Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,110

breaking the stillness. No more than a few scarlet spots here and there dotted the frozen surface, but they were sufficient to keep him on course.

The trail ended at the canoe shed, which was closed up tight for the winter season.

Or it had been, before someone picked the padlock.

Shifting into military stealth mode, Rick edged next to the structure and put his ear to the door.

Silence.

Firming his grip on the Beretta, he yanked the wide door open and flattened his back against the wall, out of sight.

More silence.

If anyone was inside, they’d masked their surprise well.

Either that, or they weren’t able to respond.

After thirty soundless seconds ticked by, Rick risked a peek around the edge of the doorframe.

Nothing was amiss.

The racks of canoes looked the same as they had when he’d stacked them for the winter. The paddles were in their brackets, life vests stashed in their bins, fishing rods lined up against the wall like soldiers in formation.

And there was no blood inside, as far as he could tell after flipping on the light and making a quick circuit.

Nor was there anything to suggest someone had taken refuge in the structure.

A frigid gust of air swooped in through the open door, bringing with it an assault of snowflakes—but the Arctic weather alone wasn’t responsible for the shiver that snaked through him.

Where had the injured person gone?

Rick stepped outside again, ducked his head against the polar onslaught, and peered at the ground as he walked the area in a tight grid pattern.

There were no more red blots.

Even the original trail he’d followed had disappeared under a blanket of fresh powder.

Nothing remained to indicate anyone had ventured onto his property.

In fact, if he’d detoured to his computer after arriving home from town instead of indulging in a stroll to the dock while he finished his coffee, he would never have seen the blood. Nor would he have visited the canoe shed until he began prepping for the Saturday spring camps, a task that was weeks away.

Strange timing.

Providential, almost.

Yet what did it matter?

Whoever had broken into the outbuilding had done no harm or stolen anything. There was minimal blood, and the person had seemingly left of their own volition.

The incident might be a bit bizarre, but it wasn’t a life or death situation, like the ones he’d faced in the Middle East.

Tugging up the collar of his coat, Rick returned to the shed and flipped off the light. Lock repairs would have to wait until the storm subsided—but the delay posed little risk. There wasn’t much chance anyone would venture out in this weather to steal his lake equipment.

Best plan?

Go back inside and hunker down until the storm blew over. There was no reason to linger while the biting wind burrowed into every seam of his outerwear and the sky hurled icy BBs at his cheeks.

He turned away.

Took three steps.

Hesitated.

You’re missing something, Jordan.

Hard as he tried to muffle the tiny voice in his head, it refused to be silenced.

Especially since he couldn’t shake the feeling that his mysterious visitor had been more than a vagrant or a vandal who’d gotten cut on some barbed wire or tripped on a rock and ended up with a bloody nose.

Heaving a sigh, he pivoted, tramped back to the shed, and opened the door again. Unless he did another walk-through, his keep-at-it-until-you-solve-the-puzzle gene wasn’t going to shut up.

Back inside, he flicked the light switch and began a second loop, this one much slower.

Halfway through, he hit pay dirt.

The two small objects on the stern seat of one of the canoes, half tucked into the shadows, hadn’t been there when he’d closed up the place for the winter.

Palming the items, he angled his hand toward the light.

Sucked in a breath.

The identity of his visitor was no longer a mystery.

Boomer had been here.

But . . . why had he shown up, unannounced, after all these years?

What had caused the blood?

Why had the man left?

Where had he gone?

Was he coming back?

Only one person could supply those answers—and he’d vanished.

Another blast of bitter air pummeled him, and Rick slid the two items into the pocket of his coat. After wrestling the door back into place, he slogged toward the cabin, head bent against the wind.

Halfway back, as he slowed to scoop up the cup of java balanced on the frozen ground, a vulture circled overhead, riding the wind currents in search of death.

Bad omen—if you were the superstitious type.

He wasn’t.

Ignoring the macabre scavenger, he focused instead on the Christmas riddle