The Men of Thorne Island by Cynthia Thomason Page A

followed by the appearance of a dilapidated but functional wheelbarrow with Ryan gripping the wooden handles. He crisscrossed the dock with awkward determination and set the wobbly cart next to the bags. “I figured you could use this,” he said proudly.
    Sara could have kissed him. Instead, she beamed at him and said, “How nice of you.”
    Nick released a cynical grumble. “There you see, Sara, chivalry is not dead on Thorne Island.”
    “You’re right. It isn’t. I just figured you boys must have buried it so deep in one of your holes, you’d never find it.”
    Nick shook his head and started after his companions. “Don’t worry, Ryan,” he said with obvious sarcasm. “We’ll carry your supplies to Brody’s.”
    “Thanks, Nick,” Ryan answered with innocent appreciation.
    Captain Winkleman slapped the edge of the dock. “Well, now that everything’s settled, I’ll be on my way.”
    Sara put up her hand to stop him from revving his noisy engine to life. “Wait, Captain. I need to askyou a favor. Could you come back tomorrow morning? I’ve decided to go to the mainland.”
    He touched the brim of his soiled nautical cap. “No problem. I have to come back to bring something for Nick. It’ll still cost you a twenty spot, though. Can’t run this baby on goodwill.”
    Sara almost reminded him that he’d just admitted he was coming anyway but thought better of it. “Fine,” she said.
     
    N ICK STOPPED in the pathway and strained to hear the conversation at the harbor. Did Sara just say she was going to the mainland?
    What the hell did she mean? That she was going for good? Surely not. She’d just ordered all that fertilizer. But if she was, Brody was to blame. The grouchy old fool’s refusal to let Sara borrow the cart must have been the last straw. You’d think that rusted old contraption was a vintage Rolls-Royce the way Brody was acting. Dead battery my ass! Nick thought. He’d seen Brody run that cart all over the island for hours and still brag that it could go another round.
    Nick couldn’t blame Sara if she did up and leave. Some men were downright pigheaded when it came to women. Nick sure hoped he didn’t turn out like Brody, bitter and cold.
    He paused before going up the short set of stairs into Brody’s cottage. What was he thinking? Of course Sara had to go. He’d known that from the start. In fact, he’d politely pointed out her interference a time or two himself. She had a life in Florida, and he had a life on Thorne Island—a calm, regimented life where he could set his own hours, seek his own companionship and pursue his writing without anyone telling him what to do.
    So why was he feeling anything but calm at this moment? Why was he stewing about Sara Crawford’s going back to Fort Lauderdale where she belonged? He ought to go into Brody’s place, slap the old guy on the back and thank him for sending her away. But he didn’t feel a bit like doing that. In fact, he could picture his hands around Brody’s throat a lot more easily than he could see himself slapping his back.
    Nick shook his head and climbed the steps. “Get a hold of yourself, Romano,” he grumbled. “You’re letting a cute butt and a pair of blue eyes get to you.” He paused before opening the door. And a damn fine figure, too. Nick recalled the black-and-white image of Ernest Hemingway clinging to Sara’s breasts. Damn! Now he was actually jealous of a guy’s face on a T-shirt, and a dead guy at that!
    The image exploded from Nick’s mind like it’d been blasted with a stick of dynamite—Brody’s voice had that effect. “Come on, Nick, bring that stuff over here to the fridge before it’s not fit to eat!”
     
    N ICK TRIED TO WRITE . For three hours he tried to become Ivan Banning and follow clues to the drug pushers. He’d known it would be a difficult task after he’d found the sandwich wrapped in plastic in the refrigerator. It even had his name taped to the top.
    The last time anyone