Raquel Byrnes Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Praise

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  Epilogue

  Thank you

  Whispers on Shadow Bay

  Raquel Byrnes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  WHISPERS ON SHADOW BAY

  COPYRIGHT 2012 by RAQUEL BYRNES

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated are taken from the King James translation, public domain.

  Cover Art by Nicola Martinez

  White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC

  www.pelicanbookgroup.com PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410

  White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC

  Publishing History

  First White Rose Edition, 2013

  Print Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-192-2

  Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-191-5

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my Father in heaven, the winner of lost hearts and healer of broken dreams.

  Praise for

  Purple Knot

  Get ready for a book jam packed with emotion, intense conflict, and plenty of plot to keep the reader absolutely fixated with this book. Purple Knot blew me away. Right from the start the action pulled me in, and I couldn’t stop until the last page. Some may say that’s an exaggeration, but it’s the truth. There was just so much to take in that I didn’t want to miss a single thing.

  Reyna is a strong heroine who faces a very tough decision, and the chain reaction of events that follow that decision keep on building up until the very intense climax of the story. The hero of the story is Jimmy, Reyna’s ex-fiancé. Working side by side after a tragic event brings them close once again, but along with the after math of losing her best friend and his sister, the pair has their own past issues to resolve before they can truly be together again.

  Raquel Byrnes blends contemporary, suspense, drama, and intrigue into one powerful novel. Don’t miss Purple Knot if you love dramatic romantic fiction. ~ Siren Book Reviews

  1

  Noble Island — Washington State

  Shadow Bay Estate

  I stared out the windshield at the gnarled branches scratching through thick fog. The black iron gate before me rose in jagged spires against a dusky sky, forbidding and stark in the sea of lush green foliage. I sank deeper into the seat of the leased sedan and chewed on a fingernail. This was my last chance to change my mind. I could still turn around, leave this dark and soggy forest, and fly back to the beaches of California. I told myself this even though I knew it wasn’t possible. My thumb went to my finger, to twirl the engagement ring that was no longer there. I stopped myself with a ragged breath.

  Don’t let me fall apart again, Lord. Help me have faith that despite all that’s happened, no matter how it looks right now, You haven’t left me.

  “Keep it together, Rose,” I whispered. My hand went to the polished mahogany box on the passenger seat, the smooth wood comforting under my palm. “This can be a good thing if you let it.”

  I’d flown the length of the Pacific shore to this little known island off the coast of Washington as if distance from my home would lessen the heaviness in my heart. Taking a steadying breath, the car rolled forward, gravel crunching underneath the tires. I drove up to the metal intercom box standing off the path. I rolled down my window, and a cold mist blew in my face. I gasped.

  Numbered buttons, yellowed and cracked with age, butted against a round speaker. A tingle of worry raced through me. Was I supposed to know some sort of code? Reaching into my purse, I pulled out the folded acceptance letter. I scanned it, re-read the conditions of my employment, and sighed. Nothing. I glanced back at the keypad and bit my lip, thinking. Gray mist swirled around the metal pole of the speaker, and a slow eddy of fog sent me shivering in my lightweight coat.

  “Don’t work,” a voice crackled behind me, and I yelped.

  A man, white-haired and crouched with age, leaned on a shovel near the rear fender. His long brown coat, tweed hat, and black galoshes made him look as though he belonged on the English moors.

  “W-What?” I put my hand over my racing heart.

  “Been broke for years,” he said in a thick Irish brogue and raised a shaking finger to the speaker.

  Forcing a smile, I unbuckled and got out of the warm car to face him.

  “My name’s Rosetta Ryan. I’m here for the caregiver’s position. Mrs. Tuttle hired me.” I held out a hand. The stranger glanced at it and then back at my face without moving. Clearing my throat, I looked down at the acceptance letter in my other hand wondering if he really was scowling or just wrinkly.

  “Name’s O’Shay,” the old man said. Raising a bushy white brow, he shook his head. “And you don’t look like a Carl to me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Mrs. Tuttle hired a fellow named Carl for the position.” He straightened up, grabbed the shovel, and walked past me to the gate.

  “I don’t understand,” I followed him to the iron entrance, my stomach quivering. “I came here to work.”

  “You from California?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Yes, how did you—”

  “Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a tan not likely to occur out here in the woods.”

  I smoothed a hand down the gold tresses that draped over my shoulders and attempted to undo the ravages of Washington’s constant moisture. “Oh.”

  O’Shay fussed with the gate’s lock, not answering. It pushed open with a plaintive moan, and he turned to me, waving his hand. “Well, you better go and talk to Mrs. Tuttle, then.”

  “Right.” I hurried back into the car and drove through. “Where do I go?”

  “Just follow the road on through,” O’Shay muttered. “Go on. It’s at the end.”

  “Thank you,” I said out the window as I passed him. He pulled his coat tighter around his frail frame and nodded.

  I drove slowly, the mist allowing for only a few feet of visible road. The sun now gone, a cloying blanket of vapor floated through the headlight beams. I’d never seen fog like this. Not even whe
n it rolled off the sea near my home on the beach. Gripping the steering wheel, I kept my eyes on the rectangles of light punching through the haze up ahead. Windows.

  The gravel gave way, and smooth asphalt curved around to the front of the house. I pulled up to the stone fence and stopped the car, heart racing.

  Lord, please give me courage to do this.

  And I did need courage. These past few weeks had proven that. The sobs, so familiar lately, threatened to rise from my throat, and I pushed them down.

  Grabbing the letter, I climbed out of the car and looked up at Shadow Bay Hall. Even shrouded by darkness and fog, the house emerged large. The picture from the Internet did not do it justice. Though I couldn’t make out the stone façade and sharp gables, the impression of size loomed in the shadows beyond.

  A wan orange light illuminated the double wood doors, and when I rapped my knuckles against them, the knock was barely audible. I tried again, harder this time, and searched the wall on either side for a bell. Finding it behind a scraggly potted fern, I pressed it, but didn’t hear an answering chime or ring.

  Probably broken, too.

  Shifting from one foot to the other, I hadn’t decided whether to try another door, or go find O’Shay, when footsteps sounded from inside. It eased open with a crackling complaint, and half a face peered out. A shock of silver hair over a matching brow and a clouded brown eye regarded me.

  “Yes?” The voice, a woman’s, sounded like old paper scraping in the wind. “What do you want?”

  “Mrs. Tuttle?” I said with forced cheer. “I’m here for the caretaking position.” I held the paper up for her to see.

  Mrs. Tuttle pulled the door back the rest of the way and took the paper. She squinted at it, sighed, and pulled a pair of bifocals from her sweater. She looked at me over the sheet, her rheumy eyes narrowed.

  “You’re not Carl.”

  My heart fell. I’d worried about this and talked myself into leaving for Washington despite doubts.

  “I know the letter is addressed to Carl Berman.” Tuttle’s gaze lowered to my jeans and flip-flops. Smoothing the blouse down with sweating hands, I continued. “But since the letter was sent to my home, has my address at the top, and mentions my references I thought…”

  “And you are?” Mrs. Tuttle shook her head.

  “Rosetta Ryan.”

  “Ms. Ryan, is it?” She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose with her finger and thumb. “You were not qualified for the job, young lady. We did not hire you.”

  My chest tightened. I shifted from one foot to the other, panic squeezing the breath out of me in puffs of vapor.

  “But…I left my life to come here.”

  “I understand, but…” Mrs. Tuttle looked at me with a raised brow. “Are you all right, Ms. Ryan?”

  Shaking my head, I couldn’t keep the tears from spilling onto my cheeks.

  “No.” My voice cracked. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  Mrs. Tuttle regarded me with pursed lips. She waved the letter. “Well just go back home. Go back to your family.”

  “I can’t.” I was not able the stop the sobs now. “I’m dead to them.”

  Behind me, a frigid wind blew across the ground and sent shivers rattling up my spine. I hugged myself and sniffled.

  A pathetic, weeping mess on a stranger’s doorstep.

  Shuffling footsteps sounded to my right, and I turned to see O’Shay climb the steps. “Might as well let her in,” he said and pushed past Tuttle. “Storms coming and she won’t be able to see her way out tonight anyway.”

  Mrs. Tuttle stepped aside as O’Shay walked into the house. She looked past me and scowled. “I suppose you planned on staying here when you came? Didn’t make any hotel reservations?”

  “I thought I would be, yes.” I shrugged helplessly and wiped tears from my face with my sleeve. Teeth chattering, I bounced on the balls of my feet, trying to keep warm. “I wouldn’t even know how to get back to the ferry in dark like this.”

  “Well, get your bag, then, Ms. Ryan.” Mrs. Tuttle stepped to the side, her eyes held mine. “You leave in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tuttle,” I whispered.

  She clicked her tongue at me and nodded towards the car.

  “Well, then, Ms. Ryan. Let’s not let all of the cold air in tonight.”

  “Oh, right.” Hurrying to the car, I pulled out my purse and my one large suitcase. I found some tissue and wiped my face, struggling to control the worry whirling through me.

  I lugged the suitcase up the stone steps past Mrs. Tuttle and into the large foyer. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the low light afforded by the sconces. The golden-orange glow of candles lit up the tapestry walls, and long brocade curtains swooped down on either side of large, wavy-glassed windows. A circular table sat at the foot of a winding staircase leading up to the second floor. Its marble surface was cracked and dusty, and the vase centered on it stood empty.

  “Did the power go out?” I asked.

  “We’ve had some difficulties due to the wind.” Mrs. Tuttle closed the door behind her and handed the paper back. “You can stay for one night, Ms. Ryan, in the servant’s quarters.”

  “That’s…thank you.” I took the paper and folded it slowly, my eyes on the empty vase. One night…and then what? Why did I always leap without looking? Still, it’s not like there was anything left for me back home in San Diego. Not after the trial. Mrs. Tuttle moved, and I realized she’d been talking.

  “You must understand, Ms. Ryan, we need a nurse, not a college student, to care for Mr. Hale. He’s quite advanced in age and needs an experienced caregiver.”

  “I graduated, Mrs. Tuttle,” I murmured. “I’m twenty-four.”

  She paused to purse her lips at me before continuing. “Nevertheless, we need someone with experience.”

  “But the job notice said that the position was for a companion with light caregiving duties. In fact, it specifically asked for someone familiar with alternative medicines. That is what I do. Natural remedies for minor illnesses, the ad was specific.”

  “Davenport Hale is a strong-willed man and he needs someone that is…” Mrs. Tuttle reached out. “Your coat, please.”

  I slipped it off, handing it to her.

  “I was able to convince him to put enough duties to attract an actual nurse, and that is who I hired. I don’t quite know what went awry with the post, but I’ll call the service in the morning.”

  I glanced around the interior of the old house. My gaze stopped on the mounted head of a deer, its glassy stare vacant and accusing at the same time. Shuddering, I folded my arms across my chest and tried to force my exhausted mind to concentrate on Mrs. Tuttle’s words.

  “So you see, it’s just not possible.” She finished, and I realized I’d lost track of what she was saying again.

  I forced a smile and shrugged. It seemed to be the right response because she nodded back.

  “Thank you for letting me stay the night. I’d probably crash out there in the fog.”

  “That’s not fog, dear. Back in London, now that is fog. This is just enthusiastic dew.” Mrs. Tuttle turned to hang the coat. “Leave your bag. Mr. O’Shay will bring it up for you. I don’t need anyone taking a fall down the stairs on top of everything else that’s happening.”

  I followed her up the carpeted steps. Reaching out, I ran a palm along the smooth bannister and wondered if Mrs. Tuttle was referring to my own unfortunate mix-up or something else that was going wrong. We walked along a hall at the top of the stairs, down a dark corridor, and up a second set of narrow wood steps to the third floor. The servant’s quarters, roughly the size of my walk-in closet back home, seemed bare and lonely.

  “The sheets are clean, and the bathroom is down the hall,” Mrs. Tuttle said. “I’ll trust you won’t wander?”

  The question caught me off guard.

  “Wander?”

  “You’ll remain in your room, Ms. Ryan. That is a condi
tion of your stay here.”

  “OK…” I wrinkled my brow, confused. “Why?”

  “Because you must,” Mrs. Tuttle snapped. “The lights are unreliable and the carpets are frayed. We wouldn’t want you to take a tumble.”

  I glanced at the smooth wood floor of the corridor but nodded.

  “I will stay in my room.”

  Mrs. Tuttle nodded curtly and pulled the door shut. Her footsteps receded leaving me standing in the small chamber listening to the creaks and settling sounds of the old house. Mrs. Tuttle’s abrasive manner did little to calm my thoughts.

  I dropped my purse on the bed and looked around. A wrought iron twin bed, nightstand, and an empty book case were all that furnished the room. Thin white curtains covered a shuttered, crescent-shaped window over the bookcase. They rustled softly as wind forced itself through a crack in the glass making a low whistle.

  Tired, I sat on the bed, arms around my knees, and fought back tears. Unsettled as this old mansion made me feel, come morning I had nowhere to go and just a bit of money left. Biting back the frustration, I hugged myself tighter, resolving to be strong. Still, in the ache of my heart, I wondered.

  I did what You asked, Lord, and lost everything. How could You let that happen? How am I supposed to have faith when it feels like You abandoned me right when I needed You most?