Mariner's Compass by Earlene Fowler Read Free Book Online Page B

width of the treacherous Mississippi River itself. So if I were you, I’d not waste my breath and just pray the Good Lord protects her.” He checked his watch, then straightened the cuffs of his cream-colored dress shirt. “It’s coming on five o’clock, and I have a date with the woman of my dreams. Wish me luck. And don’t forget, I get first dibs on this story about your mysterious inheritance. I’ll drop by to see you in the next couple of days. What’s the address?”
    “It’s 993 Pelican. Good luck with Elvia,” I said, not promising anything.
    Gabe shook his head. “Emory, I don’t know why you waste your time on such a headstrong and stubborn woman.”
    Amusement flashed in Emory’s green eyes. “Mighty fine vitreous house you’re residing in there, Chief Ortiz. Want to borrow my Windex?”
    “Get out of here,” Gabe said good-naturedly, “before I arrest you for being a smart-ass.”
    After Emory left, Gabe tried every argument he knew to get me to reconsider. I patiently gave a counterpoint to each of them.
    “Geeze, Gabe, you really don’t want this house and money to go to the government, do you? Maybe we could buy a house. I could buy a truck!”
    “I make more than enough money to buy us a house and you a truck.”
    “I don’t want your money.”
    “Our money.”
    “Easy for you to say—your name is on the paycheck. At any rate, I think getting a house for a mere two weeks’ stay is darn good wages. I’ll only be twelve miles away, and as you can see, under pretty good protective custody.” I gestured at Scout, who watched our argument, his head on his paws, his brow wrinkled with worry.
    Gabe finally threw up his hands in defeat. “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”
    “No, but I’ll miss you like crazy.” I went over and circled his waist with my arms, burrowing my face in his solid chest. The scent of him through his polo shirt, a musky-gingery scent that never failed to both arouse and comfort me, made me rethink my decision for a moment. A lonely bed in a strange house for two long weeks wasn’t something to look forward to.
    Weakening, he nuzzled the top of my head. “Let me make a few phone calls. Then we’ll take a look at this place.”
    The sun was setting by the time we arrived in separate cars at my new house. Morro Rock had turned an orange-gray, and there was only a slight haze in the air, scented briny from the ocean. Three vehicles were parked in front of the house—one was a truck painted with the logo John’s 24-hour Locksmith .
    “These locks are perfectly all right,” I exclaimed, climbing out of the truck. My frugal rancher’s heart hated to see money wasted.
    “Let me have your keys,” Gabe said. His stubborn bottom lip told me the energy it would take to argue him out of it would be wasted.
    He spoke to the man sitting in the locksmith truck for a few minutes, then handed him the keys. By the time he walked over to the other two cars, a man had climbed out of each vehicle. Both men held a dog on a short leash—one a yellow Lab, the other some kind of hound.
    Next to me, Scout stood up, his body tense and ready, his quivering tail sticking straight out, ready to defend his home turf.
    “Scout, sit,” I said, touching his head. Reluctantly he obeyed, but his German shepherd ear stood up straight and stiff as a sail in full wind. His front legs trembled with the desire to challenge these intruders. “Stay,” I told him, ignoring his pleading expression. “And don’t give me that look. One snarling alpha dog is about all I can take right now.” I walked over to where Gabe was talking with the men.
    “Everything,” he was saying. “Even the yard. Especially the garage.”
    “What’s going on?” I demanded.
    One of the men, a thin, straw-haired guy in ostrich cowboy boots, raised his sandy eyebrows and looked embarrassed. The other, an older man in a tweed jacket and New York Mets baseball cap, just laughed.
    Gabe nodded at