Survival Instinct. Rachelle McCalla

a narrow, grassmatted path. Glad for the added traction, Abby dropped her walking stick and picked up her pace to a jog. Two minutes later, the woods opened up to the wide sea before her. Had the sky been clear, she could have seen the lake’s northern shore, with Minnesota on the left and Canada off to the right. Instead an uncertain haze blanketed the horizon.

      With a glance at the lighthouse to her right, Abby turned off the trail to her left, surprised at how quickly she was able to locate the narrow rabbit run she’d followed only twice before.

      Her nervous stomach rose like a lump in her throat, and she realized she’d clenched her hands into tight fists. The ring finger on her left hand still ached, a reminder of Trevor’s threat. Forcing herself to relax, she prayed silently, Lord, please let the ring be there, and please help me find it.

      The small clearing hadn’t changed, its brownstone outcropping as solid as the island itself. Abby spied the distinctly shaped rock quickly and dropped to her knees, praying again as she lifted it, her eyes blind to the brassy coiled centipedes and moss-gray roly-polies that fled for cover when she exposed them to the light.

      The ring had not tarnished. Its gold was still vibrant, its central diamond brilliant. She grabbed it up, dropped the rock and poked the ring deep into the tiny fifth pocket of her jeans. Then she inhaled a cleansing breath and exhaled a prayer of thanks before heading back toward the dock.

      The downhill trek seemed easier now, and though she slowed her pace, the hike of just over a mile passed quickly. As she reached the southern end of the island and stepped free of the woods, she saw Scott heading toward the dock with driftwood in his arms. He smiled as she approached. “Back so soon? That wasn’t nearly an hour.”

      Abby shrugged. She didn’t bother trying to fight back the smile she felt at seeing him. He was such a handsome man, and with the ring now safely in her pocket, she could relax a little and enjoy being on the island with him. “How’s the search for driftwood going?”

      Scott looked down at the meager pile of wood he’d set on the concrete slab at the head of the dock, then turned his head toward where the older couple walked along the rocky shore, nearly out of sight around the curve of the island. “My stepfather,” he began, his eyes stormy, but then apparently decided against voicing his opinion. His expression softened. “I don’t suppose you’d want to show me the lighthouse?”

      His request brought a smile to Abby’s lips in spite of the fear she still felt. He wanted to spend time with her, too? “I thought you were spending this trip with your mother.”

      “I have, and I will.” His voice sounded resigned. “But I need a break. You were up there and back so quickly, and they’re busy enough with their bickering I’m sure they’ll hardly notice if I slip away.” He looked imploringly toward her.

      Abby’s eyes widened and she looked him full in the face for the first time. From close-up his face appeared more manly than boyish, with smile creases branching out from his eyes. She realized how much they’d both aged since college. “Sure. It’s right this way.” Suddenly self-conscious, she diverted her eyes from his face and focused instead on watching her feet as they made their way up the slick path.

      They reached the road and began the steady uphill trek. The woods quickly closed in behind them. Abby felt she ought to make conversation with her hiking partner to break the awkward silence, but the only thing she could think of was the need to confess their shared history, however long ago it had been.

      “You probably don’t remember me,” she started hesitantly, “but I believe we were at Northwoods College around the same time.”

      “Abby Caldwell,” Scott stated with assurance. “We had a poetry class together.”

      Abby’s heart nearly stopped, and one foot took a wild slip on a patch of slimy clay.

      Scott grabbed her arm, steadying her. “I’m Scott Frasier, by the way.” His grin was broad, and he looked pleased.

      “I remember,” she said breathlessly, far too aware of the stable, comforting grip of his hand on her arm. “You were on the football team. Starting quarterback. I went to every game.”

      Scott grinned. “So what are you up to these days?”

      “I live and work in Bayfield.” Abby tried to keep both her voice and feet steady as she continued up the road, Scott’s hand still on her arm. “Have you heard of the Eagle Foundation?”

      “They’re a conservation group, aren’t they?”

      “Yes, that’s right. I represent the northern Wisconsin region.”

      “I seem to recall you being active in environmental causes in college,” Scott noted.

      Abby giggled. It was a foolish, schoolgirl kind of giggle, and she immediately felt embarrassed, though the fact that Scott Frasier remembered anything about her made her giddy on a level she’d thought she’d left behind years ago.

      Before she could make a bigger fool of herself, Scott’s head cocked to one side. He dropped her arm and took a step back in the direction they’d come.

      Then Abby heard it—the distinct sound of a motor running, revving higher, much as the Helene had sounded when they’d first left the Bayfield pier. Concern immediately replaced embarrassment. “Is that our boat?”

      “I believe so.” Scott nodded and took a few more steps downhill.

      Abby moved soundlessly toward him, listening carefully for some indication that would tell them what the boat, now hidden by thick trees, would be doing running its motor when Captain Sal had promised to wait for them.

      “Perhaps he’s just going around to the other side of the dock. Maybe it’s a better spot there,” Scott suggested.

      Abby shook her head. “No chance of that. The west side of the dock is the only decent anchorage. On the east side the bottom is flat sandstone, which won’t hold an anchor.”

      “You know the island pretty well.” Scott sounded impressed as he picked up his pace and began to trot down the hill.

      “I spent most of one summer living here while I worked for the Park Service.” She just managed to keep up with him. A second later they cleared the edge of the trees, in time to see the Helene nosing for the gap between Rocky and Otter Islands.

      “Hey!” Scott shouted, waving his arms in the air as he raced after the boat. “Hey, where are you going?”

      He came to a stop near the end of the pier and Abby trotted up beside him, panting slightly, not just from the run, but from the oppressive fear she felt creeping up from her stomach to her lungs, its cold fingers gripping her, making it difficult to breathe. “He’s leaving us.” She could still see Captain Sal sitting at the wheel of the boat. He looked back twice and had to have seen them but made no move to communicate. Instead he hunched his shoulders, almost as though he was trying to shrink smaller and hide.

      “Why would he do that?” Scott stared out in the direction the Helene had gone, though she’d soon be out of sight around Rocky’s southern tip. “Do you think he forgot something? He said he’d give us two hours. It hasn’t even been one.”

      Abby shook her head, the fear sending shivers up her arms. She’d never liked Devil’s Island. It had only ever brought her trouble and heartache. And now she had a very bad feeling she was going to be spending far more time there than she ever would have wanted. “There isn’t really anywhere he could go and be back in that short of time. I think he was just waiting for all of us to be out of sight before he left. It looks to me like he’s headed back toward Bayfield but he doesn’t want to be seen.”

      “So he’s just leaving us here?” The Helene was out of sight now, and Scott turned back to Abby.

      “That’s what it looks like to me.” As she spoke, Abby tried to push back her fear.

      Scott didn’t like the helpless feeling that crept over him when he saw his mother, Marilyn,