Heart of the Storm by Mary Burton

and stopped fighting. She relaxed back against her pillows. Slowly the frown lines creasing her brow eased.
    Seeing her so distraught made him angry. What the devil had happened to her? Whoever the hell Peter was, he’d done one hell of a job of scaring Rachel.
     
    When Rachel awoke, the sun outside was bright, slashing through the window into the room. Her fever had broken and her head no longer pounded. Immediately she sat up in her bed, wondering how long she’d been asleep. Herheart racing, she frantically searched the room for a clock.
    How much time had she wasted? She had to get out of this place before Peter found her.
    She scanned the room for something to wear. She spotted a large shirt draped over the edge of her bed. Her head swam as she leaned forward and with a trembling hand grabbed hold of the shirt. Pausing, she took several deep breaths until her body settled.
    The shirt, no doubt that was Keeper Mitchell’s doing. Though clean, his musky scent still clung to the coarse, blue fabric. She lifted the sleeve to her nose and inhaled deeply. Oddly, his shirt had a calming effect on her. She felt safe.
    “There’s no such thing as safe,” she whispered.
    She yanked the fabric over her head and fastened the four buttons. Slowly she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor bit into her bare feet.
    The bed was still warm and it temped her. She’d have liked nothing more than to lie back and rest a few more hours.
    But Peter would soon return home. She had to find her clothes and move on. To her disappointment, her clothes were gone. Then she remembered the older woman—Ida—she’d said she’d launder the clothes.
    Relax. One step at a time.
    There was little concession to luxury in Ben’s room. As simple as a Spartan warrior’s, the room was furnished with a large chest by the bed, an old dresser and a worktable and chair covered with charts and maps. The walls were a stark white. No pictures or curtains adorned the room.
    Frustrated, she looked around the keeper’s room for more clothing. She rose. Her legs wobbled. She held on to the bedpost and waited as her legs grew stronger. When she was certain she could walk, she moved to the dresser in search of pants. She opened the drawers and found pants in the third one down.
    She held up the heavy cotton pants. They were Ben’s and clearly too large for her. She’d not be able to keep them up.
    Clothes. She needed clothes.
    Where was Ben? He would help once he saw that she was better.
    Ben’s shirttail brushed against her bare thighs as she walked to the window. It was cracked open an inch. A steady sea breeze blew inside.
    She inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh air and the unexpected warmth. The air here was so clean and unlike the city air, which always smelled of garbage in the streets and horse dung.
    She squinted against the bright sunshine as shestared over the sandy yard. To her right stood the lighthouse with its bold white and black stripe. It stood in sharp contrast to azure sky.
    Rachel looked up the spiral to the light tower at the top. The light was extinguished now, but she’d remembered the night of her rescue. It had blinked so bright. She’d clung to it while she’d been on the Anna St. Claire staring out the portal, knowing it was her only link to the land.
    Beyond the lighthouse stood the dunes. Tall sea oats swayed gently in the wind. There was a peace and serenity here that was so alluring. This was the kind of place she could call home. If not for Peter, she might have been tempted to stay awhile.
    Peter. Her skin prickled. She wondered what he was doing now. Had he arrived in Washington? Did he know she’d left? Time was running out. She could feel it in her bones.
    A light knock on the door had her starting and turning. She hurried to the bed, grabbed a blanket and draped it over her shoulders.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “It’s Keeper Mitchell. May I come in?”
    Immediately she felt her shoulders relax even as