Guilt, definitely.
Heading back outside, he pulled the door shut behind him. Sounds from the stabled horses and forest wildlife filtered through the darkness, and he made his way to the trail. He’d circle around to the cabins. It was the only thing to do. There were cars, which meant Jillian was somewhere.
He’d damn sure find her.
Something crashed in the underbrush, startling the night quiet and drawing Michael to a sharp stop. With his heartbeat spiking hard, he waited for something—Ike, wildlife or a murderer?—to appear on the path ahead.
As the seconds ticked past, stillness settled over the night again.
He came upon the boys’ cabins first, and the rustic structures that had once seemed so offhandedly inviting now loomed eerily empty in the moonlight. There were no windows in these cabins, only screens to keep out the snakes and spiders. No air-conditioning, either, which made the bunks inside a stifling ride during the sultry summer.
He mentally rattled off the cabin’s names by rote: Company Thirteen. Pirates. Lightning Bolt. Dreadnought. Wave Runners. Hackers.
“Jillian,” he called out then waited to hear a reply, or any sound to indicate she was in trouble and needed help.
Nothing.
Making his way toward the girls’ cabins, he stumbled over what he belatedly realized was the ring of stones surrounding the bonfire pit. He almost landed face first inside a crater filled with winter-rotted leaves and ash.
He caught his balance at the last possible second, but dropped the flashlight.
“Oh, man.” He sank his fingers into the decomposing debris to retrieve the flashlight, which had managed to bury itself deeply enough to cut off the light.
An owl hooted sharply.
“I don’t need this grief,” he informed the wildlife. “I knew this camp was going to be trouble the instant Jillian came home with the idea.”
Not only had the investment run their credit dry, but the workload was creating conflict in their otherwise perfect lives.
Scowling into the darkness, Michael heard another sound, so faint at first that he might have imagined it.
Laughter?
He didn’t think it was a cry for help.
Rooted to the spot, he tried to make out the sound, but the night had fallen silent. Then he heard it again.
Laughter, definitely.
Following the direction of the sound, he found himself following the trail around the cabins toward the river.
What would Jillian be doing out on the bluff…? Then Michael saw light glowing through the darkness.
The caretaker’s cottage.
With a tentative sense of relief, he headed down the winding dirt path until he found soft light glowing from open windows and heard the sounds of more laughter.
And a fiddle?
Yes, a fiddle. He bolted up the porch steps and knocked loudly on the door.
He had to knock again to be heard, but finally a rather round woman with curly gray hair pulled open the door and broke into a big smile.
“Well hello, handsome. I don’t suppose you’re looking for me, since I just got here.”
The young man playing the fiddle screeched to a halt, but before Michael could reply, he heard Jillian’s silvery laughter.
There she was, standing by the kitchen sink with an apron around her waist. While he’d been getting an ulcer on his midnight tour of the camp, she was having a party.
The trade-off seemed wrong in the extreme.
“Heya, Michael.” Ike sat at the picnic-style dining table with the shotgun propped beside him. “You tracked us down.”
“Good evening, Ike.” Michael flipped off the flashlight. “I dropped by your place, too, looking for my beautiful bride.”
Jillian wiped her hands on the dish towel and joined him. “Widow Serafine, this is my husband, Michael.”
“The dentist,” said the woman with the unusual name, eyeing him with an approving smile.
He nodded. “I take it we have new caretakers.”
“In fact, we do.”
Given Jillian’s thorough screening process, he hadn’t expected this problem to be solved anytime soon. But when she introduced the younger generation of the Baptiste family, he thought the group seemed a nice enough bunch.
After exchanging greetings, Widow Serafine motioned him inside the kitchen. “Are you hungry, Dr. Michael? Marie-Louise whipped us up a welcome feast. You need to sit yourself down and get some before it’s all gone. Got growing boys around here.” She eyed Ike, who rubbed his stomach appreciatively.
Michael hadn’t ever seen Ike smile that widely, and his own stomach growled, recalling how long it had been since lunch. Casting Jillian a sidelong glance, he gauged her mood while deciding whether to deal with the issue between them now or wait until later when they were alone.
One way or the other, he’d better address his tardiness.
Since her honey-gold eyes didn’t give him a clue to what was happening behind them, he decided on the path of the least resistance.
Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he said, “Sorry, Jilly. I almost made it out the door on time.”
“What happened?”
As much as he hated to admit it… “Thought I had enough time to dictate a few of my patients.”
“You fell asleep.” Not a question.
Widow Serafine shot a curious glance between them. “You need some coffee then, don’t you, Dr. Michael?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer before she was gesturing to her granddaughter. “Put on the pot, Marie-Louise. We could all do with some waking up.”
With a nod, the dark-haired teenager busied herself at the counter. Widow Serafine ushered Michael to a seat at the table. He helped himself to a feast of shrimp, buttery oysters and a rice dish seasoned with bell peppers and green onions.
The great meal made up for the lousy start to the night. He ate while listening to Jillian, Ike, Widow Serafine and the boy Raphael discuss the various tasks to be accomplished to ready the camp for the summer campers. From the conversation, he pieced together the talents the Baptistes brought to the table.
Widow Serafine clearly reigned like a queen over her younger generation, and Michael felt his first hope that Jillian might actually pull off this stunt and survive the first season.
“I’M NOT MAD,” Jillian told Michael, not slowing her stride as they made their way back to the camp office.
But that wasn’t true. Still, several hours spent with the Baptiste family and Ike, discussing the various jobs to be accomplished during the next few weeks, had alleviated some of her unease about the Baptiste family’s unorthodox hiring.
And her concern about running this camp without reliable support from Michael.
“You look mad,” he persisted.
Jillian knew he felt guilty for being late. He wanted reassurance but, unfortunately, she was just tired enough, and angry enough, not to give him any. Why should she put forth more effort than he? She’d wanted his help tonight, but he hadn’t been available.
“Let’s let it go, Michael, please,” she said. “It’s been a long day for us both. I’m not up to this conversation right now. I have caretakers in place. That’s really all that’s important.”
If the man was smart, he’d cut his losses, but apparently good Creole