Wingspan Read online

  Synopsis

  When architect Kendall Pearson finds an injured osprey on her property, she expects to simply drop it off at a local wild bird rehabilitation center and be done with it. Quick and painless, like every other relationship she has. But wildlife biologist Bailey Chase has other plans for Ken. First, as surgical assistant, and second, as the designer for her new raptor sanctuary.

  Bailey protects her privacy with the vigilance of a hawk, hiding in her rescue center where she has complete control over her life and her work. Isolated on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, she’s surrounded by natural beauty and plenty of solitude. Until sexy Ken Pearson walks in with a wounded bird and Bailey finds her life has been invaded by more than just an extra beak to feed.

  Sometimes pain is invisible, and only love can soar over protective barriers and heal a wounded heart.

  Wingspan

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  Wingspan

  © 2014 By Karis Walsh. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-020-1

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: February 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Ruth Sternglantz

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Harmony

  Worth the Risk

  Sea Glass Inn

  Improvisation

  Mounting Danger

  Wingspan

  Dedication

  To the staff and volunteers at Wolf Haven, International

  Their selfless and tireless work for the wolves of Washington brings the true meaning of the word “sanctuary” to life. They inspire me to be a better person.

  Chapter One

  Kendall Pearson paced back and forth in the small waiting room at Port Townsend’s ferry dock. She could cross the small space in eight shortened steps or in five of her regular long strides. Every few circuits she paused and read the posters on the bulletin boards, catching words here and there, but not really processing the entire message. A quilt show would be held at the local grange sometime in the future, and several companies offered gray-whale-watching tours. Other signs cautioned not to disturb harbor seal pups if she found one on a beach and warned about the proximity restrictions on orcas in Puget Sound. An alarming number of notices alerted her about the likelihood of ferry cancellations due to bad weather.

  A lone kayaker glided past the terminal’s picture window. Ken focused on the broad stroke of the kayak’s paddle instead of on the slow and steady approach of the large green-and-white ferry from Coupeville, on Whidbey Island. She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous. She stepped outside of the ferry terminal and looked around. A steep bluff overlooked the dock, the hillside covered with yellow blooming weeds and topped with huge folk Victorian homes, their elaborately pretty facades most likely masking rather plain and simple interior structures. A steep staircase—four flights of concrete dotted with human beings—scaled the cliff. The spring sun was warm and seemed determined to break through the sparse but heavy clouds. Gulls and other seabirds swooped over the water or bobbed on the gentle swells. Virginia just might fall in love with this place, with its old brick buildings and quaint vintage shops. And the slow-paced Olympic Peninsula was close to the lights and energy of Seattle, giving them the best of both worlds.

  Ken turned away from the bluff and sighed as the ferry bumped to a halt against the dock. Virginia might fall in love with this place, or she might not. Either way, Ken had her future and her savings tied up in an acre of land not far from here. This was her home now, no mights or maybes about it.

  Cars began to disembark, driving off the metal ramp with loud and rhythmic clangs, obediently following the directions of the orange-vested ferry workers. Ginny Liang’s maroon BMW was easy to spot, and Ken waved and gestured toward a public parking lot a few yards away. She cut through a tiny park next to the ferry landing and met Ginny as she was climbing out of her car. She quickly crossed the space between them and caught Ginny in a tight hug, as relieved to be getting on with the uncertain afternoon meeting as she was to see her lover.

  “God, what’s that smell?” Ginny asked, wrinkling her nose and stepping back when Ken released her.

  “Just the paper mill,” Ken said. She pointed at a thick plume of steam that rose from an industrial area beyond the dock. She had registered the odor, of course, but it had been merely background to the visual beauty around her. Part of the texture and character of the old waterfront town.

  Ginny smoothed her unwrinkled gray pencil skirt. “I was hoping for some fresh air after an hour sitting in the bowels of two ferries and breathing nothing but diesel fumes. How can people complain about city air when this is the alternative? I think I’m seasick.”

  “Why didn’t you get out of your car and ride on the upper decks?” Even as Ken asked the question, she knew the answer. Ginny rolled her eyes and tucked a strand of professionally straightened, glossy hair behind her ear. The lure of salt air and whirling seabirds wouldn’t have been enough to make her endure the windy observation deck. Ken pushed back her irritation as quickly as it rose in her. She had first been attracted to Ginny because she was well-groomed and beautiful in an understated way. She couldn’t complain about the efforts required to maintain such a suitable appearance when she herself knew the cost of fitting in.

  “So, you got me out here, baby,” Ginny said, looping her forearm around Ken’s neck and kissing her on the cheek. Her mood seemed to be improving now that she was on land again. “What’s the big surprise?”

  “I thought we could spend the afternoon in Sequim,” Ken said. Ginny appeared more relaxed as they talked, but Ken’s agitation increased. “It’s about an hour drive, but I’ll buy you lunch at a marina once we’re there. The best seafood on the Peninsula.”

  She started to walk toward her car, but Ginny called her back.

  “Let’s take mine,” she said, handing Ken the keys.

  Ken opened the passenger door for Ginny and then slid behind the wheel. She fished through the chaotic jumble of keys and pink feathery flamingo and stuffed leopard-print dice before she found the right one. Ginny’s car was a pleasure to drive—smoothly quiet and as understatedly elegant as its owner—but Ken preferred the cramped interior and deep purr of her own ’56 Corvette. Her past girlfriends had plenty in common, including an inexplicable dislike of her Vette. Ken adored it. She had gone shopping for a Lexus after carefully researching the appropriate vehicle for her age and income, but a brief detour at a tempting classic car lot had been her downfall.

  Ken started the BMW’s engine. None of the pedestrians nearby turned to look the way people did when Ken’s Corvette leaped to life. Ken had truly meant to find a car like this one, one that didn’t bring unnecessary attention to itself or to her, but she had been drawn to the silhouette of her little car. A vision of it fully restored and beautiful had superimposed itself over the chipped and faded fiberglass body in front of her, and she hadn’t been able to resist the pull of either
the fantasy or the neglected reality. She had bought the car and rented garage space for it outside the city, much to her then-girlfriend Lisa’s disgust—or had it been Gretchen? They tended to blur in Ken’s mind. Lisa—or Gretchen—had left her during the time-consuming restoration project, but Ken had barely noticed.

  But now the restoration was complete, and Ken had once again managed to control her impulses. Her friends were now accustomed to seeing the two-toned cherry-red-and-white car as a sign of mild eccentricity, not as proof that she was too different, and she was able to drive under the radar again. She had found another girlfriend who was exactly what she wanted—someone stable and self-sufficient and popular in a mainstream way. Hopefully, in Ginny she had found not only her general type, but the specific woman who would be her partner and ally.

  Hopefully. Ken asked questions about Ginny’s job as she drove them out of town. She listened to Ginny’s discussion about the new summer trends in clothing and accessories, but most of her mind was preoccupied with the shapes and colors alongside the road. Uneven stacks of plastic Adirondack-style chairs in a rainbow of colors lined the edge of a hardware store’s parking area. Used boat lots were as prevalent as used car lots in inland cities. Shops selling bikes and ice cream and kites shared the streets with run-down grocery stores and garish Jiffy Lubes, revealing the identity of the town as both a tourist destination and an unpretentious permanent residence.

  Ken wanted to point out the way the different styles of architecture spoke either of the comfort and security of home or of the transience and idealism of vacation, but she didn’t bother. She knew from experience that Ginny wouldn’t be interested in the gravity-defying stack of garden pots on the side of the road, any more than Ken was interested in the debate over the popularity of boot-cut jeans. She was satisfied to keep her observations internalized, where she was safe to express any thought or idea, no matter how unusual. Her external life, whether with a girlfriend or work associates, was unconnected to her inner life, just as it should be.

  Once they were out of town and winding along the twists and elevation changes of Highway 20, Ken started to point out things of interest. The low-flying planes turning base as they approached Jefferson County’s airport, the cedars and ferns encroaching on the highway, the glimpses of Discovery Bay through the forest as the road curved around it. She didn’t need Ginny to love Port Townsend specifically, but she did need her to love the rugged and distinctly non-urban peninsula if she hoped to convince her to move here.

  Although Ginny made the appropriate noises of appreciation at the beauty around her and asked polite questions about the area, Ken’s earlier nervousness was replaced by a growing sense of resignation. They both fell silent as she merged onto Highway 101 and sped over the remaining miles to the town of Sequim. They passed sprawling horse farms and neatly ordered rows of lavender fields, and Ken knew Ginny might enjoy seeing them during a weekend vacation, but she was less likely to want to trade her skyscrapers and upscale restaurants for them on a permanent basis. Ken had been able to imagine Ginny living here with her, but now, actually seeing Ginny in this place and seeing the area through Ginny’s eyes, Ken’s vision of their life together started to blur. She bypassed her planned tour of Sequim and instead cut off the highway and took the shortest route to the marina.

  Ken parked in the first of several lots along the waterfront. She had wanted to take Ginny directly to her property, but the marina was a more civilized and familiar version of her rugged, oceanfront acre. Here, the view of Sequim Bay was spectacular and soothing at the same time, with its border of forested hills and its calm waters. An eclectic variety of boats, from fancy yachts to decrepit old fishing trawlers, pulled gently against the ropes tethering them to the pier. Black cormorants, with their wings spread in the sun, perched like ancient sentries on rotting wooden pylons. She’d move Ginny from the city to her wild acre in gradual stages.

  Ken felt more than heard Ginny sigh. “Very pretty, babe, but we could have had a similar view at the Fisherman’s in Seattle. Why the sudden urge to get back to nature?”

  “Come on,” Ken said, instead of answering. She got out of the BMW and hurried around to the passenger side. She opened the door and reached out for Ginny’s hand, keeping it tucked in hers as she shut the door and walked them across the parking lot.

  Ken walked slowly along the concrete path that bordered the beach. She would have preferred to walk on the sand, but Ginny’s high heels weren’t as suited to the terrain as her own tennis shoes. She stopped at the top of a high bank and stared out at the water in silence for a moment, hoping the majesty of the setting would whisper to Ginny as it had to her the first time she had stood on her property, only a few short miles from here. Home. Yet another impulse Ken hadn’t been able to resist. Ginny stood at an angle against the wind, pulling her long black hair over one shoulder and holding it as if her hand was a barrette.

  “The firm is closing,” Ken said. She had seen the signs for some time now. The housing market was down and buyers’ tastes were changing, but the company she worked for hadn’t adapted in response. They had continued to build on spec, the same beige houses in the same types of developments. Feeling like an outsider in the company—all she did was show up and design repetitive variations of the same unremarkable home—she had dispassionately watched the firm circle the drain. But what had she done with her prescient knowledge? Had she saved as much as possible? Explored the job market? Updated her monotonous portfolio? No. She’d gone out and bought a ridiculously expensive piece of land. She could barely afford the payments as it was, let alone the price of building her dream home and rent for an apartment until she could move there.

  “You predicted that a few months ago,” Ginny said. She moved so Ken was blocking most of the wind. “I thought you’d been looking for another job.”

  “Sort of,” Ken said, hedging the truth. She had been explaining her regular trips to the Peninsula by making vague comments about checking out building sites and researching house plans. All true, in their own way, but not explicitly so. She had known she was being misleading, and that Ginny was being led to believe Ken was hunting for a new firm, but she had been afraid of Ginny’s reaction to the property. Besides, Ken hadn’t needed to look for a new job. One had found her—complete with a startling salary increase. Ken hadn’t wanted to accept and had turned down the initial offer because she preferred to stay in her predictable and inconspicuous position, but now she had no choice. “I’ve been offered a place at Impetus Architecture in Bellevue.”

  Ginny’s expression, usually unruffled by whatever emotions were seething below the surface, reflected her surprise. Her mouth dropped open as if she were about to say something but had forgotten what, and her hand dropped to her side, leaving her hair to fly wildly in the breeze.

  “Impetus?” she repeated. “The firm that designs mansions for the rich and famous?”

  Ken reached out and captured Ginny’s intractable hair, sliding her fingers through the windblown tangles and trying to tame it into smooth submission. It felt as warm and silky and alive as Ginny’s skin under her hands. “Yes. I didn’t want to take it, but I’ll be unemployed soon…”

  “Wow. I didn’t know you were that good,” Ginny said. She wrinkled her nose and smiled with an apologetic look. “Sorry. That didn’t come out right. I just—”

  Ken held up her hand to stop the explanation. She wasn’t convinced she was right for the job, so why should anyone else be? She had been happy designing her mass-produced box houses, and she wasn’t comfortable with the gasps and awe elicited by the Impetus name.

  “An old school friend of mine works there and he recommended me,” she said. Dougie. One of the main reasons she hadn’t wanted the job. Being around him would bring too many painful memories too close to the surface when they belonged deep down. Out of sight. “I’m not sure if I’ll fit in there, but I’m out of options. I have to try.”

  “Well, congratulations,” Ginny sai
d with a genuine smile. She pulled Ken into a tight hug, her breasts pressed against Ken’s ribs and her arms wrapped firmly around Ken’s neck. In spite of the turmoil she had been in for the past few months, Ken felt her body respond to Ginny’s touch. The area of contact between them felt hot in contrast to the cool wind buffeting Ken’s back, and she wished she had gone against her own logic and had taken Ginny to her private and isolated property. Sex in that place could be wild, untamed. Fed by the throbbing beat of the waves.

  “So, you’ll be working in Bellevue? I’m so relieved,” Ginny whispered against Ken’s neck. The warmth of her breath would normally fuel Ken’s passion, but Ginny’s words doused it completely. “You’ve been so mysterious about today, I thought you might actually be thinking of moving out here.” Ginny pulled back. “So, are we going to see the site of the first house you’re building for Impetus? Who’s it for? A Microsoft exec, or one of the Weyerhaeusers?”

  “Gin, I do want to move here. I already bought a place and I want to build a house there and I want you to live in it with me. Please, don’t say no yet. Come out and see what I have planned, and try to picture how great our life would be if we were here together.”

  “Ken—”

  “Wait,” Ken said, hearing a note of pleading in her voice. She wasn’t sure who the object of her entreaty was. Ginny? Some god? The spirits of this place? The latter seemed omnipotent and not especially benevolent, because they had made her not only go against her plans and buy this land but had also ensured that she had to take the offer from Impetus. Pleas and prayers would have no effect on them.