Gift of Fire

him. All of them, from his morning meditation to the cup of perfectly brewed tea he would enjoy later, were part and parcel of his carefully organized, neatly self-contained world. He did not like to forego even the slightest of his chosen routines.
    But he had little hope this morning of stilling his mind to the point where he could slip into a meditative trance. Too many questions were swirling in his head; too many dangerous possibilities were materializing.
    The morning run would have to do, he decided. He went out through the back door of his beachfront cot ­ tage, the Rottweiler at his heels.
    Croft was wearing only a pair of jeans, and if there had been a woman watching she would have found the subtle shift and glide of his shoulder muscles fascinating. A healthy, trained and controlled power radiated from the man. But there was no one to see the easy masculine grace with which Croft moved. Croft had never brought a woman to his isolated home on the Oregon coast.
    Five minutes later man and dog were loping easily across the glistening sand at the water’s edge. The light and energy of a new day filled the air and Croft and the dog drank in the essence of both as they covered the ground toward the distant point of land at the end of the beach.
    As his body fell into a strong, easy rhythm, Croft found his mind wandering to the one totally unknown and unpredictable piece in this new puzzle—Miss Mercy Pennington.
     
    Mercy eyed the huge stack of romance novels and mysteries that had just been plunked down on the counter near the cash register. She tried to keep all hint of mercenary satisfaction out of her eyes as she smiled at the woman on the other side of the counter. Christina Seaton was an excellent customer. She could be counted on for a minimum purchase of twenty paperbacks a month. Mercy experienced a pleasant tingle of antici ­ pation whenever Christina came through the door of Pennington’s Second Chance. She told herself that only another small business person could fully understand the nature of her fondness for this particular client.
    “Will that be all today, Christina?”
    Christina grinned. At thirty she was a couple of years older than Mercy and had a freshly scrubbed attractive ­ ness that perfectly suited her designer jeans, loose knit sweater and expensive loafers. “Are you kidding? My kids will have to go without shoes this month as it is.”
    Mercy laughed. Very few children in Ignatius Cove were in danger of going without shoes or anything else their little hearts desired. The small town north of Seattle was an enclave of prosperous, upwardly mobile types, most of whom worked in the city but preferred to raise their families in a small town environment. Ignatius Cove had the best of both worlds. They were close enough to Seattle to enjoy its urban benefits, but they had all the fun and ad ­ vantages of living in a self-consciously quaint village at the water’s edge.
    Mercy had been well aware of the distinctive quali ­ ties of Ignatius Cove from the moment she had discov ­ ered it. When she had begun searching for a place to open a bookstore two years before she had known ex ­ actly what she wanted: a community of the affluent and educated, potential book buyers who had the cash to in ­ dulge their interests. Ignatius Cove fit the bill perfectly.
    Mercy didn’t attempt to compete head on with the one other bookstore in town which specialized in newly released hardcover bestsellers and art books. Instead, she had gone for the thriving secondhand market, sup ­ plementing her large, well organized stock with popular, new paperback releases.
    The mix had proven satisfyingly profitable. By the end of the first year Pennington’s Second Chance had earned enough to ensure its survival. By the end of the second year of business, the shop was well established with a solid customer base. Mercy measured her success by the fact that she was now removing the corks instead of unscrewing the caps of the wine bottles she opened at home.
    “Dorrie says you’re finally going to take a vacation next week,” Christina observed as Mercy rang up her purchases. “It’s about time.”
    Mercy smiled and her slightly tilted green eyes lit with pleasure. Automatically she lifted a hand to push an errant tendril of golden brown hair back behind her ear. “Part business and part vacation. I’m very excited about it. I came across an interesting old book in a box of junk I bought at the flea