was hanging over it. Gingerly pulling aside the net, she pried the door open to reveal a dark pantry just big enough for her to sit in.
Except for a few tin cans and a broken plate, the closet appeared empty and somewhat clean—if something coated in layers of dust and cobwebs could truly be considered clean. She climbed inside and attempted to make herself comfortable, which was nearly impossible in her constricting skirt. Then she closed the door and prayed the fishing net had fallen back over the opening to conceal it.
Chapter 21
The pounding in Tom’s temples matched the horse’s hoofs beating against the road. The town of North Truro loomed ahead, but he veered his mount toward a fish warehouse with a lone dock and a dilapidated dinghy. From the saltwater corrosion in the hull bolts, he suspected the boat hadn’t been used all summer.
Down shore he caught sight of a cutter, abandoned on the beach with its bow pulled up onto a rocky stretch to keep it from being washed out into the ocean. The water marks on the side indicated that it had recently returned from a trip.
Tom reined the horse and studied the area more carefully. He’d been tracking the carriage since Provincetown, and the tire marks ended at the warehouse, which made sense. If Butch planned to take Victoria out and dump her in the bay, he wouldn’t risk being seen in North Truro. He would have brought her to a more secluded place. Like here.
Tom slid down from the mount and bent to study the horse prints. Some led to the building and others pointed back to the road.
Had Butch finished the job and already left? Tom glanced again to the cutter down the shore. His muscles tightened at the thought of being too late, of failing again to protect someone he loved.
He pried open the fish warehouse doors, his knife ready in case Butch sprang out of the shadows. But the only thing in the shed was a carriage. The horse was gone, which meant Butch was gone too.
Tom picked up a rag that lay discarded in a scattering of rotting hay. One sniff of the sickly sweet odor of chloroform in the scrap informed him that Butch had drugged Victoria. Probably so that he could take her down to a waiting boat.
Tom’s pulse spurted with renewed dread. He tossed the rag back to the floor and raced out of the shack. He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t too late, that the abandoned cutter down the shore didn’t mean anything. But he stopped abruptly as he reached the edge of the dock.
There were Victoria’s shoes. Fancy pointed shoes that he’d seen her wear back in Newport.
He stared at them for a moment, his chest hollow and his head light.
She was gone. And all that remained were her shoes.
His mind filled with images of her sinking beneath the waves, her layers of clothes dragging her down. Her lungs filling with water. Her body finally hitting the cold, dark bottom. He could picture her frantically trying to swim, to work her way to the surface against currents and waves that would only suck her back under. She would have been terrified.
The thought that she’d been frightened and in pain made him want to jump into the dinghy, row out, and try to rescue her—even though it was too late. He could only pray that she’d still been unconscious and had died peacefully.
He dropped to his knees on the edge of the dock, and a cry tore at his throat. For several long seconds he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but stare at the shoes. Then a moan worked its way loose. “Oh, God, I loved her.”
Heat seared his eyes and burned his chest with the need to weep. He’d tried so hard not to fall in love with her, hadn’t thought he deserved to have a woman’s love after his past mistakes. Hadn’t thought he was the right kind of man for Victoria. But somehow she’d broken through the walls he’d erected around himself. And after breaking through them, she’d worked her way into his heart so that she’d filled him thoroughly and completely.
And what had he done? He’d thrust her away. He’d let his fears of losing her, of failing her, and of disappointing her take control.
He lowered his face into his hands and groaned again. He had loved her. Still loved her. And always would.