past her house.
Ben sighed.
Too bad he hadn’t followed his first instinct an hour ago and hiked up.
As it was, he’d have to tool on by. If she noticed him, he could offer a casual wave and keep going.
Armed with that plan, he picked up speed again while she propped the ladder against the side of the house, pulled on a pair of gloves, and climbed up.
All the way to the top.
The very top.
His foot shifted back to the brake.
Was the woman crazy?
Climbing that high up a ladder was dangerous.
With one hand, she gripped the edge of the gutter, reached up into it with the other, and removed a handful of . . . stuff.
She let the glob of nature’s castoffs fall to the ground and repeated the process.
He slowed the truck to a crawl.
After lobbing two more handfuls of gunk onto the grass, she descended the ladder, repositioned it, and climbed back up.
It teetered, and his heart lurched as she grabbed the edge of the gutter to steady herself.
Good grief.
The woman needed someone to save her from herself.
Since the closest neighbor was out of sight around the next bend in the road, and there was minimal car traffic on this winding, dead-end route, it appeared he was elected.
Expelling a resigned breath, he parked on the shoulder and slid out from behind the wheel.
Skip’s truck wasn’t the quietest-running vehicle he’d ever driven, and he was only a couple hundred feet from Marci, but she didn’t acknowledge his presence in any way.
Odd.
Unless she was concentrating so hard on her task she was oblivious to her surroundings.
The best strategy might be to move close enough to assist if necessary and wait until she descended before announcing his presence. Startling her would only exacerbate an already dangerous situation.
As he approached the ladder, however, a scampering squirrel suddenly appeared around the corner of the house—with Annabelle in hot pursuit. Both of the critters barreled straight toward him.
Ben jolted to a stop.
A second later, Marci noticed the racing duo. She jerked . . . tottered . . . clutched the edge of the guttering . . . and stabilized.
Until she spotted him.
Eyes widening, she jerked again . . . and the guttering wobbled.
As Ben vaulted into a full-out sprint, the metal channel separated from the roof and Marci pitched sideways.
He dove for her.
Absorbed her weight.
Fell to the grass in a tangle of arms, legs—and guttering.
Once his lungs kicked back in, he turned his head . . . and found a pair of wide green eyes less than twelve inches from his own.
And for just a moment, he got lost in them.
Totally.
How had he never noticed the flecks of gold in those jade irises? Or the long sweep of her thick lashes? Or the fine sprinkling of freckles across her nose? Or the . . .
“Oomph.” With a sudden shove, Marci extricated herself and scooted back on the grass, one earbud dangling. “What were you trying to do, make me fall and break my neck?”
The scorching glare she lasered at him would ignite a fire better than a stack of dry kindling . . . but had there also been an infinitesimal flare of panic? Like she was afraid—of him?
No.
He must be mistaken.
They might not be best buds, but she ought to know there was nothing to fear from him except a temporary hike in blood pressure thanks to their relentless sparring.
He sat up. “You were standing on the top rung of a ladder!” Hiding behind righteous indignation would buy him a few seconds to get a grip on the unsettling emotions their close encounter had stirred up. “Nobody with any sense does that!”
“They do when they have clogged gutters. Why did you sneak up on me, anyway?”
“I didn’t sneak. How was I supposed to know you’d tuned out the world?” He waved at the hanging earbud. “And I had nothing to do with the cat-and-squirrel chase.”
With one more withering look, she scrambled to her feet.
But she left some blood behind.
Ben stared at the bright red splashes staining the grass a few inches away and sprang up, doing a head-to-toe inspection as he spoke. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?” She gave a slow blink.
“You’re bleeding.” He motioned to the grass and closed the distance between them, homing in on a dark-edged tear in the arm of her purple sweatshirt. “There.” He took her cold hand. “Let me see.”
Before she could protest, he gently peeled back the sleeve to reveal a three-inch-long gash on her
