High Noon

to smile. “Not so bad. You just popped into my head as someone to call. I shouldn’t have.”
    “Don’t be stupid. What happened?”
    “Duncan…Since I did call, and you did come, I need to go somewhere for a couple hours, so I can fall apart and put myself back together again before I go home. Can you just take me somewhere quiet for a couple of hours? Big favor, I know, but—”
    “Sure I can. Are you sure you can walk?”
    “Yeah.” When she started to rise, he slid an arm around her waist, drew her up with the care of a man lifting a fragile work of art.
    “Lean on me.”
    “I already did, calling you out here.” And God, it was a relief to put a little weight on someone else. “I didn’t even think you might be busy with something.”
    “Me? Idle rich.” He dug out his sunglasses as she winced and turned her face away from the glare. “Put these on. That’s a hell of a shiner you got coming up. What’s the other guy look like?”
    This time she couldn’t manage the smile. “I wish I knew.”
    It could wait, he told himself. The questions could wait until he got her inside, got her settled. Got her tea or something. He helped her into the car, hooked her seat belt himself. “Let’s put you back a little.” He eased the seat back. “How’s that?”
    “It’s good. It’s fine.”
    “Did they give you anything for the pain?” he asked when he got behind the wheel, and she tapped the purse Liz had brought to the hospital with her.
    “Good drugs. Got some in me right now. I’m just going to close my eyes if you don’t mind.”
    “Go ahead. Try to relax, rest.”
    She didn’t sleep. He could see her hand fist. It might relax for a moment or two, but then it would fist again as if she was determined to hold something tight inside it.
    Bandages bound her wrists, and baffled him. If she’d been in an accident, why hadn’t she contacted her family? And what sort of accident injured both wrists, bruised up the face and caused enough injury otherwise to have a woman walk as though her bones were brittle glass?
    So it hadn’t been an accident.
    As other options began to circle in his mind, he shut them down. No point in speculating, not when speculation—where were her clothes?—sent him into a minefield of possibilities.
    He gave her silence. He’d hauled enough passengers in his time to know what people wanted. Chat, debate, information, quiet.
    Phoebe wanted silence.
    She barely moved but for that restless hand-into-fist over that span of bridge from mainland to island, as he passed the marshes and creeks and drove through the green tunnels of arching trees.
    Only when he slowed for the last turn, eased to a stop, did she stir and open her eyes.
    He’d gone for grand with the house, leaning on traditional elegance and adding bits of quirk with the widow’s walk that topped it like a crown. Oaks draped with moss fanned around it, strong accents for the soft blue with its delicate white trim. Gardens—azaleas just ready to pop and burst—flowed out and about in a casual way that turned the grand into charming.
    Pots and baskets of mixed flowers decked veranda and terrace along with gliders and generous chairs that invited visitors to sit awhile, relax, have a cool drink.
    “It’s beautiful.”
    “Yeah, it’s growing on me.” He got out, came around to her. “Let me give you a hand.”
    “Thanks.” She leaned into him. “Really. Thank you, Duncan.”
    “No problem.” He led her to the steps, up to the veranda to the door with its Celtic knot in stained glass.
    “How long have you lived here?”
    “I guess about five years now. Mostly. I figured I’d sell it, but…long story.” He gave her a quick smile as he unlocked and opened the door.
    Golden light basked over rich colors, a wealth of space sweetened by curves from the elegant staircase, the wide archways. She moved beside him, stiffly, across the foyer into the parlor. There the atrium doors opened to a terrace, and beyond that more gardens danced, centered by an arbor where wisteria climbed and twined in a riot of beauty.
    A piano angled to face the front windows, while chairs and divans in soft grays to offset the strong burgundy of the walls sat in groups. There was art on the walls, and she had an impression of marsh and river, Georgia dreamscapes along with a mix of antiques and the odd touch of a fat ceramic pig.
    When he would have led her to a seat, she stepped away, crossed to the glass doors.
    “I