The Secret Night

Emma looked out over the water. The Miles River wasn’t all that wide—less than a mile, she guessed, at the point where she stood—and she was in good shape. She could row the small boat to the opposite shore. Once she got Margaret that far…

Well, one step at a time. She’d worry later about how she’d convince her brainwashed sister to keep traveling away from the Refuge.

Of course, they’d be leaving behind everything they’d brought with them, including the car she’d rented at the airport. But that was nothing compared to their lives.

Fighting to keep her tone light and casual, she said, “Remember when we were kids, when Mom was married to Larry?”

“He was a jerk,” Margaret huffed.

“Yeah, but a rich jerk.”

Margaret chuckled—an encouraging sound given her near-robotic state. If she could still laugh, maybe she was still capable of thinking about something besides the crap Damien Caldwell had drummed into her head.

“Remember Larry had that cottage up at Moonlight Lake?” Emma said. “We’d go swimming there.”

After a brief pause, Margaret replied, “That was fun.”

“Yeah, it was. And sometimes we’d take his boat out.”

“We were too young to be doing that unsupervised,” Margaret said in a tone that echoed her old, ultraresponsible persona.

“Well, we’re not too young to do it now.” Emma gestured toward the rowboat. “Let’s go for a ride. You can be captain—just like the old days.”

Her sister eyed the small craft. “I don’t think we’re supposed to go for boat rides. We’d better ask first.”

Emma felt her desperation rising. “If you ask and they say no, I’ll be really disappointed. Come on.” She tugged on her sister’s arm. “Let’s just do it. Do it for me, Marg.”

Margaret dug her heels into the sand and eyed the water. “It’s getting dark and…sort of spooky.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s beautiful. Look at the stars. You used to love the night sky, remember? We’d lie on our backs and you’d point out constellations. I’ve forgotten them, though, so you could show them to me again.”

“No!” Suddenly Margaret let out a high-pitched yelp and shoved her away.

“Quiet! Someone will hear you,” Emma ordered, reaching for her sister.

But Margaret kept backing away. “I know what you’re trying to do, Emma. You’re trying to kidnap me. They warned me that you might.”

“Shhh!” She tried to cover Margaret’s mouth—and felt her sister’s teeth sink into her finger. “Ow! Margaret, stop it! Someone’s going to hear us.”

“Good! I want them to hear me. I’m going to find the men and tell them what you’re doing. You never really embraced Damien’s lessons—his wisdom and kindness. I know you, Emma. I know you’re too independent to be a follower of any philosophy, no matter how good and true it is. You’ve been lying to me—and, worse, to the Master—saying you believe. But you don’t and you never will.” Margaret wrenched herself from Emma’s grasp and started running.

As she watched her sister’s retreating back, Emma felt her throat clog with tears. Now what? Knock her sister out and drag her onto the damned boat?

When she started to follow Margaret, Emma heard her sister shouting, “It’s my sister! She’s trying to kidnap me! I need help!” And in that instant, Emma saw her choices swept away.

She had to leave. Now.

Before they could catch her, she pushed the little boat into the water. Then she climbed in, sat on the center seat and grabbed the oars, conveniently left ready in the oarlocks. It had been a long time since she’d rowed a boat, but it came back to her. She maneuvered the craft around, pointing the bow at the opposite bank, then began rowing in earnest, the oar tips digging deep into the dark water. As she pulled swiftly away from the shore, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Margaret running down the path—followed by two of the guards.

“Come back!” one of them shouted.

It was fully dark now, but the pole light at the end of the dock provided all the illumination necessary for her to see the man taking off his shoes and slacks. Oh, God, he was coming after her.

In the next instant, a volley of bullets sprayed the water, missing the boat by inches.

Emma cursed, wishing she had a weapon to defend herself. Ted, another of her stepfathers, had been big into self-protection, and he’d dragged them all, her mother included, to the shooting range on a regular basis. At the time she’d hated any suggestions that came from the creep, but she’d since come to appreciate knowing her way around firearms.

Not that the knowledge was doing her a bit of good right now. She’d been afraid to bring a gun with her to the Refuge. Which meant her only option was to row like hell until she was out of range—and hope the gunman’s aim didn’t improve.

She thought she must have succeeded when the shooting stopped. She breathed out a sigh of relief—then heard a splash that told her the guy who’d been stripping on the dock had plunged into the river.

In quick over-the-shoulder glances, she saw him swimming toward her—and catching up. Groaning, she forced her burning arm muscles to row faster until, finally, she was outpacing him. By the time she was three quarters of the way across the river, he gave up and turned around.

She muttered a prayer of thanks, knowing she wasn’t home free. For all she knew, Caldwell had people stationed on the other side of the river. All it would take was a call to a cell phone, and his goons could be waiting to snatch her when she landed. Even if the guards weren’t already in place, they could drive over the bridge a few miles upstream and still be there to catch her.

In all of her life, Emma had never been so frightened. With the palms of her hands blistering and her muscles screaming under the strain of pulling the oars, she rowed for her life—and for Margaret’s. She had come this far, had escaped Caldwell’s horribly misnamed Refuge, and she could damn well make it the rest of the way.

She had to make it. For herself and for Margaret.

A speedboat came racing up the river. It seemed to be heading directly toward her, and her whole body went rigid. What if it was full of Caldwell’s men? Or what if it rammed into her in the darkness? Either way, she’d be dead. As the speedboat came closer, she prepared to leap over the side of the rowboat.

When the larger craft sped by, she sagged in relief. She could hear people laughing and talking—vacationers, probably, or local residents out having fun on the river. For a minute or two, she slumped over the oars, breathing hard.

She wanted to curse at her sister for turning her in—for getting them both into this mess in the first place. But she knew it wasn’t Margaret’s fault. Her mind was like a sponge for Caldwell’s orders, and she was behaving as he had trained her to act. How long did Margaret have before her brain turned completely to mush? Was there a point beyond which she would be irrevocably lost?

Or would something even worse happen? Would Caldwell punish Margaret for her sister’s disobedience?

Emma straightened, her gaze fixed on the moonlit shoreline ahead. In her effort to save Margaret, had she, in fact, signed her twin’s death warrant?

Should she go back?

The rowboat had lost its forward momentum and was drifting with the current. She let it drift, while she sat caught in a storm of emotions more intense and painful than anything she’d experienced in a very long time.

She might have gone on sitting there, trapped by indecision, if a single thought hadn’t finally bubbled to the surface of the turmoil inside her head: Nicholas Vickers.

He would know what to do. He could help her save Margaret. She just had to find him and…and what? Tell him to don his armor, saddle his white charger and come to her rescue?

Emma snorted in self-disgust. How stupid could she be, pinning all her hopes on a stranger? She had no control over her subconscious, the irrational part of her that had turned Vickers into her ideal man—Sir Galahad and the perfect lover rolled into one. But common sense and experience told her that he would turn out to be just a regular, ordinary guy, nothing special. If she was lucky—and it was a big “if”—he wouldn’t be a complete jerk. And he would help her.

She needed help. That much was crystal clear. Desire and determination weren’t enough. She lacked the skills and training necessary to free Margaret, willing or not, from Caldwell and his guards. If Nicholas Vickers wouldn’t lend his expertise to her cause, she’d have to find someone else who would.

Meanwhile, she could only pray that Margaret had bought herself some favorable treatment by trying to abort her sister’s escape attempt and by refusing to go with her.

Feeling marginally better for having come to a decision, Emma took note of the rowboat’s position. The shore was only a couple of hundred yards away—a good thing, since her arms and shoulders felt like rubber. It occurred to her, though, that enough time had passed that Caldwell’s goons could well be waiting to pick her up when she landed.

She allowed the boat to drift past several docks belonging to large estates. Finally, when she thought she’d gone far enough downstream, she gathered what was left of her strength, rowed the rest of the way to shore and climbed out.

She started to pull the boat onto the beach, then hesitated, realizing she might as well post a sign that read This is Where Emma Birmingham Landed. She should probably sink the boat. Or she could use it as a decoy.