Stranger on the Shore

Stranger on the Shore

by

Carol Duncan Perry

STRANGER ON THE SHORE

Awards & Accolades

Romantic Times – 4 ½ stars!

"Outstanding... intriguing storyline... top-notch characterization."

~Romantic Times

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-268-0

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 1989, 2012, 2013 by Carol S. Duncan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Originally published in January, 1989 by Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Cover by Katheryn Duncan

eBook design by eBook Prep
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Thank You.

Chapter 1

"Cissie, Cissie! You gotta come quick. A man's about to catch ol' Scarface."

Sarah Wilson straightened from her position beneath the prickly blackberry bramble and cautiously waded through the shallows of Beaver Lake. Setting her berry bucket on the bank, she turned her attention to the boy. "What are you talking about Jimmy Joe? What man?"

"A big man," he answered breathlessly. Beneath his shock of red hair, the boy's face showed the intense distress of an seven-year-old whose summertime world was about to crash. "Down by the deep hole. He's trying to catch Scarface. Please, Cissie, you gotta stop him."

"Slow down a minute, Jimmy Joe. Fishermen have tried that hole before. No one's caught him yet." She tried to ignore the warning tingle in her stomach, keeping her voice calm and deliberate to reassure the boy.

"But this one's different," the boy insisted. "He's wearin' those fancy rubber boots and fishing with a skinny little rod. He puts his plug right on the edge of the hole every time." The boy's words tumbled out almost on top of each other.

Sarah repressed a smile. "Every time? Just how long were you watching him? I thought you were supposed to be helping me pick blackberries for Grandmother."

"Ah, Gee, Cissie, I got a half a bucket already and I didn't spy on him so long. But he always hits the same spot," Jimmy Joe insisted. "Five or six times. I saw him. He didn't miss once. I tell you, he's different."

Sarah tried to ignore another feeling of unease. "He's a fly fisherman," she told her young cousin, even as she fervently hoped fishing was his only reason for being here.
This is home—my sanctuary. I'm supposed to be safe here.

A glance at Jimmy Joe's face showed her he wasn't convinced. "Scarface is in no danger," she added. "That old bass is too canny to be tricked by a bit of fluff or feathers."

Jimmy Joe's breathing slowed. "You're sure? You're honest-to-gosh sure?"

"As sure as I can be." Sarah brushed back the bangs hanging damply across her forehead, ignoring the idea that her berry-stained hand would leave streaks of blue juice on her skin. Seeing the skepticism still on the boy's face, she reached out impulsively and tousled his hair.

"Tell you what. I'll walk that way with you and check him out for myself. Only we have to be quiet." She inspected her threadbare jeans, rolled almost to the knee, and her stained sneakers, still muddy and wet from wading in the lake. "I don't want to be seen. As Grandmother would say, 'I ain't dressed to meet strangers.'"

Ten minutes later, as they left the trail, she cautioned the boy not to speak. Voices, even whispers, carried easily along the lake. Quietly, she followed her young cousin into a sassafras thicket on the hillside overlooking the lake and leaned forward to catch her first glimpse of the stranger.

The sight of the man confirmed her fears. Jimmy Joe was right. He was big. And different. Sarah drew a shaky breath, an unexpected warmth curling through her even as she fought the impulse to run.

She was close enough to see the sun-bleached hair on his arms. And although she couldn't get an exact perspective on his height, she guessed he stood at about six feet. He was also both whipcord-lean and powerfully built.

Mesmerized by his lazy strength and unconscious grace, she watched the muscles ripple smoothly down his arm as he made an almost imperceptible flick of his wrist. His cast placed the fly exactly on the far edge of the pool.

Curiosity drew her forward until she felt the touch of Jimmy Joe's hand on her arm. She flushed and closed her eyes, willing a return to sanity.

The boy's eyes met hers, an I-told-you-so look on his face. Sarah nodded her head to reassure him. She wasn't worried, at least, not about that fish. Nevertheless, an icy knot settled in her stomach.

The stranger's wading boots were top-quality. His jaunty canvas fisherman's hat—the uniform of a fly-fishing aficionado—had bits of polar bear hair and pheasant feathers stuck into its band.

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut again, but his image refused to disappear. His face, all chiseled lines and planes, just missed being drop-dead handsome. Instead of softening his strong chin, a finger-deep cleft added to the impression of sculptured hardness. Tall and tanned, he could have stepped from the pages of any slick outdoor sporting magazine.