Lakeview Protector

“Go on inside and lock the doors.
You never know who could
be lurking around here.”

“You’re very good at giving me new things to worry about,” Jasmine said.

Eli gave her a smile. “I’m also very good at keeping people safe.”

“Sarah and I don’t need you to keep us safe. We’re fine on our own.”

“Are you?” He leaned in close to stare into her eyes.

She wanted to move away, but she was frozen in place, fascinated by this strong, handsome man.

“Yes, we are. We’ve both been on our own for a while and managed just fine.”

“That was then. This is now. There’s real trouble here, Jasmine. If you’re not careful, it will find you.”

His words chilled her to the core, but she didn’t want to let him know how much, or just how desperately she wished she did have someone to count on besides herself and her ailing mother-in-law. “If it does, I’ll deal with it.”

“And I’ll be right here to help you out.”

MILLS & BOON

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SHIRLEE McCOY

has always loved making up stories. As a child, she daydreamed elaborate tales in which she was the heroine—gutsy, strong and invincible. Though she soon grew out of her superhero fantasies, her love for storytelling never diminished. She knew early that she wanted to write inspirational fiction, and she began writing her first novel when she was a teenager. Still, it wasn’t until her third son was born that she truly began pursuing her dream of being published. Three years later she sold her first book. Now a busy mother of four, Shirlee is a homeschool mom by day and an inspirational author by night. She and her husband and children live in Maryland and share their house with a dog and a guinea pig. You can visit her Web site at www.shirleemccoy.com.

Lakeview
Protector
Shirlee McCoy

“Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed,” says the LORD, who has compassion on you.

—Isaiah 54:10

To Aunt Jessica, who knows more than most

what it means to grieve and go on.

Contents

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

ONE

Frozen rain fell from steel-gray clouds, pinging off the blacktop and pattering into Smith Mountain Lake. Aside from that the day was silent, the summer bustle of guests replaced by winter solitude. Jasmine Hart was glad. People brought cash, but they also brought baggage, and she wasn’t talking the kind that held clothes. Marital strife, teens with secrets, men and women hiding from the world and from their problems. She’d dealt with them all during her time at Lakeview Retreat, but that had been years ago.

Now she had her own baggage, her own secrets, her own reasons to hide, and dealing with people wasn’t something she wanted to do. It seemed, though, that she had no choice in the matter. One phone call in the middle of the night, one brief conversation with her mother-in-law’s best friend and Jasmine had been on a plane and flying from New Hampshire to Lakeview, Virginia. Three days later, she was caring for her mother-in-law and readying the neglected retreat for the first renter it had had in seventeen months.

Which just went to show how quickly things could change.

“Jazz! Hey, Jazz!” Karen Morris hurried across the slippery pavement, her round cheeks flushed, her brown eyes filled with youthful exuberance. A college student who worked part-time at Lakeview Retreat, Karen had enthusiasm and peppiness to spare. Jasmine tried hard not to hold that against her.

“What’s up?”

“Ms. Sarah. She’s awake and asking if the cabin is ready yet.”

“Tell her I’ll have it ready before our guest arrives. Then you’d better head home. The weather doesn’t look like it’s going to clear.”

“Ms. Sarah said I should give you a hand cleaning the cabin.” Even as she said it, Karen’s gaze was darting toward the rusty Impala she’d driven to work that morning.

“She probably didn’t know how bad the weather was getting.”

“Maybe not, but I can’t afford to get fired from this job.” Karen glanced at the car again. Obviously, the thought of leaving appealed to her. Jasmine couldn’t blame her. The once-bustling retreat had become a lonely place, haunted by memories and silence. Or maybe that was only Jasmine’s perception of it. Maybe to others it was the same peaceful lakeside resort it had always been.

She forced her maudlin thoughts away, refocusing on Karen. “Sarah isn’t going to fire you for going home when the weather is like this.”

“I guess you’re right. And it is getting slippery out here. If you need me to come this weekend, I can. It might be good to have an extra set of hands since you’ve got a renter now.” It might be, but there wasn’t money for it. At least not in Sarah’s coffers. Since Jasmine’s mother-in-law didn’t believe in taking handouts, even from family, that was the only way the extra help could be paid for.

“I’ll give you a call if I need you. Now hurry up and tell Sarah you’re leaving. I don’t want you out on the roads when it’s this slippery.” She forced a smile, waving Karen back toward the house, her stomach churning with anxiety and frustration. Things were bad. Worse than she ever could have imagined when she’d agreed to come help Sarah recover from surgery. Payback for staying away so long? Probably. And probably Jasmine deserved it.

Icy wind sliced through her thick sweatshirt and heavy parka, stealing her breath and reminding her of home. New Hampshire would have snow this week. Here in Lakeview, there’d be frozen rain, drizzle, thick clouds. The lake. Memories of Christmases and laughter. The girls dancing around the living room of Sarah’s modest home. John. Solid. Dependable. All three frozen in time, suspended in her mind as they had been, not as they might have become.

Three years tomorrow.

Maybe she shouldn’t keep track.

She forced the thoughts and images from her mind, refusing to dwell on the past or to contemplate the empty future. One moment at a time. One day at a time. That was the only way she’d survive.

The first of Sarah’s five guest cabins was just up ahead. Small, cozy, great view of Smith Mountain Lake, it was the perfect place for solitude and peace. It wasn’t what the renter had wanted though. He’d done his research online and called with a particular rental in mind. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, set on a hill overlooking the lake, Meadow Lark cabin had always been reserved for large families. In years past, a single-occupant renter would have taken a smaller cabin or looked for a rental somewhere else. Things were different now. Sarah couldn’t afford to turn business away, and Eli Jennings was welcome to Meadow Lark.

Wind buffeted the cabin, shaking windows and shutters as Jasmine stepped inside. January wasn’t kind. It brought gray clouds. Cold weather. Loneliness. Death. Maybe Jazz was in the minority thinking that, but she doubted it. There had to be plenty of other people who’d just as soon skip the month.

She pulled linens from the closet, inhaled staleness and age. They’d have to be washed. She’d do the curtains in the bedroom while she was at it. No sense doing a partial job. It was an adage her mother had lived by. One she’d taught Jazz. Lately, though, doing nothing seemed preferable to doing anything at all.

Three years. Ticking by. One slow moment at a time. Drifting through her fingers like air. Gone.

And now she was back where it had all begun. Back where she’d met John, where he’d proposed, where they’d spent every vacation for thirteen years, where the girls had laughed and giggled, learned to fish, to boat, to dance in the moonlight and in the sun.

Jazz blinked back tears and shoved the linens into the small washing machine, started the water and realized too late that she didn’t have detergent with her.

“Wonderful. Now I’ve got to go back to the house.” Back to the modest rancher and its memory-filled rooms. Back to Sarah and her broken hip and strangely blank eyes. As much as the retreat had changed, Sarah had changed more, fading, shrinking, becoming a shadow of the vibrant woman she’d been.

Jazz shoved the cabin’s door open with more force than necessary, stepping out onto the covered front porch and nearly walking into a tall, broad-shouldered he-man. Dark blond hair cropped short, hazel eyes surrounded by lashes any woman would be proud of, a scowl that sharpened the hard edges of his jaw and cheekbones.

Handsome.

She shoved the thought away as quickly as it came. Noticing men and what they looked like felt too much like a betrayal. “Can I help you?”

“That depends.” He had a deep Southern drawl that was much warmer than his expression.

“On?”

“On whether or not you’re Jasmine Hart.”

“That depends.” She leaned back against the door.

His scowl deepened. “On?”

“On who wants to know.”

A tiny smile flicked across his hard features before it disappeared. “Eli Jennings. I’ve got reservations.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Jennings. I’m glad you made it here with the weather being so bad, but, as I told you last night, check-in is at three.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind letting me check in early. Mrs. Hart down at the main house didn’t seem to think you would.”

“Sarah would be right on most occasions, but the cabin hasn’t been used in a while. It needs to be aired out and cleaned. I’ll need time to do it.”

“I’ll take care of it.” The finality in his tone refused any further argument, and Jasmine shrugged.

“You’re welcome to move your stuff in now, then.”

“Glad to hear it.” There went the tiny smile again, a subtle tilting of his lips that softened his hard features, but didn’t ease the coldness in his eyes.

He’d said he was a writer when he’d called the night before, but his broad, muscled frame and taut expression belonged on a military man, a cop. A career criminal. Whatever he was, whoever he was, that was his business. As long as he paid the rent on time, she’d leave Eli Jennings and his secrets alone. “I’ve started the linens and curtains. I’m just running down to the house to get detergent.”

“I’ve got everything I need in my truck.”

Jazz pushed away from the door. “Here’s the key then. You’ve got a phone line. Dial-up Internet access. Television with cable. Nothing fancy.”

“If I wanted fancy I’d be at the Hilton.” His smile took the sting out of the words and stole the breath from Jasmine’s lungs. Not a tiny smile this time. A full-blown, melt-a-woman’s-heart smile. No man should have a smile that warm, that decadent.

She blinked, took a step away. It was definitely time to leave.

She strode toward the porch steps, forgetting the icy rain until her foot slipped and she fell backward.

Hard hands wrapped around her waist, jerking her upright, reminding her of what a man’s touch was like—strong, steady, sure.

“Better watch your step, ma’am. The ice is making things treacherous.”

Ma’am? She was thirty-three. Not ninety. And unless she missed her guess, Jennings was a few years older. “Jazz is fine. Or Jasmine.”

His cold hazel eyes raked her from the tip of her scuffed boots to the top of the knit cap she wore. “Jasmine.”

Warm honey. Sweet tea. Deep South manners wrapped in six foot two of attitude and trouble.

Jazz looked away, disconcerted, guilty and angry at herself for being both. “If you need anything, call the house. The number’s near the phone.”

“Will do.”

“If you decide to extend your stay another month, rent is due on the first. You leave before the month is up, there’s no refund.”

“So you told me last night.”

“Just making sure we’re clear, Mr. Jennings.”

“Eli. And we’re very clear.” He smiled again, the fine lines near his eyes deepening, his muted hazel gaze now forest-green.

Definitely handsome.

Definitely trouble.

Definitely someone Jazz should stay far away from.

She took her time retreating down the stairs, absolutely sure she didn’t want Eli’s hands on her waist again. It was bad enough that she could sense his steady gaze following her as she maneuvered the slippery path that led to the gravel drive. She didn’t need to feel the warmth of his fingers pressing into her sides.

A large SUV was parked on the driveway, and Jazz bypassed it, noticing the details even as she told herself they weren’t important. Black tinted windows made it impossible to see inside. Was he hiding something in there? A pet? A person? Something else? If he hadn’t been watching, she’d have given in to curiosity and peeked in the front window.

She sidled around the car, her feet slipping out from under her again. She slid forward, banging into the door of the SUV and grabbing on to the hood to steady herself.

“Seems like you’re having a little trouble with the ice. Maybe I should give you a ride back to your house.” Eli spoke close to her ear, his voice so unexpected, Jazz’s heart leaped to her throat.

She straightened, forcing herself to meet his gaze, and ignoring the quick flutter of her stomach as she did so. “Thanks for the offer, but I can manage.”

“Suit yourself.” He moved past, popped open the back door of the SUV and pulled out two brown paper bags. A box of Froot Loops peeked out of the top of one. It was almost enough to distract Jazz from the rifle case lying across the backseat.

Almost.

She didn’t like firearms of any kind, and was pretty sure she didn’t like the idea of her new renter having one in the cabin. “Planning to do some hunting?”

He followed the direction of her gaze, and flashed straight white teeth. “My dad is the hunter in the family. I’ve got camera equipment in there.”

“Strange place to store camera equipment.”

“You should see where I keep the rifle.”

“Should I ask?”

“Not unless you really want to know.” He threw another smile in her direction and started back up to the house, leaving Jazz to wonder if he was serious or kidding.

That was the trouble with keeping people at a distance. You stopped picking up subtle clues about their thoughts and feelings, about their truthfulness or lack thereof. That wasn’t a problem when you chose to hide away from life. It became one when you stepped back out into the world.

Or when you were yanked kicking and screaming back into it. Which was pretty much how Jazz’s reemergence had happened.

She shook her head, trudging back toward the rancher. Sarah would be waiting for breakfast, probably sitting in the kitchen, her too-thin fingers wrapped around a book, her soft-eyed gaze eating up the fairy-tale story written on its pages. No doubt she’d glance up when Jazz walked in, smile that easy smile of hers that was so much like John’s, ask what Jazz thought of their new renter.

Act as if no more than time had passed between Jazz and herself even though they both knew that the truth was much darker and uglier than that. Three years since Jazz had last set foot on Lakeview Retreat land. She’d grieved during that time. Alone. Concerned only for herself. While Sarah had struggled on her own.

Guilt had a taste. It was bitter and hot. Jazz swallowed it down as she stepped into Sarah’s house.

TWO

Like everything in Jazz’s life, the rancher seemed to have faded since she’d lost her husband and daughters. She couldn’t decide if her pain-shadowed perception was to blame or if the once-cheerful living room really had grown dim and dreary. Bright blues and crisp whites seemed muted and dingy, the once-pristine area now cluttered with magazines and books.

Jazz picked up a few as she stepped through the room, sliding them back into place on the bookshelves that lined one wall, barely glancing at titles or photographs. She knew what they were. Celebrity rags, romance novels, nothing academic. None of the autobiographies or biographies Sarah had once loved reading. Jazz couldn’t blame her mother-in-law for burying herself in romanticized tales. If she could have, she would have done the same. But for Jazz there was no comfort in fantasy and fairy tale, only the grim reality of life lived without those she loved.

“Is that you, Jasmine?” Sarah called out, a hint of anxiety coloring her words. Jazz wanted to ignore it, but ignoring the paranoia that her mother-in-law seemed to suffer from was nearly impossible. Over the past three days, Jazz had waged constant battle against Sarah’s fears.

“Who else would it be?” She hurried into the kitchen, a smile firmly in place.

“You never know, dear. You just never know.” Sarah’s answering smile was exactly as Jazz had known it would be—John, Maddie, Megan, all rolled into one, squeezing Jazz’s lungs and stealing her breath.

“Well, this time, you do. It’s me. Back to make you breakfast.”

“Coffee will be fine.”

“You need more than that, Sarah. How about some eggs? Bacon? Pan-fried potatoes?”

“Coffee.” Sarah’s tone brooked no argument, her fingers tapping against the paperback book that sat in front of her on the table, her shoulders hunched and bowed. Too thin, too frail.

This time it was Jazz’s heart that clenched. “You have to eat, Sarah.”

“Do I?” Sarah smiled again, but the look in her eyes was flat and dead, as if modern medicine had trapped a soul that should have already departed.

Jazz reached for her hand, squeezing. “You can’t heal if you don’t eat. How about just a piece of toast?”

It looked as if Sarah would refuse, the tilt to her chin, the tightness of her pale lips reminding Jazz of other times—John and Sarah equally matched in stubborn determination and standing on opposite sides of an issue, staring each other down, neither willing to concede. In the end they’d always come together again, laughing about their stubbornness, teasing each other in the timeless mother-son dance of affection.

Without John as a foil, it seemed Sarah’s stubbornness had faded. She shrugged. “Toast then.”

“And a banana?”

“Don’t push your luck, dear.” The response was more Sarah-like than any other in the few days Jazz had been there. She hoped it was a good sign.

“Toast. Coffee. And later I’m going out for a dozen of Doris’s éclairs.”

“In this weather? Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“I’m used to this kind of weather. Besides, I’ve been craving éclairs since I got here.”

“You’re hoping to tempt more calories into me, is more likely the case.”

“That’s true, too.”

“Then feel free to bring a dozen éclairs home. I may just have it in me to eat one. While you’re at it, maybe you could stop by Kitty’s Little Book Shoppe. I’m almost out of reading material.”

“I can definitely do that. Or we can go together tomorrow.” Jazz set coffee and toast on the table in front of her mother-in-law, then took the chair across from her. “After the doctor’s appointment you’ve got in the morning.”

“Don’t remind me about the appointment. More poking and prodding. It would have been better if the person trying to murder me had been successful. No doubt, he’s enjoying my slow torture.”

“Don’t talk like that, Sarah. Of course it wouldn’t have been better if you’d died.” Jazz shifted in her seat, wishing she could turn the conversation to a safer subject. Sarah claimed she’d been shoved down a flight of stairs during the grand opening of a Civil War museum housed in a restored mansion. The local sheriff disagreed. He had witnesses who had seen Sarah’s fall. Jasmine was inclined to believe his version, the fact that she doubted her mother-in-law’s account proving just how much their relationship had changed.

She covered Sarah’s hand with her own, trying to convey a calm she didn’t feel. “You seem down, Sarah. Maybe I should call the doctor. Have him come over and make sure you’re okay.”

“Down as in loony and paranoid, right?” Sarah scowled, her eyes flashing, slashes of pink coloring her pale cheeks.

“No. Down as in depressed. The doctor said trauma can cause that sometimes.”

“Well, not in me. I’m about as far from depressed as a person can get. What I am is angry. Angry that the sheriff doesn’t believe I’m in danger and angry that you don’t. Angry that everyone would rather believe I’m paranoid than believe the truth.”

“Sarah—”

“Don’t, Jasmine. I know what the doctors have told you. They think I’m losing it. They’ll be proven wrong eventually. Of course, by that time it might be too late.” Sarah lifted her book, pretending to turn her attention back to the story, but Jasmine could tell from her frown that the conversation wasn’t over.

“I know you’re frustrated, but a half a dozen people saw you fall down those stairs. No one saw you being pushed.” The words slipped out before Jazz thought them through, and she regretted them immediately.

“There were hundreds of people at the grand opening of the museum. No one was watching one old lady walking down the stairs, so how could anyone know for sure what happened? Anyone but me, that is.” Sarah’s gaze speared into Jazz’s, flecks of gold and green standing out against the dark blue. John’s eyes looking into Jazz’s, accusing, pleading.

She lowered her gaze, fiddling with a napkin, searching for just the right words, but knowing she wouldn’t find them. Words used to come easily. Not anymore. She struggled and searched and still came up wanting. “I believe you.”

Simple. Direct. Not quite the truth.

Wanting to believe didn’t mean a person actually did believe.

She’d learned that the hard way over the past years as she’d fought to hold onto what little faith she’d had.

“No. You don’t, but it’s all right. I love you anyway. I’m going to rest for a while. Tell me before you go out, okay?”

“Okay.”

The house fell silent as Sarah shuffled away, leaning on her walker—bent, older than her years, faded in some indefinable way.

That was what grief did—it aged the body, stole from the mind, made every hour into a hundred, every day into an eternity.

Jasmine grabbed the empty toast plate and the still-full coffee mug from the table, forcing somber thoughts away. She’d come here to help. Her sadness could only make things worse, her doubts feeding rather than assuaging Sarah’s paranoia.

If it was paranoia.

The doctors seemed to think so. Jazz was…undecided. Exactly the way she was about everything in her life.

She lifted Sarah’s book from the table, the cover’s pastel colors highlighting a man, a woman and a little girl who danced between them. Jazz’s life had been like that once—sunlight and shadows, laughter and tears, balanced out by love, affection, companionship.

Now it was different.

Not bad.

Not particularly good.

Just different.

Many of her friends thought she should get back into the dating game, start seeing people. Others suggested she adopt, bring children into her home, let laughter chase away the sorrow.

Jazz knew she could do both, but she couldn’t replace what was lost and had no desire to try. Instead, she lived life on her own terms, ignoring her friends’ suggestions. Even though that meant facing her life alone.

The business line rang, and she grabbed it, thankful for the distraction. “Lakeview Retreat, can I help you?”

“May I speak to Mrs. Jasmine Hart?”

“This is she.”

“My name is Keith Sherman. I’ve heard that your mother-in-law is having some financial difficulties.”

“Heard from whom?”

“Friend of a friend. I’m a real-estate investor, and I’d be very interested in purchasing her property. I’m sure you can see what a good idea that would be. Medical expenses for the elderly can be quite high.”

“Sarah isn’t elderly, and she’s not interested in selling.”

“Whether she’s interested in it or not isn’t the point. She’s probably got an emotional attachment to the place, but I’m sure you could help her see past that.”

“I’m not going to talk her into something she doesn’t want, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

“So, you’d rather see her lose the property to the bank?”

“She’s not going to lose the property to the bank.”

“That’s not what I’m hearing.”

“It is now. Thanks for your query, Mr. Sherman.” She hung up before he could say more, her heart hammering a quick, hard beat.

Lose the property to the bank?

Were things really that bad?

Jazz had looked through the past year’s books when she’d arrived, had realized how little revenue had come in, but she hadn’t bothered opening the mail piled up on Sarah’s desk, or checking her mother-in-law’s bank statements. Sarah was a private person. She didn’t believe in sharing burdens or responsibilities, and would never allow others to look into her finances. She had a strict code of ethics. Honesty, hard work, repaying debts; those were principles Sarah lived by. Jasmine couldn’t believe that had changed.

She hurried into the office, sat down at the desk, grabbing the pile of mail and sorting through it. Bills were piled to her left, correspondences to the right, junk mail in the trash can. It took three hours, but she finally finished, her heart sinking as she reread the letter threatening foreclosure.

The caller had been right. Sarah was about to lose her property. Jazz reached for the phone, hesitated, knowing her mother-in-law wouldn’t be happy with what she was about to do. If John were alive, he’d have prayed, approached his mother with a plan of action, then followed through in whatever way he felt led while Jazz watched in awe, wishing her own prayers could be answered as quickly and decisively. She’d thought that once she matured as a Christian they would be, that she’d hear God’s voice more clearly, understand more easily the direction she was supposed to take.

Somehow, though, spiritual growth had never happened. While John’s faith had flourished, hers had stayed in infancy. Even as she’d prayed with Megan and Maddie, rejoiced as they’d taken their own fledgling steps of faith, she’d wondered and doubted and worried and questioned and asked herself if what lived in her soul was less real than what lived in John’s and her daughters’.

At the time of their deaths, she still hadn’t found an answer. Now, she didn’t care to try. Being part of their faith experience wasn’t necessary anymore. What was necessary was action. She’d let Sarah down too many times in the past few years. That was obvious. Whether her mother-in-law would thank her or not, Jazz intended to make up for that in the only way she could. She lifted the phone and dialed the number of the bank.