Free Heart of the Storm by Mary Burton

takes with the other. Even the rose has thorns.”
    He studied her. “Cynical for one so young.”
    “Once upon a time I was quite the romantic. I dreamed of fairy-tale endings and white knights.”
    “But no more,” he said gently.
    The urge to let her guard down was powerful. Whether it was this place, Ben or the loneliness, she couldn’t say. She was so tempted to share her story and share her burden with someone else, but she couldn’t succumb.
    Rachel had learned to smile when times were the most tense. A smile had the power to deflect an unwanted question. “You must have seen many places when you were in the Navy.”
    Ben hesitated. He recognized the ploy. “Aye, I saw a good many ports.”
    “What was your favorite?”
    “For a woman short on answers, you do have a good many questions.”
    His rebuke caught her up short. “Most gentlemen would honor a lady’s desire to change the topic of conversation.”
    Ben shrugged. “Did I ever say I was a gentleman?”
    In truth, with his black hair, hardened features and powerful build, he again reminded her of a buccaneer. “No, you did not.”
    “Going forward, if you want to ask a question, I’ll answer it…provided you answer one of my questions to you.”
    She went silent.
    “I thought that would shut you up.” He took her elbow in his hand. She flinched, like a cat ready to spring.
    Ben released his hold immediately. Pausing, he allowed her to move down the path ahead of him. “You are a puzzle, Rachel Davis.”
    With effort, she kept her voice even. But she was angry now, not with him but herself. She was tired of being scared and measuring every word. “Not really. In fact, I’m somewhat of a cliché. Very ordinary, very forgettable.”
    “Rachel, you are anything but ordinary and quite unforgettable.”
    She didn’t want to be remembered. “You will forget me soon enough,” she said.
    “Doubtful.”
     
    It was a man’s nature to notice a woman.
    There were many pretty lasses on the outer banks, but Ben had seen none like Rachel. He appreciated the way a simple rope hugged her narrow waist; the way her long braid brushed the top of her backside; the way her chin lifted when she asked a question.
    This gal had been born to money and it dripped out every pore of her body. She might have been wearing Timothy’s spare clothes, but she bore herself as if she wore the finest ball gown.
    But her prim-and-proper ways hadn’t turned her into a cold woman. He’d seen the fire and curiosity spark in her eyes.
    He glanced down at her ring finger, remembering she’d said she was a widow. For reasons he couldn’t explain, it bothered him that she had belonged to another man.
    He watched as she moved down the narrow path that cut through the center of the island and snaked toward the Sound side of the island and the tiny fishing village.
    Soon she’d be gone from his life.
    Neither spoke the remainder of the walk. When they emerged from the thicket, they followed a wide cart path several hundred yards before rounding a bend and seeing the village.
    “The village isn’t like the city,” he said. “The village’s weather-beaten buildings likely will look humble to you,” he said. Many a survivor from a shipping accident had complained of the simple village and its lack of conveniences.
    Rachel stopped and, shielding her eyes from the sun, studied the collection of buildings. “On the contrary, they are quite charming.”
    He studied her, searching for signs of insincerity. But there were none.
    On the north end of town stood the general store run by Ida. Next to it stood Mae Talbert’s pub. She ran a clean place and had six rooms—none were fancy but all were spit-’n’-polish clean. Down the main dirt street stood a small white church with its new wooden spire added only last fall.
    Behind the building was the Sound. Piers jutted out from the sandy coastline into the waters. Today only a couple of boats bobbed from tethers tied to the docks.