Free The Summer Hideaway by Susan Wiggs

every nerve lit by adrenaline, the pepper spray in hand.
    Claire gauged that she was about five minutes from the spot where her bag was hidden, going at top speed. As for George Bellamy, he would have no idea what became of her.
    She felt bad about that. She hoped he’d find his brother, and she hoped the Bellamy family wouldn’t drag the old guy back to the city and force him to submit to brutal treatment.
    The concern wasn’t enough to stop her.
    A shout from her assailant, however, definitely was. “Tancredi,” he said, his voice a rasp of pain.
    The single word—a name almost never uttered—froze her. It brought back everything she had left behind, including the person she’d been before she’d disappeared.
    She allowed herself a quick look back.
    Her assailant was on all fours, struggling to rise. Good. On all fours, he wouldn’t be drawing a weapon.
    The baseball cap had fallen off him, revealing a mane of salt-and-pepper hair.
    Oh, God. Mel . It was Melvin Reno, the only person Claire trusted with her secrets.
    She instantly switched direction and ran to him, dropping to her knees by his side. “Are you insane?” she asked. “You huge idiot, you shouldn’t have sneaked up on me. I could have done you permanent damage.”
    “Maybe you did.” He glowered at her through tears of pain.
    “Sit,” she said, noting the shocky gray cast to his face. “Pull up your knees at a forty-five-degree angle and put your head between them.”
    With a groan, he complied.
    “Breathe in through your nose,” she instructed. “Out through your mouth.”
    “I think you broke my face.”
    “Is your breathing okay?”
    “Just peachy.”
    “Then it’s probably not broken.”
    “I guess that’s the advantage of being a nurse,” he said, his voice muffled. “You can kick a guy’s ass and then put it back together again.”
    “I was doing exactly what I was trained to do. By you, I might add. Fight, run, ask questions later but don’t believe the answers, isn’t that what you always say?”
    He nodded without raising his head.
    “How bad is the pain?” she asked. “Subsiding any?”
    “Depends,” he muttered. “What if I say no?”
    “Then you might need to be checked out. An ultrasound can determine whether or not there’s a testicular fracture.”
    “A fracture? A fracture? ”
    “If there is, you’ll need surgery. Mel, I’m so sorry.”
    “In that case, the pain’s going away.”
    She winced, watching him try to catch his breath. He was the one person who could connect the dots between the quiet, studious Clarissa Tancredi of the past and the present-day Claire Turner.
    And she had just kicked him in the balls.
    “Sorry about kicking you in the balls,” she said again.
    “I’m not looking for sympathy,” he said. “If the target had been anyone but me, I would say I’m proud of you for knowing the moves.” He lifted his head and she studied his face—blunt features, kind eyes, a roughhewn handsomeness that had probably been more refined in his youth. It was a good face, approachable and trustworthy. There were few blessings in the life Claire had been given. But Mel Reno was one of them.
    He slowly climbed to his feet and limped to the side of the trail at the water’s edge, taking a seat on the ground. “So anyway,” he said, “thanks for the warm welcome.”
    “What were you thinking?” she said, annoyed. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”
    “Give me a minute.” He looped his arms around his drawn-up knees.
    She studied him, relieved to note his coloring and respiration already seemed to be easing back to normal.
    He took a deep breath and relaxed a little. “I called you yesterday. Why didn’t you call me back?”
    “I got busy, Mel. I’m sorry.”
    He frowned. “That’s not like you.”
    “Well, you didn’t have to come tearing upstate after me.” She always kept him informed as to her whereabouts. Otherwise, he worried.
    “I kind of wanted to see