Frozen Waters, page 1
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No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Kari Lee Townsend, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Kari Lee Townsend
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
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There’s nothing quite like having a sister. To my sister, Debbie Russo. Thank you for always being there for me, listening to me, and weathering our storms together. I’m so lucky to have you in my life. Love you lots. And to all the sisters out there who might be lost in a storm either physically or emotionally, just know you’re not alone.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by Kari Lee Townsend
Books by Kari Lee Harmon
1
“Hey, Charlie, I’ll have a beer.” Emma Ross flagged down the bartender at True North Tavern in Norfolk, Virginia.
Pop music filtered through the sound system while conversations hummed and silverware clanked against dishes. People were eating fancy seafood she couldn’t quite identify. Her stomach rumbled but not for that. Looking around the trendy bar and restaurant overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, she took in the clientele. Professionals, military officers, and college students. A far cry from The Claw, her family’s waterfront pub in northern Maine.
The nautical themed pub with its dim lighting and cozy ambiance would be filled with townies, fishing boat captains, and their crews right about now, eating fried clams, lobster tails soaked in butter, and king crab legs. She could almost smell it. Her mouth watered as a pang of nostalgia hit her. They would be singing along to classic rock from a local singer playing guitar on a stool in the corner while they watched a reality fishing show on a big screen TV above the bar.
Her brother, Jack, lived in the apartment above the pub while her parents owned an old colonial house in town. He helped them run the pub, planning to take it over when they retired, and he ran a snowplow business during the off season when business was slow.
Emma smiled fondly for a moment before her lips tipped down as she thought of home. She hadn’t been back since she’d graduated college from Virginia Tech as a meteorologist, but it wasn’t her fault. Work kept her busy, she thought, trying to convince herself that her absence was because of the job and not her past.
“Earth to Emma. Where’d you go?” Harvey Cooper Jones sat on the barstool beside her, pushing his glasses farther up his nose, then taking a sip of his red wine.
“Sorry, Harvey, I was daydreaming.” She pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands so just her fingers were sticking out.
“It’s good to dream. All we do is work.” He swirled the deep red liquid in his glass while staring into the contents as if mesmerized. “We could all use some R& R. This hurricane season had to be one of the most active on record.”
“Amen to that, my friend.” She played with the label on her beer bottle, peeling the edges up. Her version of a fidget device. She was always restless when she wasn’t working. It gave her too much time to think and being alone with her thoughts was a scary place for her. “And what’s with these crazy winter storms up and down the coast?” she continued. “Winters are getting shorter, summers are getting hotter, storms are getting worse. I swear global warming is going to do us all in one day.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love storm chasing.” His honey brown gaze met hers and held. “The work we do helps save lives, but we haven’t had any downtime in far too many months to count. I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?”
She lifted one shoulder. “It’s part of the job.”
Emma had met Harvey in college. He was a research technology guy who knew how to build and operate all sorts of meteorological equipment. He looked like that superhero, Black Panther, but the man was a lover not a fighter.
A petite woman with pink hair, lavender eyes, and tattoos slowly walked toward them, twirling a set of keys around her finger. A sly grin spread across her face and a sparkle shined bright in her eyes.
Harvey groaned. “Not again, Jo. Please tell me you didn’t.”
She shrugged. “I can’t help it that people underestimate me, Harv.”
“This isn’t the fifties, JoJo. You can’t keep racing people for pink slips.” Emma shook her head and took a sip of her beer while Harvey slid the glass of scotch he’d ordered for JoJo in front of her seat, his turtleneck straining at the seams.
“A deal’s a deal.” She wore a t-shirt and jeans, even though it was freezing out, but she liked to show off her pride and joy—the gator tattoo on her forearm. “Besides, no one’s gonna mess with me when they see me with my boy Harv here.” She slapped his bulging bicep then sat down on the barstool next to him and tossed back her drink, shooting him a wink.
Harvey just rolled his eyes.
Harvey had been roommates with JoJo’s brother in college. After Emma had recruited him for her storm chasing team, he’d told her he had the perfect driver in mind. JoJo Coletrain was from the Louisiana bayou and could drive and fix anything with an engine like no one he’d ever seen. She was fearless in the face of any storm, but she was terrified of lightning.
JoJo drove The Beast, their storm chasing vehicle she’d built from scratch, but didn’t venture outside of it. Harvey took the pictures, shot the 3D video footage, and placed the probes outside in front of the storm’s path. Emma read the radar, predicted where the storms would hit, and navigated their every move. They made one hell of a team, but even Emma could admit they would get burned out if they kept up at this pace.
“The National Weather Service has issued a warning for a Nor’easter to hit Maine in the next two days. With hurricane force winds and dropping temperatures, a blizzard is expected to leave a couple feet of snow in its wake if it moves inland. Gather your supplies, hunker down, and stay safe. Coldwater Cove is one town I would not want to be near come this weekend,” the news weatherman stated from the TV broadcast, looking grave.
Emma’s gaze locked on the TV screen. “That storm watch just became a storm warning. You guys up for another chase?” A watch was issued two to four days in advance, but a warning meant in twelve to twenty-four hours a storm was imminent.
Harvey’s eyes followed Emma’s. “Oh, Em, that’s about as far north up the coast as we can go. It would take us thirteen or more hours to drive The Beast. We’d have to leave first thing tomorrow morning if we wanted to beat the storm. What happened to our R&R?”
“I gotta say I agree with Harv on this one, Em. The Beast needs a few repairs, and we’re riding on fumes.” JoJo squinted at the TV screen. “That radar looks pretty intense, and lack of sleep makes a person sloppy. Sloppy and storm chasing don’t mix. You know that. I say we sit this one out.”
Emma was used to working as a team. She’d never chased a storm alone. She needed their help, but she understood their hesitancy. They didn’t know that she didn’t have the luxury of not chasing this particular storm. Not after what had happened.
She stood and paid the bill for all of their drinks. “These are on me. Stay and enjoy yourselves.”
“Where are you going?” Harvey arched a thick black eyebrow.
“To chase a storm.”
“You’re seriously going to go alone?” JoJo frowned.
Emma slipped her puffer jacket on and nodded once as she picked up her purse and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Harvey hollered from behind her. “Why are you so hell bent on chasing this particular storm?”
Emma glanced one more time at the TV screen above the bar before looking back at them both. “Because Coldwater Cove is my home.”
Gunner Nash stood on the dock of the marina in Coldwater Cove and stared out over the dark churning water, inhaling the scent of salt and sea. The sky was clear, but the air carried an icy chill like nothing he’d ever felt. It penetrated deep to the bone, and he welcomed the numbness that came along with that.
Gunner had been to and seen a lot of places, but there was something majestic and raw about Maine. Eerie almost. The rugged coastline with jagged rocks and snow-covered forests swept down to the sea, and peninsulas reached out like crooked fingers threatening to pull you in. Cliffs that were peppered with rocky shores and dotted with lighthouses stretched along both sides of the shoreline as far as the eye could see.
The marina remained open in the winter, but not many boats were docked. The town was a small seaside fishing village in the northern part of Maine with a humid continental climate. The winters were cold and snowy while the summers were warm. Direct strikes from hurricanes and tropical storms from June through November were rare this far north because of the cooler Atlantic waters, but nor’easters could hit between November and March.
When they hit in the winter months, they were the most severe.
As a Navy Seal, Gunner knew all of this, but he didn’t care. After what he’d been through, he welcomed the brutal winter. The dark and desolate ghost town, with the sun rising and setting early this far north, was exactly what he needed right now. He needed to be alone to decompress after his last mission. His superior officer had ordered him to take R&R and get his head on straight.
As if that was possible.
He clenched his teeth together, pushing the memories away, and glanced at his watch. Dinner time. No wonder his stomach was growling. His gaze passed the Harbormaster’s office and landed on The Claw, a waterfront pub that looked right up his alley. He headed in that direction. As he drew near, he heard the unmistakable rasp of southern rock music coming from inside and knew he’d made the right decision.
Gunner stepped through the front door of The Claw, and all eyes turned to him. After an uncomfortable moment, people went back to their conversations, and he relaxed as much as he possibly could. He’d been on alert and ready for action for years and didn’t know how to be any other way. Feeling the warmth of a fire burning in one corner, he gravitated in that direction. Scanning the room, he took in the big, burly young man with a long brown beard playing a guitar and singing in the other corner.
Gunner looked around at the rustic décor, filled with all sorts of antique nautical paraphernalia. The place wasn’t busy because most of the town hibernated in the winter and tourists were rare. He’d done his homework before coming here, wanting the isolation. Based on the conversations humming around the room, there were a few regulars talking about the weather and the ski season. They had high hopes for this year’s young athletes, both at the high school and up at the academy, to put Coldwater Cove on the map.
Gunner headed for the bar.
“Head’s up, Eugene.” A man who looked to be in his thirties, with thick dirty blond hair and sea-green eyes, slid a draft beer to an old man of the sea, sporting a long white beard and fishing cap.
“Much obliged, Jack.” The old man caught the draft without spilling a drop and then took a sip. He looked up and his eyes widened.
Gunner sat a couple seats down, taking off his olive-green parka and draping it across the back of the barstool.
“You’re not from around these parts,” the man named Eugene said.
“Nope.” Gunner glanced at the man.
“How tall are ya, Son?” Eugene squinted. “You’ve gotta be well over six foot.”
“Six-five.”
“Military?”
“Navy Seal.”
“I could tell by the haircut.”
Gunner nodded once.
“Not much of a talker, are ya?” The old man studied him as he chewed on a toothpick.
Gunner shrugged.
“Don’t mind Eugene. He talks enough for all of us.” The bartender gave the old man a meaningful look.
Eugene scowled then went back to his beer.
The bartender held out his hand. “Jack Ross. My family owns this pub.”
“Gunner Nash.” He shook Jack’s hand.
“What can I get you, Gunner?” Jack asked.
“Whiskey neat.”
Jack arched a blond eyebrow. “That kind of day?”
Gunner met his eyes. “Aren’t they all?”
The National Weather Bulletin flashed across the big screen TV hanging above the bar, warning the nor’easter was strengthening and looking to make a direct impact on the Cove. Suggestions were starting to roll out about evacuating the town if things got worse, inciting mutters of disapproval from the pub’s occupants.
Jack slid a bowl of steaming clam chowder and a hunk of sourdough bread in front of Gunner. “It’s on the house.”
This time Gunner raised a brow.
“The Claw has the best chowder in three counties.” Jack grinned. “That has to help improve your day.”
Gunner nodded his thanks and dug in. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was after arriving just that morning in town. He liked being in control and didn’t want to be without a car or his pack, so he’d driven his truck from coast to coast, stopping only when necessary. Besides, he liked seeing the country along the way, and weather of any kind didn’t scare him.
He was trained to survive the worst.
“That’s storm’s gonna hit early,” Eugene said. “I can feel it in my bones.” He massaged his large hands, gnarled from years of dedication to the sea, as he looked at Gunner. “Don’t know why you’d want to come to Coldwater Cove outside tourist season, especially with this monster storm heading our way.”
“You’re not leaving,” Gunner pointed out as he finished his bowl of soup and sipped his whiskey.
“Bah, you won’t find any of us regulars who call this small-town home willing to leave. People from Maine aren’t like regular folks. We’re built for storms. And I, for one, am too old and weathered to change my ways. But you just got here.” He narrowed his eyes. “You got a death wish or somethin’?”
Gunner stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. “Or something.”
Jack’s phone vibrated. He frowned at it before sighing as he answered. “Before you even start, we’re not leaving.”
He shook his head as he listened to the person on the other end of the line.
“Mom and Dad have a storm cellar in their basement in town, and I’ve boarded up the windows on my apartment above The Claw. We’ll take our chances, Emma.”
His jaw hardened as he listened to her talk.
“Well, maybe you should have thought of that before leaving Coldwater Cove. You haven’t been back in years, Em. They miss you.”
He looked sad as he listened again.
“I hope your job makes you happy.” Jack hung up and then tossed his phone in a drawer behind the bar, then poured himself a shot of whiskey. He met Gunner’s eyes and saluted him before tossing the brown liquid back.
The door to The Claw flew open on a gust of wind, and in walked another man who didn’t look like he belonged there. He wore designer jeans, a black wool coat, and black leather boots. His pale blonde hair was slicked back, not moving an inch as his piercing light blue eyes searched the room with anger.
The rumbling conversation came to a halt, even the singer stopped singing.
“Where’s Ford Clark?” the man ground out with a thick, foreign accent.
“What’s this about, Haanes?” Jack asked.
“My business is between the Clarks and myself.”
“I don’t want any trouble in my family’s pub. The last time you two were here, your brawl cost me more than insurance was willing to pay.”
“He deserved it then, and he deserves it even more now.”
“Don’t make me come around this bar and escort you out.” Jack swung his dishtowel over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be in town. It’s not safe.”
“Apparently no place is safe around these parts.” Haanes lost some of his anger, looking worried and visibly upset.
“Ford and Betty went on up the mountain to fetch their daughter, Mandy, from the ski academy on account of the storm headed our way,” Eugene spouted off, then rubbed his knees. “It’s gonna be a doozy.”
“Shouldn’t you be doing the same thing with your daughter, Westergaard?” Jack asked. “I’m sure the academy will evacuate until things blow over.”
“I was in the US on business. As soon as I saw the weather report, I flew my private jet here from NY. Only problem is, Astrid is missing.” His gaze hardened once more. “I know the Clarks are behind it. They’re trying to get rid of Mandy’s competition because Astrid has been beating her at the junior regional races. I’ll be damned if I’ll let them ruin my daughter’s chances of making the Olympic team after nationals. But first, I have to find her.”
