One blue eye peeked out from beneath the mass of tangled dark hair an instant before a fist unceremoniously silenced the alarm for the third and final time. She groaned and made herself get up. It was either that or throw the alarm across the room again.
Long legs swung over the side and Pat Ryan immediately grabbed her head, wincing at the memory of tequila shots the night before. She straightened her tall frame and brushed long hair out of still-closed eyes. She walked into the bathroom without turning on any lights and stumbled into the shower, letting the cold water bring her around.
"Jesus!"
She quickly turned the knobs before sticking her face into the warmer spray.
One of these days, she would learn. She was getting too damn old for this, she thought wryly. The local guys down at The Brown Pelican always thought they could out-drink her and she was never one to pass up a challenge. Especially when it involved money.
She usually started her day with a jog along the beach, but not this morning. And it had nothing to do with tequila shots. She had to be in Rockport before dawn. Texas Wildlife Magazine had commissioned her to photograph nesting shorebirds and she had found a nest of newly hatched Curlews the day before. She was familiar with the Long-billed Curlews, after she finally found out their name, but the local birders in Rockport assured her that it was rare for them to nest this far south. Old Mrs. Davenport had offered her a hundred dollars to show her where the nest was located.
She shook her head. Birdwatching! What a total waste of time! She didn't doubt that the news was already on the birding hotline and she pictured a thousand Mrs. Davenports combing the area, looking for her nest.
She found her favorite baseball cap and pulled her hair through the back before grabbing her two camera bags and hurrying, somewhat gingerly, to her Jeep. The gulf breeze felt good on her face and she breathed deeply, the damp salt air bringing a smile to her face. She loved the mornings. Especially before dawn, when the tourists were still tucked safely in their condos and hotels, out of her way and out of her sight. Pat Ryan hated tourists. The normally peaceful Mustang Island was transformed, in the summer months at least, into total chaos. Bumper to bumper traffic on every street, hour long waits for the ferry, the beaches crowed and littered, not to mention the restaurants. Even the old dives that only served baskets of fried fish had long lines on the weekends. About the only place the locals could still go without worrying about tourists was The Shrimp Shack. The old building, tucked away off of the main drag, was in desperate need of a paint job. If the building didn't turn people away, the blaring country music from the jukebox would. That, and the colorful assortment of patrons who frequented the place. Tourists rarely ventured inside.
But Pat knew, without the tourists, the island would die. And she depended on their dollars as much as anyone. She had photographs for sale in nearly every gallery in Port Aransas, as well as Rockport. It hadn't always been that way. When she first moved here, she'd had to beg and plead just to get a few to carry her small prints and she'd relied mainly on her magazine credits to pay the bills. But she had made a name for herself as a wildlife photographer and most of the gallery owners came to her now. That was why she'd been toying with the idea of opening up her own gallery, selling only her on work.
It was ironic, really. Pat couldn't tell the difference between a Sandpiper and a Plover if her life depended on it, but she had a knack for capturing them on film. She had little patience for tourists, but she could sit for hours waiting for that perfect shot, if need be. She remembered the Great Blue Heron, her most famous photograph. She had found him splashing in the marshes around Copano Bay, seemingly playing in the water without a care in the world. But she found what he was playing with was a snake. She shot three rolls of film as the heron jumped, hopped, and splashed circles around the snake. She wasn't sure which one was hoping the other would be dinner, but she got a perfect shot as the heron bent low to the water, feathers ruffled, eyes wide just as the snake jumped vertical out of the water and over the heron's head. The expression on the bird's face was priceless and she had made a small fortune on the reproduction of that photo alone.
But that was five years ago, she reflected, as she waited for the ferry. Nothing had really changed, except she could pay her bills without worrying now. She still lived in the same old beach house, still drank the guys under the table at The Brown Pelican, still got up before dawn in search of the perfect shot, and still lived her life alone. She had thought that, at thirty-six, she might have found someone to share her life with by now, but she hadn't met anyone she could stand being around long enough to develop a relationship. Patience to wait for that perfect shot, she had plenty. Patience with people, women, she had none.
CHAPTER TWO
She stood at the edge of the grass and watched the sun rise out of the water, turning the sky into brilliant colors of pinks and reds. The cool breeze off the water lifted her short blonde hair slightly and she absently brushed it away from her face, her eyes never leaving the sunrise. Two Pelicans flew into her sight, crossing the sun, the colors bouncing off their white feathers and she watched them for a second, then slid her eyes back to the pinks and reds. Carly had missed this. It had been too many years since she'd been here.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Carly jumped as the voice startled her.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Cambridge. I didn't mean to sneak up on you."
"It's okay, Martin. I just didn't expect anyone else to be out here this early."
"I was at the site when I saw your lights."
Carly nodded. She couldn't believe the progress they had made on the Visitor's Center in just a few short months, but Martin had been pushing the contractors hard, trying to get it finished before fall, when the migration would be in full swing.
"Got some news last night," Carly said. "The Federal Grant passed. We'll have enough money to begin restoring the marshes now instead of next spring."
When Habitats For Nature had purchased the ranch last year, they found that most of the marsh land had been drained and filled in, then replanted with non-native grass for cattle. It would be a huge undertaking to try to restore it all to its natural state, but if they were going to make this preserve work, Carly had insisted that be their first priority. The migrating shore birds, ducks and especially the endangered Whooping Cranes relied on marshes for survival. Without healthy marshes, they would be hard-pressed to attract any wildlife to the preserve.
"I know that's what you've been most worried about, Dr. Cambridge. I've got contractors already lined up. We can start digging this week."
"Good. But please, stress to them again the importance of disturbing the land as little as possible. I don't want it to look like a construction site out there."
They began walking back to their vehicles and Carly turned once to look back at the sunrise, the soft colors having faded already, the sun sparkling bright now, only hinting at the heat it would bring on this spring day.
Martin showed Carly the progress they had made on the Visitor's Center in the past week. She had been in Washington, lobbying for their grant, kissing up to politicians, something she absolutely detested. One reason she had quit her job with the State was to get away from the politics of it all. When she started with the Parks and Wildlife Department, she had naÔve aspirations, thinking she could come in and change it all, clean up the rivers, preserve land for native species. But she quickly found that all things revolved around politics and money. That was why she had jumped at the chance to work for Habitats For Nature, a non-profit organization whose only goal was preservation. That and it afforded her the opportunity to come back to the Gulf Coast, where her family still lived.
"They should be through with the wiring this week, then we're ready to go full force on the interior. If the weather stays dry, another month and a half, two at the most," he assured her.
It wasn't that she was anxious to get the Visitor's Center ready for the public. It would be another year before they would open their gates for tours, but she wanted the staff in place and the field technicians out there when the fall migration started. Their bird count would determine how much of a State grant they got next year.
But she knew it would be several years before the habitat was back to its native state, several years before the wildlife would return for good. Oh, they already had deer, raccoons, skunks and most of the other small mammals native to the area, mammals that didn't rely on the marshes for survival. What she really wanted was to attract the endangered Whooping Crane. The Aransas Wildlife Preserve, which was federally managed, was only a mile down the coast from them. She saw no reason why the Cranes wouldn't find the new marshes eventually. But she knew the ducks would find it first, then shorebirds and wading birds. And unlike the Aransas Preserve, they would not allow hunters to come in during the fall. She understood the need to cull the deer herd, but she also believed it put an enormous stress on the other wildlife with hunters tromping through the woods firing guns. The previous ranch owner had run day leases and the first thing Carly had done was take down the tree stands that had been put up in the big oak trees that the ranch was famous for.
The second thing she had started, even before they broke ground on the Visitor's Center, was to begin renovations on the old ranch house, making it into offices for the staff and remodeling the upper floor for an apartment for her. Eventually they would hire a manager to live full-time on the property, but for now, she would stay here while they got things underway.
"My assistant, Elsa Sanchez, is going to be moving down this weekend, Martin. She's going to set up our computer system. I'll bring her around on Monday. I want you to show her the blueprints so she can get an idea of what we'll need. They supposedly have it all mapped out but I want her to take a look. I want the servers in the ranch house where the offices will be, but I want to network the Visitor's Center, too."
"She's the computer whiz you were telling me about?"
Carly smiled and nodded. She knew Elsa from college, but they'd lost touch soon after. Then she met Elsa again in Austin years ago when they'd both worked for the Parks and Wildlife Department. Elsa was a field technician and she had been assigned to work with Carly on a project involving the Edward's Aquifer. The development boom in the Hill Country was quickly draining the aquifer and they were studying the effects on the natural springs in the area. Actually, they were watching them dry up before their very eyes. Carly's face hardened as she remembered the political pressure of that study. Development brought tax dollars and her findings were swept under the rug for nearly two years until environmental groups protested loudly enough. The development had been curbed, but it was too little too late.
Elsa had been as disenchanted by the whole process as Carly had been. That's when she decided to change careers. She went back to school, getting another degree in computer science and adding a C.N.A. certificate to it as well. They had remained friends and Elsa had been more than willing to give up her networking job in the city for a chance to work on the preserve, combining her computer and networking skills with her love of protecting the environment.
"She's wonderful, Martin. You'll love her. And it'll give you a chance to brush up on your Spanish. She's gets on a tirade sometimes and loses me when she launches into Spanish," Carly explained.
Martin chuckled. "I'll try to keep up but the only practice I get these days in when I visit my grandmother."
Carly shook her finger playfully at him. "It's sad, Martin, when an Anglo such as myself knows more Spanish than you do."
CHAPTER THREE
"Good God, you'd think they'd never seen a goddamned bird before," Pat muttered under her breath. She stood with hands on her hips, surveying the crowd that lined the pond. Her pond. Her Curlews. She shook her head, cursing Mrs. Davenport. The old woman had no doubt been following her.
She tossed one of her cameras on the front seat in disgust then childishly kicked at her back tire. Of all the luck. She accidentally stumbles upon a nest of Long-billed Curlews, and because she doesn't know what the hell they are, she has to ask Mrs. Davenport.
"You've got a bird book. Why don't you learn to use it?"
Instead, she'd sought out the old woman. Big mistake.
"Oh, Ms. Ryan! There you are! Come have a look! We haven't spotted the nest yet."
Pat turned, a biting retort on her lips as Mrs. Davenport walked over, dressed in all her birdwatching garb. Pat pulled the bill of her cap lower and pierced Mrs. Davenport with ice blue eyes.
"Nice crowd. Must have hit the . . . hotline, huh?" she got out through clinched teeth.
"Oh, yes. This is big news," the old woman stated importantly. "I'm trying to get the local paper out for a picture."
"Great. Thanks a lot."
"Well, Ms. Ryan, I assure you, in my circle, this is very good news. Why, the Long-billed Curlew hasn't nested in these parts in years. Why, my dear departed Elbert was still in his prime the last time we saw them, and that was before Carla hit."
"Carla?"
"The hurricane, dear. Surely, you remember Carla?"
Pat Ryan drew her eyebrows together and tried another scowl on old Mrs. Davenport.
"Look, do you really think it's wise to have all these people . . . gaping at this nest? I mean, wouldn't it be tragic if the birds abandoned their nest and the poor babies were left to starve and die? All because you put it out on the hotline?"
Old Mrs. Davenport brought one hand to her chest, eyes wide.
"Do you think they're too close? I mean, we haven't even see the nest yet and the parents haven't flown."
"Oh, sure. They're just sticking around, trying to protect the young, but tonight, maybe they'll think, hey, what are we going to do when twice this many people show up? How are we going to look for food and protect them at the same time? Maybe we should just abandon the nest and head up north, like we usually do and start over. What then?"
"Oh, well I would feel horrible, of course. But these are birders. They wouldn't approach the nest."
Pat rolled her eyes. Birders.
"Look, I think you should just ask everyone to leave. I mean, is it worth it?"
But Mrs. Davenport held her ground.
"I see you have your cameras. Just like us. What's the difference?"
"I'm a professional. I know how to do this," Pat said.
"Just like you knew that they were Curlews, right?"
Pat rolled her eyes again, just in time to see a brand new Cadillac skid to a halt next to her Jeep.
"Oh, I see your Aunt Rachel heard the news, too."
Pat watched her elderly Aunt jump from her car, binoculars swinging from around her neck.
"Where are they?" she called to Mrs. Davenport.
"Wait," Pat said. "Not you, too. This is a protected area," she said lamely.
"This is public land," Mrs. Davenport corrected.
"Why, Pat, I didn't expect to see you here. Did you hear the news on the hotline?" her aunt asked.
"No. I found the goddamn nest. I should be the only damn person out here," she said, her voice rising with each word.
"Oh, pooh, you hate birds," her aunt said. "Come along, darling, show me the nest."
Aunt Rachel linked arms with Pat and drew her after Mrs. Davenport as they headed toward the pond.
Pat took a deep breath, clutching her camera to her chest as she hurried along beside her aunt, nearly choking on the perfume that hovered around her.
"You know, I'm shooting for a magazine. Maybe you could use your influence and get everyone out of here," Pat whispered to her aunt. "What do you say?"
"They're Curlews, Pat. Nesting. With young. We all want to see."
"And since when have you gotten into this?"
"Isn't it exciting, Pat?"
Pat rolled her eyes again. Her own aunt was decked out, head to toe, in birdwatching gear.
"Nice hat," she murmured.
"I got it at that cute little Birds and More shop on Austin Street."
"Looks great on you."
Aunt Rachel was really her only family. The rest had deserted her years ago. If truth be told, they had deserted Aunt Rachel as well. The eccentric old woman was a bit too much for her stuffy, Catholic family. Oh, the occasional Christmas card was exchanged and sometimes a phone call, but that was about it. Pat assumed they did that so they wouldn't be left out of the will.
"Come by the house for lunch, Pat," her aunt said. "I've some things I want to discuss with you. We haven't visited in ages."
Pat stood at the edge of the crowd, watching as the birders spied across the small pond with their binoculars, looking for the elusive nest. Then she grinned. Of course. They all knew there was a nest here. Somewhere. But only she knew exactly where it was. She could either wait them out or sneak around the back side of the pond. She doubted anyone in this crowd would be inclined to follow her through the mud and tall grass.
Oh, let them fumble around a bit. The sun was already too high anyway for a decent shot. She walked back to her Jeep, mentally planning another trip tomorrow morning, well before dawn. That way, maybe she could still get a few good shots before the crowd showed up.
"Pat? Wait," her aunt called. "We don't see them. Did you?"
"No. They probably hate crowds."
"Where are you going?"
"To your place."
Her aunt nodded. "I'll be along shortly."
CHAPTER FOUR
Carly walked through the dust of the downstairs and eagerly mounted the steps that would take her to her new quarters. A plastic dust cover was nailed at the top of the stairs and she moved it aside, stepping onto the newly carpeted hallway. She took a deep breath, the smells of fresh paint and new carpet a welcome change from the dust and debris on the lower level. It would still be at least another three weeks before the first floor was finished and they could start outfitting the offices, but the apartment was complete.
"What do you think?" he called.
"Nice. Clean," she called back. Then she walked to the top of the stairs. "But Martin, I'm not sure about moving in here yet. Not with the construction workers going in and out all day. I won't get any work done."
He shrugged.
"Well, then wait. I know it looks a mess down here, but they assure me only another three, four weeks tops."
Her current apartment, although small, was already set up with her computer and fax and other office equipment. She knew she would work much better undisturbed by construction workers, which were already beginning to gather. Before long, loud male voices called to each other and she rolled her eyes.
"I'll wait, Martin."
He chuckled but nodded.
CHAPTER FIVE
Pat stretched her long legs out in the hammock and closed her eyes. It was cool in the shade and the breeze off of the bay kept most of the mosquitoes away. She suddenly slapped hard against her face.
"Bastard," she murmured.
A quick nap, lunch with Aunt Rachel, a trip to Corpus to drop off the film she'd shot yesterday, then an early dinner. Maybe the Shrimp Shack tonight. Angel would be bartending. At least she'd have a female to talk to instead of the usual guys.
She sighed, willing sleep to come. She moved one leg to the ground and set the hammock in motion again. It was a warm day for April. She should really take advantage of it and be out looking for nests, not trying to sleep in a damn hammock. But she was still pissed off at Mrs. Davenport. Oh well, she could always just go to the Wildlife Refuge and bug the staff there to show her some nesting sites. She needed at least ten. So far, she had four.
She opened one eye when she heard the car approach. Her aunt. Guess the Curlews were safe again.
"Pat?"
"Out here," she called back. She rolled her head and watched her aunt, still decked out in her birdwatching getup, walk across the lawn towards her.
"Oh my, it's warm today, isn't it?"
"It's hot."
"I thought we could have lunch on the veranda, but I think we should choose the shaded deck in the back. I had Alice fix us up something nice."
Pat finally sat up and swung both legs over the side of the hammock. She pulled her cap off and shook out her hair, then tilted her head at her aunt.
"You haven't invited me to lunch in two years."
"Nonsense. You eat here all the time."
"I eat here if I happen to drop by during mealtime. Now, what's going on? You've got something up your sleeve," Pat accused.
Her aunt had the grace to blush, but lifted her chin in defiance. "Can't I simply invite my favorite niece over for lunch?" she asked as she turned and headed back to the house.
"Uh-huh," Pat murmured but dutifully followed after her.
She went into the house just long enough to wash up and steal a beer from the fridge. Her aunt was already waiting on the back deck.
"A beer? We have tea," her aunt offered.
"No, thanks," Pat said as she tipped up the bottle.
"Oh, hell. Alice," she called. "Bring me a Tom Collins." She turned to Pat and grinned. "You are a terrible influence on me."
"Yeah, well, we'll blame it on our upbringing," she said.
"You can hardly blame the Catholic Church for your drinking habits. God knows you blame it for everything else."
"Speaking of that, have you heard from them lately?"
"Your father called me at Easter. I'm sure it eased his conscience somewhat, being a religious holiday and all." She hesitated before continuing. "He did inquire about you."
"That's nice," Pat said.
"Well, the conversation was short, anyway. I'm sure he was just making sure I was still alive."
"Checking on his inheritance, no doubt."
Her aunt snorted. "As if he'll be mentioned in the will. And it's not like he needs any more money." Aunt Rachel reached out and grasped Pat's hand. "Speaking of money, why haven't you cashed the last few checks I've given you?"
Pat shrugged. "I don't need any money, Aunt Rachel. I've told you that."
"That's not the point and you know it. It won't hurt you to pad your accounts, in case you have an emergency of some sort."
"If I have an emergency, then I'll ask you for money."
"You are so stubborn. I sometimes wonder if you're from this family at all. Money is and always will be the most important factor in the Ryan family. Your great-grandparents are probably rolling over in their graves this very moment."
Pat laughed. "I'm sure they've been rolling for awhile and it's not because of money."
Aunt Rachel laughed too. "Yes, you're probably right. I'm sure they've turned several times over my eight marriages alone. Your being gay, however, was the last straw."
Pat managed only a ghost of a smile.
Aunt Rachel reached out and grabbed her arm.
"I'm sorry, Pat. Fuck them. We've got all we need right here."
At that, Pat laughed. It was a rare occasion that Aunt Rachel used the F-word. And usually, it was during a discussion about the family.
Alice interrupted them with a Tom Collins and a fresh beer for Pat. They smiled at each other and touched glasses before drinking.
"God, I love days like this," her aunt said. "Beautiful spring weather, sitting out here enjoying the day with you." She leaned closed and whispered, "You are my very favorite person in the world, you know that."
"You keep telling me that, although I don't know why," Pat said.
"Your parents are total fools. They have no idea the wonderful person you are. Or how talented you are. Or that you've grown into such a beautiful woman. I pity them. They chose to see only one thing about you and they couldn't live with that one thing. Well, too bad for them. I never desired children, Pat, I've told you that before. But if I had ever had them, I would have wanted a daughter, just like you."
Pat moved her hand across the table and grasped her aunt's wrinkled fingers in hers. She gave a slight squeeze then pulled away.
"Enough of that," Aunt Rachel said as she cleared her throat. "I'm too damn old for tears in the middle of the day. Now, I'm wondering if I should get you drunk first."
"Before what?" Pat asked warily.
"I have a rather large favor to ask you."
"Ask," she said. "We'll decide about drinking later."
Her aunt drew up her arms and rested her elbows on the table before speaking.
"Well, since you're a local, I'm sure you know about the Habitats For Nature project."
"What?"
"Habitats For Nature," her aunt repeated slowly.
At Pat's blank stare, Aunt Rachel slammed on hand on the table.
"Good God, woman, you make a living taking pictures of wildlife! Don't you keep up?"
"No. I go out, shoot, then I leave." At her aunt's piercing stare, Pat raised her eyebrows. "What?"
"You go out. What if there was no place to go out to? What if there weren't these wonderful projects that are trying to preserve nature? Then where would you take your pictures?"
Pat rubbed the cold beer bottle against her forehead, desperately trying to figure out where this was heading.
"Habitat For Nature," her aunt repeated slowly. "They bought the old Thompson Ranch."
"Oh, yeah," Pat said, finally remembering. "Up the coast from Aransas Wildlife Refuge?"
"Yes. Only the government won't have a hand in this. They have wonderful ideas, Pat. They are going to bring the marshes and wetlands back to their natural state. Can you imagine the wildlife?"
Pat stared at her, wondering when her aunt had turned into an environmentalist. For that matter, when had she started birdwatching?
"And your favor is?" Pat asked hesitantly.
"Well, I have become a contributor. A major contributor," she added as Pat stared at her. "In fact, I've even offered some input."
"Uh-huh?"
"Well, I was hoping you would volunteer your talents to them."
"What?" Pat demanded.
"They need some promotional material and they'll need photos for the Visitor's Center. Naturally, I thought of you. I told them I was certain you'd be thrilled to donate some time to this wonderful project."
"Are you out of your mind?" Pat demanded. "People pay money for my photos. That's how I make a living. That's why I don't have to ask you for money. Because I charge people for my photographs," she said, her voice rising slightly. "And, I don't have time. I've got six goddamned more nests to find and today was wasted because old Mrs. Davenport put it on the hotline, for Christ's sake!"
"Will you calm down?"
"You volunteered me already, didn't you? They think I've already
agreed to this, don't they?"
"I may have said you'd be thrilled to do this. I mean, you do make
your living out there in nature."
"Aunt Rachel, I just take pictures. I'm not really active in these things, you know? All those environmental rights people kinda make me nervous. They're strange."
"Oh, pooh," she said. "Dr. Cambridge is one of the nicest people I've ever met. She's devoted her life to preserving nature. She's got such a passion for it, I just couldn't resist. And, because funds are very limited, they don't really have the budget to hire a photographer. So, naturally, I thought of you."
"Naturally," Pat murmured. She leaned back in her chair and lifted her hair off of the back of her neck, letting the breeze cool her skin. And old Dr. Cambridge was probably as flighty as old Mrs. Davenport.
"I've arranged for you to meet Dr. Cambridge first thing Monday morning, on site. She'll show you around and give you some ideas on what they're looking for. Just a few nice shots for promotional material, posters, brochures, things like that. Something to send out to potential donors. And, of course, they'll need some really nice shots to display in the Visitor's Center."
Pat stared at her aunt, her eyes narrowing. "So, you've got it all arranged, do you? Just a few shots? Sure. It's not like I've got a goddamned deadline for this magazine! It's not like I've got six more nests to find!" she finished, her voice rising with each word.
But her aunt simply smiled and patted her hand.
"I knew I could count on you. And, Mrs. Davenport has agreed to show you some nests if you'll agree to show her the Curlews."
"What?" Pat demanded.
"Yes. In fact, she said there are Plovers nesting in her own yard."
Pat scowled. What the hell did Plovers look like again? Were they considered shorebirds? Damnation!
CHAPTER SIX
"Will you keep quiet?" Pat said for the fourth time.
"They're over there."
"I see the goddamn nest," Pat growled. Not only did she have to show Mrs. Davenport the Curlews, she had to suffer her presence at each and every nest that the old woman had shown her. She tried to ignore her, moving closer for another shot. Ruddy Turnstone. A drab brown bird until they flew, then beautiful wing patterns unfolded and even Pat had to admit that they were pretty. But she was really only taking shots now to appease Mrs. Davenport. She would come out before dawn and photograph the nests early, just at feeding time. And, she would come out alone.
"I think that's enough," Pat said.
"You didn't get very close."
Pat tapped her 500 mm lens. "Close enough."
"Do you want to see another?"
Mrs. Davenport had shown her seven nests, two on her own property. The thought of spending any more time with the old woman hovering over her shoulder did not appeal to Pat. Not that she wasn't already in her debt, but the entire Sunday was nearly gone.
"I really appreciate you showing me the nests, but I've got enough for now. I think I'll just head back to the island and start developing these."
They crept back along the marsh quietly and Pat tossed her camera bag in the back of the Jeep. She laughed quietly as Mrs. Davenport tied a scarf around her hat. It had blown off earlier in the opened Jeep and they had to turn around to retrieve it after she'd insisted to Pat that it was her lucky birding hat.
She dropped Mrs. Davenport off at her bayside house, just across from Fulton beach. She thanked her again, a bit grudgingly, and headed back to the island. If there was one person in the birding community that she hated being indebted to, it was Mrs. Davenport. She would never live it down.
But she didn't make it to her house. She stopped at The Brown Pelican instead. Beer and pool. Sounded like just the thing she needed to unwind after spending the entire day with Mrs. Davenport.
"Pat."
"Hey, Shorty," she called. "Where's your partner?"
"Oh, his wife made him go to some birthday party," he said as she pulled up a barstool next to his.
"And you? Your wife run you out again?" She nodded at Sam as he placed a draft beer in front of her.
"No, she's in Corpus shopping. I'm a free man today."
"Hell, Shorty, you spend more time here than at home anyway."
"And where were you last night? We had a tournament. Me and Davey came in second."
"Yeah? I drove by but it was packed. I went to the Shack instead."
"You should have come in. Had some biker chicks in here. Looked kinda dangerous. Right up your alley."
Pat snorted. She wanted no part of the biker chicks. She'd tried that last year and had woken up in a hotel room with three naked women in bed with her, not recalling what had transpired. She did, however, remember the empty tequila bottle.
"No, no, Shorty. Did that last year. Had a hangover for three days."
Shorty laughed. "I remember. Four of them, right?"
"Three."
"Damn, woman, you have all the fun."
Pat let a ghost of a smile cross her face. Fun? Well, maybe at the time. She couldn't recall. It was after that episode that she started to realize how empty her life really was. Three women in bed with her and she didn't even know their names.
"Fun. Right. That's me," she said dryly.
"You want to get up a game?" he asked, motioning to the pool table.
"One game," she nodded. "I've got to go to Corpus. Then an early date over in Rockport tomorrow." An early date with old Dr. Cambridge. She could hardly wait.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carly laughed when she bit down on the lime wedge, the tartness nearly bringing tears to her eyes.
"God, I can't remember the last time I've done tequila shots." She placed the lime wedge inside the empty shot glass and reached for her beer mug instead.
"Me, either. College?"
They were sitting on the floor of Carly's crowded apartment, catching up. Elsa Sanchez had gotten there early that morning and Carly had helped move her things to the apartment next door. Elsa was nowhere near settled in but they had called it a day and ordered pizza instead. Now, empty beer bottles and a half-eaten pizza lay scattered on the floor around them.
Maybe it was the tequila or maybe it was just being around Elsa after all this time, but the mention of college brought back a flood of unpleasant memories.
"Jesus, Carly, that still get to you?"
Carly nodded.
"I'm sorry, chica. But it's been nearly ten years."
"And it could be a hundred years and it would still get to me."
"But the last time we talked about it, in Austin, you said you didn't even think about it anymore."
"I don't think about it, Elsa, but that doesn't mean that it's not still there. It'll always be there."
Elsa shook her head sadly. After all these years, her friend still couldn't let go of the pain and betrayal.
"She's taken so much of your life, Carly. Why can't you just let it go?"
"I have let it go, I just haven't forgotten."
"And that's why there's been no one else?"
"There'll never be anyone else." Carly sighed. Yes, Carol had taken so much of her life, nearly all of it, she remembered. She looked up and met Elsa's eyes. "Did you know I almost killed myself?" she asked in a whisper.
"Over her?"
Carly nodded. "A few months after she left, I had a bottle . . . I hadn't been sleeping . . . I had a prescription . . . and I had all the pills in my hand, a bottle of whiskey and I just wanted it to be over," she said quietly.
" Mi Dios," Elsa whispered.
"She had already taken everything else. My money, my love, my dignity, not to mention a car, furniture and jewelry, why not my life?"
"What happened?"
Carly smiled. "My mother called."
Elsa squeezed her hand.
"Mom could always make me feel better, no matter what. That time was no different." Carly leaned back against the sofa and brushed her hair away from her face. "But I decided that night that I would never, ever give myself to someone again. I will never be used like that again. She took every last shred of dignity I had, Elsa. And she laughed about it. God, I remember how she laughed. I was so stupid. So naÔve. No, I'll never do that again."
"You'll meet someone," Elsa insisted.
"No. I won't. I don't want to. My life is full. Especially now. I've got this wonderful project here, I'm close to my family again. They've included me in everything. I don't need anyone else in my life. I know that, I've accepted that. Any love I have to give, I give to my nieces and nephews. I'm happy with that."
"Carly, everyone needs someone."
"You're single," Carly stated.
"Yes, but only because I haven't found Mr. Right. It's not because I've decided there is no Mr. Right and I've quit looking. He's out there somewhere. I just know it."
"Well, I hope you find him. But for me, no. I just can't take that chance again. I lost too much the first time."
Elsa nodded and patted Carly's hand lightly.
"Enough of that. Let's have one more, then I'll flip you for the last piece of pizza," Elsa suggested.
"Oh, no. No more. I'll feel like hell the way it is. I'm meeting a photographer in the morning. Remember I was telling you about Rachel Yearwood, she's one of our major donors. Well, she said that her niece has volunteered to shoot the promotional material we need, as well as some photos for the Visitor's Center."
"Is she a real photographer or just your weekend variety?"
"I think she's real. Rachel said she does it for a living," Carly said as she began cleaning up their mess.
"That's wonderful, then. I think it's great that so many people are volunteering for this project."
"Yes. It is coming together, isn't it?"
"Do you need me to come with you?"
"No, no. You have plenty to do here. Tomorrow afternoon, I'll take you on the grand tour. Martin will have all the blueprints. They've run cables and all, but you'll need to take a look and see if there's anything we missed."
"Okay," Elsa said as she reached for the last piece of pizza. "You weren't going to eat this, were you?"
"My God, we ate a large pizza," Carly stated. Then she looked at the tequila bottle, nearly half gone. "You're a very bad influence, Elsa Sanchez."
"Be quiet," she said and shoved the rest of the pizza in Carly's mouth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pat stopped her Jeep at the gate, wondering if she was at the right place. There were no signs. She stepped out, pulling her cap more firmly on her head and walked to inspect the gate. The chain hung loosely, but it was unlocked.
She shrugged, then opened it. If she were at the wrong place, she would find out soon enough.
The dirt road wound through oak motes and open fields before leading her to an obvious construction site. Most of the activity was centered around a new building but several vehicles surrounded an old ranch house. After a moments hesitation, she drove to the ranch house, parking well out of the way.
She slipped one camera around her neck, then slung the camera bag over a shoulder. Her sunglasses shielded her from the bright sunshine and she looked around, looking for anyone that might be looking for her.
She finally found the one person that looked out of place. A small blonde woman wearing tan shorts and a white blouse tucked inside. She was talking to one of the construction workers. Perhaps she knew where Dr. Cambridge might be.
Carly stopped talking as she watched the tall woman approach. Dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and covered with a ball cap. Her white shorts only accented her tan and Carly's eyes held fast to muscular thighs. She raised her eyes finally, watching in fascination as the woman pulled off sunglasses and folded them, tucking them neatly at her neck. Her eyes were bluer than a winter sky.
"Excuse me. I'm looking for a Dr. Cambridge."
Oh dear Lord. Those eyes. Carly could only stare.
"Ah, this is the Habitats For Nature place, right?" Pat asked, looking around. Shit, I'm probably at the wrong damn place.
Carly finally came to her senses and cleared her throat.
"Yes, it is."
Pat flashed her a relieved smile. "Good. Is Dr. Cambridge around? I'm Pat Ryan. I'm supposed to meet her this morning."
Carly nodded, finally finding her voice.
"I'm Carly Cambridge," she said.
It was Pat's turn to stare. This was old Dr. Cambridge? Surely not.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
"I mean, I was expecting someone older. Not that this isn't a pleasant surprise," Pat said, recovering. She stuck out her hand. "Nice to meet you."
Carly took her hand briefly and smiled in return.
"Someone older?"
"Aunt Rachel didn't elaborate. I just assumed," she said.
Carly smiled at the mention of Rachel's name. She had become a friend over the months that they had corresponded.
"Rachel is a wonderful woman. We have quite a few donors already but none that are as sincere as she is. She really cares about this project. I'm so glad that you do, too. It's difficult finding a quality photographer, especially one that gladly volunteers their time."
"That's me," Pat said lightly.
"Great. Well, let's head out and I'll show you around. Of course, we'll want shots of the Visitor's Center, but I don't think it's necessary to get the ranch house. We're redoing this for office space, mostly. We'll be starting on the reconstruction of the marshes and that'll take much more money than we have. We're hoping that you'll get some great shots of that. The bay area is relatively undisturbed, thank goodness, and I'm sure you'll have plenty there that suits you."
Pat followed behind Dr. Cambridge, trying to follow her ramblings but her eyes were locked on her backside as she walked. This might not turn out to be such a bad assignment after all.
Carly stopped at the edge of the Visitor's Center, very conscious of the silent woman walking behind her.
"Do you want to go inside today or would you rather wait until off hours when the workers are gone?"
Pat looked through the windows at the workers milling about and shook her head.
"No. Not today."
"Very well. Let's take my Jeep and I'll give you the tour. After that, I'll let you wander around alone. You can come out here anytime, the gate's unlocked during the day."
"I like to work early mornings or late afternoon," Pat said. "The colors are much better then. Not so bright."
"Well, I guess I can always give you a key to the gate. You're free to come and go as you like."
"Thanks."
Dr. Cambridge's Jeep was much newer than her own. Pat immediately rolled the window down and stuck one arm outside, moving her eyes away from the woman and focusing on the sights around her.
Carly watched as Pat Ryan shoved sunglasses on, covering those beautiful eyes. Beautiful? Where did that come from? She pulled away, moving down the dirt road to the bay.
"We'll extend this road into the woods. It's so grown up in places, the oak motes have nearly disappeared with all the brush. We'll make a loop around the marshes and have places for people to stop and watch the wildlife, but most of the marshes will be off limits to the public."
"If it's off limits to the public, what's to draw them here?" Pat asked.
"We're not a resort or State Park," Carly said sharply. "This preserve is for the wildlife, not the people."
Pat turned and looked at Dr. Cambridge, raising one eyebrow above her sunglasses. "But again, if I'm not allowed to see the wildlife, why should I donate money?"
"Perhaps you should try the zoo, then," she said curtly.
Pat laughed and it caught Carly by surprise.
"Is that what you'll tell your donors?"
"Most of our donors understand the purpose of this preserve. And they'll still see plenty of wildlife. Ducks and shorebirds are not usually disturbed by a few cars and people milling about. And the deer will become accustomed to cars, too. Once they get past the fear of being hunted, that is."
"If that's the case, then why limit access?"
Carly sighed, exasperated. Was she a photographer or a politician?
"We're not a publicly funded preserve," she said slowly. "It's technically private land. We're making it accessible to the public for their enjoyment, but we don't have to."
"You're making it publicly accessible so you'll get donations. If it were to be strictly private, no one would give you money."
"Look, Ms. Ryan, obviously you don't understand the concept behind Habitats For Nature. Native land is scarce. And this," she said, waving her hands around her, "is hardly native anymore. The marshes have been drained. Cattle have grazed here on imported grass. The natural landscape has been changed to suit man's needs. The ducks and shorebirds have disappeared. Our main concern is returning this land to its natural state. With the help of donors, yes. People who love this land and want it restored. For that, we're willing to open it up, minimally, to the public."
An environmental nutcase, Pat mused. Why couldn't she have been an old Dr. Cambridge? Pat flicked her eyes over the small woman sitting beside her. Her blonde hair looked like it was in need of a cut and she had it tucked behind her ears. Her arms and legs were tanned and she noticed the fingers that drummed against the steering wheel impatiently. She was too damn cute to be an environmental wacko.
"I apologize, Dr. Cambridge. What do I know about it? I'm just a photographer."
"Can I ask you something, Ms. Ryan?"
"Of course."
"Why did you volunteer for this?"
Pat cleared her throat and grinned.
"Well, I didn't exactly volunteer. It seems my aunt volunteered my services without asking."
Carly stared, her mouth opening slightly. Rachel Yearwood had come to her, saying her niece had graciously offered her services, free of charge, all for the benefit of the preserve.
"I see."
"I'm not really into all this nature stuff," Pat admitted.
Great. Just great. Could she even take pictures?
"You are a photographer, right?"
"Yes, of course."
Carly nodded. "Well, if you were coerced into this, I'll understand if you bail out now. In fact, we probably would do better paying someone. At least then, they might actually care about what they shoot."
"Hey, look. I make my living shooting wildlife. Forgive me if I'm not political about it."
Carly let out her breath, her impatience with this woman growing thin.
"Ms. Ryan, we all have different agendas in life. Ours, apparently, don't seem to cross paths. However, we are in need of a photographer and our budget doesn't exactly allow us to hire one. If you're not able to do this, perhaps you know someone in your profession who might be willing to lend a helping hand. Time is what we don't have. Our resources will run out by the end of summer without new donations. We're planning on starting on our mailing lists by mid-May, at the latest and we would like to have a brochure put together by that time."
"I didn't say I wouldn't work for you, Dr. Cambridge. I promised Aunt Rachel," Pat said. "Just don't expect me to go door-to-door with you, looking for donations."
"Fair enough. We do appreciate your sacrifice," she said.
Pat laughed again, again surprising Carly. She had intended her comment to be an insult. Apparently, this woman was too thick-skinned to even realize it.
CHAPTER NINE
Carly was still trying to recover from her encounter with the insufferable Pat Ryan when Elsa knocked on her door.
"I thought I heard you," Elsa said. "You've been banging."
"The photographer is a jerk," she said.
"A jerk?"
"Yes. She probably voted for Bush. She cares nothing about this."
"I thought she volunteered."
"So did I."
Carly couldn't understand why she let the woman upset her so. It's not like she'd not met hundreds of others just like her. But the fact that she made her living taking pictures of wildlife without having an inkling as to the destruction around her was just something Carly could not comprehend.
"So, we're still looking for a photographer then?"
"No. She's going to do it. We don't have time or money to find someone else."
"Okay. But do you even know what kinds of pictures she takes? I mean, she might suck," Elsa said.
"She's a wildlife photographer. Surely she can manage this."
"But still, we should check her out," Elsa said, moving to Carly's computer.
"What are you doing?"
"Maybe she's got a website," Elsa said and she was already doing a search when Carly looked over her shoulder.
"Pat Ryan Photography. Port Aransas."
Elsa clicked on the link and Pat Ryan's blue eyes appeared on the screen, staring right at Carly.
"Dios," Elsa murmured. "She's a goddess."
Carly had to admit that she was quite attractive. It was only when she opened her mouth that she became insufferable.
"Check out the pictures, Elsa," Carly said lightly, pointing to a link.
Then they both laughed as a startled Great Blue Heron appeared before them, snake and all.
"She took that?" Elsa asked. "I've seen that photo several times. In fact, I think I have a coffee mug with it on it."
Other photos lined the page and Carly's eyes were drawn to a doe and fawn, hiding in the trees in the early morning. The doe's head was turned, across the fawn's back, looking right at the camera, the big, brown eyes full of trust as if knowing the photographer would not harm her baby.
"Great shot of the Whooping Crane," Elsa said, pointing to one where the sunrise engulfed the beautiful white bird.
Carly stood up and nodded. Pat Ryan certainly had talent, that much was evident. She should be happy to have her working on this project. She looked again at the photos, all so carefully constructed, as if she'd set a stage for the wildlife she'd shot. If she didn't know better, she'd say that all the photos were made with love of the animals and the nature surrounding them. Not by some woman who barely gave notice to the destruction of the very things she took photos of.
"Well, I suppose I'll have to tolerate her views. You're right. She's good. We can't very well turn down talent like this. Maybe just having her name on this project will help with donations. She's obviously successful." She didn't add that she, too, had a coffee mug with the heron's face embellished on the side.
"Come on. Let's go out to the site and I'll show you around. Time to get to work."
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