Cheered by that thought, he continued toward the woods. Now he could hear the soft and steady heartbeat of the sea, the careless call of birds, the light rustling of wind through naked branches. He shook his head as he marched into the trees, and glanced around with the suspicious condescension of a confirmed urbanite for the solitude of nature. Why anyone would choose to live in such a place was beyond him.

Yet Helen Remington had done so.

She’d given up great wealth, a privileged lifestyle, a beautiful home, and a gilded social standing—and for what? To cook for strangers, to live on a rocky lump of land, and one day—he imagined—to raise a brood of squalling brats.

Stupid bitch.

His hands clenched and unclenched as he walked. Beneath his feet a dirty fog began to churn, to boil over his shoes. He quickened his pace, nearly running now, though the ground was slick and patched with ice. His breath came out in visible streams.

Ungrateful whore.

She had to be punished. To be hurt. She and all the others had to pay, would pay for everything they’d

done. They would die. And if they dared challenge his power, dared challenge his rights, they would die in agony.

The fog ate along the ground and spilled at the edges of a circle that pulsed with a soft white glow. His lips peeled back, and a feral growl sounded deep in his throat.

He lunged at the ring—and was repelled. Light rose from the circle, a thin, sparkling curtain of gold. In fury, he threw himself against it, time and time again. It burned, white fire scorching his skin, smoking his clothing.

As rage devoured him, what was inside the body of Jonathan Q. Harding threw itself on the ground, howling and cursing the light.

Nell made up two orders of the day’s lunch special. She hummed while she worked and toyed with adjustments to the menu for the wedding she was catering at the end of the month. Business was good. Sisters Catering had found its feet, and even in the slow winter months kept her busy and content. But not so much so that she hadn’t eked out time to work on a proposal for Mia. A cooking club in Café Book and an expanded menu were both very doable. Once she had the details more refined, she would present the idea to Mia—businesswoman to businesswoman. After she served the orders, she glanced at the time. Another half hour and Peg would relieve her. She had a dozen errands to run and two appointments to discuss other catering jobs. She’d have to move fast, she thought, to get everything done in time to put dinner together. The simple chaos of housewifely chores and business obligations piled together in overlapping layers made her happy.

But there were serious issues to be faced, she couldn’t deny it. Dinner that night wasn’t just a social function. She understood Mac’s concern, and the need to focus her energies on what was to come. But she had already faced the worst and survived.

Whatever had to be done to protect who and what she loved would be done. She strolled out to clear a table in the café, pocketed her tip. Tip money went in a special jar and was considered her splurge money. Paychecks were for expenses, catering profits would be plowed back into the business. But tip money was for fun. It jingled cheerfully in her pocket as she turned to carry the plates and bowls back to the kitchen.

She stopped short, then rushed forward when she saw Harding standing by the counter staring blankly at the chalkboard menu.

“Mr. Harding, what happened? Are you all right?”

He stared at her, through her.

“You should sit down.” Quickly, she put the dishes on the counter, took his arm. She led him around the counter and back into the kitchen. He sank into the chair she pulled out for him, and she rushed to the sink to get a glass of water.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He took the glass gratefully, gulped down the cool water. His throat felt scorched and raw, as though it had been scored with hot needles.

“I’m going to fix you some tea, and some chicken soup.”

He simply nodded, staring down at his hands. The nails were full of grit, as if he’d clawed at dirt. The knuckles were abraded, the palms scraped.

He saw that his trousers were stained with dirt, his shoes filthy. Bits of twig and briar clung to his sweater.

It embarrassed him, a fastidious man, to find himself in such disarray. “Might I . . . wash my hands?”

“Yes, of course.” Nell tossed a worried look over her shoulder. A red streak, like sunburn, covered half his face. It looked vicious, painful and frightening.

She led him to the rest room, waited for him outside the door, and then walked him back to the kitchen. She ladled the soup, brewed the tea while he stood as if in a trance.

“Mr. Harding.” She spoke gently now, touching his shoulder. “Please sit down. You’re not well.”

“No, I . . .” He felt vaguely nauseous. “I must have fallen.” He blinked rapidly. Why couldn’t he remember ? He’d taken a walk in the woods on a bright winter afternoon. And could remember nothing.

He let her tend him the way the very young or the very old allow themselves to be tended. He spooned up the warm, soothing soup, and it comforted his aching throat and uneasy stomach. He drank her herbal tea sweetened with a generous dollop of honey.

And he basked in the sympathetic silence she gave him.

“I must have fallen,” he said again. “I haven’t been feeling quite well lately.”

The scents of the kitchen were so appealing, her movements as she took and filled more orders so graceful and efficient, that his anxiety receded.

He remembered his research on her, and the admiration he’d felt when he’d followed her path across the country. He would write a very good story—book—about her, he thought. One that spoke of courage and triumph.

Ungrateful whore. The words echoed dimly in his head and made him tremble. Nell studied him with concern. “You should go to the clinic.”

He shook his head. “I prefer seeing my own doctor. I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Todd. Your kindness.”

“I have something for that burn.”

“Burn?”

“Just a minute.” She moved out of the kitchen again, spoke to Peg, who’d just come on for her shift. When she came back in, Nell opened a cabinet and took out a slim green bottle.

“It’s mostly aloe,” she told him briskly. “It’ll help.”

He reached a hand to his face, snatched it away again. “I must have . . . the sun’s deceptive,” he managed. “Mrs. Todd, I should tell you I came to the island for the specific purpose of speaking to you.”