Unearthed Page 2

  “Climbing up that ladder and destroying the nest should have been Bill’s job, not Mattie’s.” Gail scraped the cookies from the tray, placing them onto a cooling rack, within reach of Rowan’s hand. “Careful, they’re hot.”

  “And gooey. And delicious.” The melted chocolate dripping on her fingers tantalized her taste buds, and she opened her mouth in anticipation.

  “The good doctor must fancy you if he gave you free money.”

  Her hand stilled, and the cookie froze two inches from Rowan’s lips. “Don’t go dreaming a cheap novel, Gail.”

  “Why not? He’s in his early thirties, tall, handsome, and single. A good catch, if you ask me.”

  The description fitted Bjorn like a glove, except he’d turned twenty-six during the excursion inside the volcanic caves. She should have gone with him, despite her bad flu. Darn crevasse. The tourists were still trapped in the guts of the cave, and she still hadn’t heard from him. A change of conversation was in order before she dwelled on her unresolved love life again. “While I was outside, I was thinking about that vegetable garden. It’d be less work to transform one of the flowerbeds into a garden than move the gazebo.”

  “And kill all those beautiful flowers?” Gail waved her hands, and her oven mitts flew across the kitchen counter. “Nonsense. That vegetable garden was a foolish idea. If I want fresh tomatoes, I’ll go to the market, which reminds me, someone called during your absence.”

  The mysterious connection between the tomatoes and the caller escaped Rowan. “Who? A green pepper?”

  “A green pepper?” Gail shook her head, dislodging some white hair from the bun pulled tight behind her head. “A guest, Miss Rowan, and he’s planning on arriving this weekend. He wanted to know if we had any monthly rates. Do we?”

  No, but if someone wanted to stay a month, she’d give him some sort of rebate. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “I gave him a description of the rooms. Care to guess which one he preferred?”

  Each guestroom was named after a marine creature: the Squid Room, the Lobster Room, the Oyster Room, and the Starfish Room.

  Rowan chose the only room with a private bathroom. “The Squid Room?”

  “No. The Starfish.”

  Relegated to the attic, the Starfish was their smallest room. “Did you tell him about climbing into the attic and sleeping in a single bed?”

  “Sure did, but he didn’t care.” Gail pulled a scrap of paper from the pocket of her apron and placed it on the table. “His name is Avery Stone, and that’s his phone number.”

  ***

  As he neared his destination, Bjorn decreased the pressure on the gas pedal. The Jeep slowed to a crawl, accentuating the bumps in the dirt road leading to his grandmother’s home. Surrounded by a lava field covered with green moss, the cottage that his great-grandfather had built nearly a century ago stuck out like a sore thumb among the glorious landscape. Two summers past, his grandmother had repainted the façade orange and the window trims purple, and Bjorn had questioned her sense of color and her diminishing eyesight ever since. He needed to have another chat with her about adding a few more coats of paint from the opposite side of the color spectrum.

  The twelve-day excursion he’d guided inside the volcanic caves had transformed into a thirty-five day nightmare. That particular cave should have been safe. He’d explored it dozens and dozens of times, never seeing evidence of fractures on the floor or the main walls. Crevasses weren’t supposed to appear out of nowhere, but tourists weren’t supposed to pluck hammers from their backpacks and pound the ground to dislodge colorful fragments of rocks either. Ironically, the two rock-diggers weren’t the ones swallowed by the crevasse when it had gaped under their feet on the last day of the excursion. So instead of coming home, Bjorn had spent the last twenty-four days on the edge of the crevasse talking and lowering water, food, and first aid supplies to his two seriously injured tourists while the rescue team tried to get them out.

  Next time he ventured into the caves, it would be with Ro. She would have loved to see the new chamber he’d discovered. With its dramatic lava stalactites and stalagmites, it would have been the perfect setting to ask her to marry him.

  The delicate jade ring he’d bought at Easter and kept in his pocket ever since served as a constant reminder of the green-eyed spitfire who had stolen his heart. No more dawdling. Tonight, he would invite her for a special walk under the stars, and with any luck, the northern lights would witness his proposal.

  He parked in front at the edge of the lawn, a blend of green moss, yellowed grass, and stubborn weeds, before exiting the Jeep.

  During his absence, he’d regularly phoned Rowan to keep her apprised of the situation in the cave. His grandmother had answered every single time, telling him Rowan was still at the cottage but too busy to come to the phone. He hoped she wasn’t angry with him for staying away thirty-five days, but duty had demanded he remained onsite until his tourists were rescued. Now that the two unfortunate tourists were safe, Bjorn longed for a long shower and an even longer kiss. Had Ro waited for him at the apartment, he could have combined both longings, but sharing a steamy shower with the woman he loved wasn’t a fantasy he could indulge under his grandmother’s roof, not without offending her principles.

  Except for the tabby cat sleeping under the lawn chair, the front veranda was deserted. He collected his gear from the trunk, stepped onto the veranda, and dropped them near Alfi’s tail. “Ro? Amma? Anyone home?”

  The cat hissed, and the front door opened.

  “Bjorn?” The withered face of his grandmother welcomed him with a weak smile.

  “Hello, Amma.” Before he had a chance to hug her, she’d retreated inside the cottage, and he followed her into the living room.

  “I thought you’d never come home.” Ignoring her favorite rocking chair near the wood-burning stove, she sat on the couch. “I can’t believe they finally extracted the two tourists. Will they survive?”

  “Between the two of them, they probably broke a dozen bones, but they’re both expected to recover.” The coffee table was free of Ro’s books, and the gaudy elephant figurine had regained its place as centerpiece. “Where’s Ro? Did she go back to her apartment?”

  A month ago, a terrible flu had struck Rowan. His grandmother had promised to nurse her back to health during his absence, which was why Rowan had moved into the cottage. He should have anticipated that she’d go back to the apartment once she heard the rescue effort had come to a successful end, and he regretted not stopping by her place first.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  At the sight of the solemn veil cloaking her expression, Bjorn dropped his key ring. It clunked on the wooden floor like a broken icicle. “Did she get worse? Was that why she couldn’t come to the phone? Is she in the hospital?” If something had happened to Ro while he had been gone, he’d never forgive himself.

  “She’s gone back home to Canada, Bjorn.”

  “Why?” They weren’t supposed to fly to Canada until July. “What happened?” In recent years, many tragedies had struck her family. “It’s not her brother, is it?” Her brother was a firefighter, and Hunter and his new wife were expecting their first child this summer.

  “No, but Rowan wasn’t blind, Bjorn. She saw how you look at Fridrika every time she stops by with her grandmother.”

  “Fridrika?” Their grandmothers were best friends. To be polite, Bjorn feigned interest in the teenage girl’s outdoor activities when she visited. Nothing more. “She’s just a friend, Amma.” He picked up his keys and sat on the armrest of the rocking chair. “What’s going on? When did Ro leave?”

  “She knows your heritage is important to you, so she set you free. I know I told you she was still here, but I lied. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings over the phone.”

  “What?” The surreal conversation made no sense.

  “She gave me her phone before boarding her plane on May fourteenth. She’s been gone a month, Bjorn. I’
m sorry.”

  “No—that’s impossible.” There was no way that Rowan would have departed two days after he had taken the Spanish tourists into the caves. “She was sick, Amma. She was in no condition to go anywhere.” Besides, she would never have walked out on him, not like that.

  “She wrote you a letter.” His grandmother extended her trembling hand toward the corner table and grabbed a pink sheet of paper folded near the base of a Tiffany lamp. “I’m afraid I read it.”

  Disconcerted by the alarming turn of events, he snatched the letter from her hand. The paper came from Ro’s personal journal, and the handwriting was undeniably hers, but the message didn’t sound like anything she would ever write.

  Stunned over the content, he read it a second time to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

  I tried to like Iceland, but I can’t stay here any longer. I struggle with the language, I feel isolated, and I miss my family. You deserve a wife who shares your heritage, someone like Fridrika. I’m moving on, Bjorn, and I wish you to be happy. Please, don’t try to contact me. I want to forget you, not hate you.

  Row

  His grip tightened, ripping the paper at the corner. “How much fever did she have when she wrote this?”

  A soft sigh deflated his grandmother’s bony chest. “In the last few months, you’ve been hinting about marriage. You should be grateful she realized her mistake before it was too late.”

  Yes, he’d dropped hints about marrying her, but he’d swear she’d liked the notion of becoming his wife, especially in the middle of the night. “I’m going after her.”

  “You can’t.” Amma’s loud objections halted his exit. “Didn’t you read the letter? If you love her, Bjorn Arnarsson, you will respect her wishes and move on.”

  The letter didn’t cut it. After two years, Ro owed him a face-to-face explanation. “I need to see her, Amma.”

  An explosion rattled the windows and tipped the elephant figurine, breaking its trunk on the tabletop.

  He rushed to the window and inhaled a sharp breath. In the distance, a cloud of volcanic ash was rising into the air.

  Eyjafjallajökull had just erupted.

  Chapter Three

  Duffel bag slung over his right shoulder, Avery Stone tottered along the dusty gravel path leading from the garage where he’d parked his Chevy Blazer to the front entrance of the two-story bed-and-breakfast. The owner should have considered repainting the entire house when he’d hung the flamboyant pirate sign. Avery contemplated leaving a suggestion in the comment box upon his departure—if he ever departed.

  He stepped onto the veranda. A doorknocker shaped like a skull stared at him from the middle of the front door, reflecting his morbid thoughts. He tossed his cane in the air, caught the shaft midway, and knocked on the door with the handle.

  “Coming!” The door opened, and he came face-to-face with a pretty, redhead teenage girl wearing a black polka-dot bandana, a pink tank top, gray shorts, and two socks of different colors in red-stained sneakers. “Yes?”

  “Avery Stone.” Ignoring the girl, he glanced over her shoulder for a glimpse of the woman in charge. “I reserved a room.”

  “Yes, the Starfish. Please, come in.” The girl spoke with a similar accent as the woman he’d talked to on the phone. As he entered, she extended her hand. “May I take your bag?”

  Annoyed by the courtesy, he swung his bag over his shoulder, out of reach. “I’m fine.” He didn’t need help or pity.

  A fleeting shadow crossed her face, and she lowered her hand. “This way, please.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to meet the person in charge before I settle in.”

  With an inscrutable expression, she studied him for what seemed like an eternity. “I’m Rowan O’Reilly. Would you rather have a room on the second floor, Mr. Stone, or are you considering shortening your stay with us?”

  The girl appeared too young to operate a business on her own.

  “No. The room in the attic is fine.” How she handled her affairs didn’t concern him. The secluded location served his purpose. Dozens of visitors drowned every summer in boat accidents on the Atlantic coast. One more victim would be like adding a drop of water in the ocean. “Any other guests?”

  “A family with three boys. They arrived yesterday and will be leaving on Wednesday.” The tip of her tongue wet her lips between each sentence. “Anything else you’d like to know, Mr. Stone?”

  “I parked in front of the garage between a red hatchback and a green minivan. Is that okay?”

  “It’s perfect. Would you like to see your room?”

  “Of course, I would.” What else would he be waiting for in the vestibule? Certainly not the ferry.

  Struggling with luggage and cane, he followed her up a narrow wooden stairwell into the attic. The Starfish Room was smaller than what he’d pictured from the description given to him on the phone. A single bed was pushed against the wall under the low side of the slanted ceiling. He wouldn’t be able to stretch at night without his feet dangling off the end. “This is acceptable.”

  A brow arched over luminous green eyes. If he’d offended her by using the term “acceptable,” that was too bad. Without further reaction, she strode to a desk huddled against the window.

  “The meals are served at regular hours. The schedule is in the top drawer. Breakfast is included in the rate, and supper is available at an extra cost.” She laid her hand on the desktop near a gooseneck lamp. “Should you require anything else, our cook, Gail, will try to accommodate you.”

  The small nod he gave her implied her dismissal. That she caught the subtle hint and headed out pleasantly surprised him.

  “Enjoy your stay.” She closed the door and left him alone.

  Wary of new places, he explored his surroundings and marked his exits. Only one door, the one from which he’d entered, a small empty closet leading nowhere, and a window, which he approached with caution.

  Through the spotless window glass, he spotted a lone figure jogging toward the cliff. O’Reilly’s red ponytail bounced off the black-and-white bandana.

  A lifetime ago, he’d loved to run. His guts coiled in resentment as he pulled the navy blue vinyl blinds down.

  ***

  Running on the red dirt path skirting the cliff was quiet and soothing, but inner peace still eluded Rowan.

  It’d been four short weeks since she’d moved into Buccaneer and five and a half long weeks since she’d been forced to depart from Iceland, but the relative passing of time had brought little comfort to her heavy heart.

  According to the online newspaper, the two Spanish tourists had been rescued alive. That they didn’t die after falling thirty feet was fortunate, but that they survived twenty-four days in the crevasse despite the injuries they’d sustained was nothing short of amazing. Bjorn would have cleared the cave two days ago and returned home in time to see the volcano with the name she couldn’t pronounce blow its top. The rising ash cloud disrupted air traffic, and all the airports in Iceland had been closed until further notice, but the volcanic activity shouldn’t have born any ill effect on the phone lines. Surely Bjorn had noticed her absence and received her letter. The clue should have jumped right at him—unless his grandmother was right.

  The waves crashing against the rocks down below echoed her labored breathing. She licked her lips and tasted the salty residue left by the ocean mist.

  In the distance, Buccaneer stood erect against the pastoral landscape. With its brand-new fire-red tiles, the roof outshone the sun hovering above the black chimney. Bill had done a first-rate job replacing the old shingles, and while he accepted her praise, he refused the small bonus she wanted to give him. Instead, he’d suggested she use the money to add black gutters and barrels to capture the rain.

  Recycling the rain to water the flowers was an excellent idea, but ever since she’d approved the project, she hadn’t seen or heard from him. “You’ve been missing for three days, Bill, where are you?”

>   Gleeful shouts and fits of laughter rose from the veranda where the rambunctious Landor children played tag. The smallest boy jumped onto the seat of the swing chair, lost his balance, and landed on his older brother.

  Rowan hurried her stride as she headed back toward Buccaneer. The empty gazebo loomed over the flowerbeds, an ugly growth overshadowing the garden. She was tempted to tear it down, but with guests around, she didn’t entertain the idea of a demolition site. “A new roof would perk it up.” She needed to check in the shed behind the garage to see if Bill had kept any extra tiles. In the meantime, maybe she could redirect the boys to go play there before one of them suffered a broken leg or caused an accident.

  “Boys!” Her faraway call remained unanswered as they pursued their chaotic chase across the veranda.

  The front entrance door swayed on its hinges. Rowan cringed in dreadful apprehension. The two youngest dodged the opening door, but the biggest boy plowed right into it. He fell backward onto his plump behind. A stick flew into the air. And the door closed on a leg caught in the doorframe.

  The screams of the children mixed with the roar of a wounded man.

  ***

  Avery hadn’t yet spent his first night at the bed-and-breakfast and already he lay sprawled in the doorway, sore and undignified.

  A young couple, worry etched on their faces, rushed down the stairs. Shrugging off the questioning looks they threw his way as they gathered their raucous progeny, Avery clenched his teeth, picked up his injured pride, and pulled himself up.

  He hobbled down the veranda. Each tedious step highlighted the new bruises made by the door. His cane rested in the grass in the shadow of the bloody pirate sign. As he crouched down, a woman’s delicate hand retrieved it for him. “Are you all right?”