Come Morning by Pat Warren Read Free Book Online Page B

been here a little over a week and all he’d managed had been two rather spectacular hangovers and to be bored out of his mind. Firefighting was what he’d done best, until that last fire.
    The key to firefighting or police work or even career soldiering was to keep your distance. You couldn’t be effective, couldn’t get the job done if you let the horror, the brutality, the sheer waste of human life get to you. The moment you made it personal, you were no longer useful.
    His last fire had been very personal. The idea of returning, of the emotional risks involved, was unthinkable.
    What, then? The island had more specialty shops than he’d ever seen in one setting. Maybe something would strike him and he could go into business, something he’d dreamed of a while back and … wait!
    What in hell was he thinking? Slade scrubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. What made him think this tight-knit community would accept him? Or that he could settle down to a sedentary occupation after years of physical jobs? Maybe he’d had too much booze or sun, to be thinking like this.
    He needed to get out of the house, to walk off some energy. Taking the stairs two at a time, he went into the guest room. He’d chosen it rather than the large master bedroom suite, feeling odd about taking over his father’s room. He pulled on a shirt and slipped on his Docksiders, and even ran a comb through his hair.
    Downstairs, he grabbed his keys and locked up. Maybe he’d stroll into town, talk to a few year-round residents, and see if he could learn more about his father. He hadn’t gone through all of Jeremy’s papers yet, putting that off until he could accept this new situation. There were many unanswered questions, things he needed to know.
    One thing was certain: He wasn’t going to be at peace until he figured out why the son Jeremy Slade had denied had inherited his entire estate.
    Briana was hot and harried, but pleased with her day so far. It was not yet high noon and all her self-assigned chores were done. She’d awakened early and attacked the house, dusting and vacuuming, scrubbing and cleaning. The faint lingering odor of illness and neglect had been replaced with the lemon waxy fragrance of wood polish and sea air, a noticeable change.
    That done, she’d taken a shower, grabbed her list, and set out to do some shopping. She’d found all the supplies she needed to begin painting tomorrow and set them in the trunk of Gramp’s eight-year-old Buick. Closing the lid with a thunk, Briana decided she’d done enough work for one day. She’d finish scraping the loose paint tomorrow. It was time to play.
    Gramp had always loved fishing off the dock. Often as not, when she’d sat with him, they hadn’t caught much. But that wasn’t the point. Daydreaming and dozing, chatting and laughing, eating the thick sandwiches her grandmother had packed along with cold lemonade. Those outings had been special.
    Occasionally, they’d gotten lucky and caught a small striped bass or a couple of bluefish. Permits weren’t required for residents who did recreational fishing. Possibly her old pole was still in the backyard shed. The thought of catching fresh fish for dinner had her jumping in the car and starting back.
    Briana turned left onto Beach Road heading north. Gazing toward Steamboat Wharf, she noticed that the sea was calm and the sun high in the sky on what promised to be a scorcher. Already, just running errands, she felt quite warm. It would be slightly cooler on the dock with the sea breezes.
    She’d just turned onto Easton and could see Brant Point Lighthouse way off in the distance when she happened to glance to the right. Up ahead just off the road, she saw a man with his feet planted in the sand, bent forward from the waist, his hands braced on his knees. Slowing the car, she saw that he was having difficulty catching his breath. Another jogger who’d likely overdone it in the heat.
    With no traffic behind her, Briana coasted