Island of the Innocent

By Lynn Morris

The most compelling Cheney Duvall novel yet! Cheney and Dr. Walker Baird, her colleague from St. Francis Hospital in San Francisco, arrive in Hawaii to try to convince Shiloh Irons to return with them. Though Shiloh believes the Winslows might be his long-lost family, Cheney has discovered some disturbing facts about Bain Winslow and has traveled all this way to warn her friend. She and Walker set out to help Shiloh unravel the mysteries that seemingly surround the Winslows’ determination to drive him from the island. But with a valuable fish compass and tapestry stolen, the only tangible clues to Shiloh’s origins, will he ever learn his true identity? Caught between the river of lava creeping toward the beach and the waters teeming with frenzied sharks and poisonous Portuguese man-of-war, Cheney must make the most difficult decision of her life. Will Shiloh return in time to rescue them from the fiery destruction spewing from Haleakala?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hendrickson Publishers
• Release date: Apr 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781619701298

Lynn Morris

Lynn Morris is a best-selling author, and coauthor with her father, Gilbert Morris. She lives in Gulf Shores, Alabama.

Book preview

Eternity

The House of the Sun loomed up, gigantic in the night, swallowing stars and sky and a timid last-quarter moon. At the blunt prow of the Petrel, Cheney Duvall considered the monolith, the dormant volcano Haleakala, the ruler of the east on the island of Maui.

It was midnight at the House of the Sun. At dawn, the sun would slowly rise from its house, floating over the craggy peaks of the three-mile-wide crater, flashing its young brilliance over dashing streams, thick jungle, crashing waterfalls, and long-dead lava that bejeweled the sides of the great mountain. But now, in the hours of darkness, the sun slept in its Hawaiian mansion.

As Cheney watched, considering the frailty and transience of man, thin streams of flame began shooting out from the sides of the sleeping volcano.

What . . . what is that? she whispered to herself.

But no, she spoke not only to herself, but also to the young man who hovered behind her, respecting her silence and her reverie. He answered her question. Papala spears.

Cheney started, turned, then smiled and extended her hand, an invitation for him to step closer and join her at the knighthead, peering over it like two children peeking at a sleeping giant. Walker, why didn’t you let me know you were there? Isn’t it breathtaking, even in the night?

The young doctor’s eyes slid up, up, to the unknowable height and nodded. That’s why I didn’t speak to you. . . . I was watching it. It’s difficult to look away. Dr. Walker Baird was a young man, younger than Cheney, and he was shorter than Cheney. But his frame was trim, athletic, and he exuded boyish energy. His thick ash-blond hair had golden lights and a tendency to curl. With his open, friendly face, ready smile, and dark royal blue eyes, he was a most attractive man.

But look! Those shafts of light, of flame—what did you say they were? Cheney asked.

Papala spears, he answered. From the papala tree. The wood is light and very flammable. The ancient Hawaiians made fire-spears, both to honor the goddess Pele and to frighten their enemies. Now they use them sort of as fireworks. A greeting.

"To us? This humble little bark? I would hardly think the Petrel would rate such a welcome."

Baird smiled down at her. She was so vibrant, her features so animated, her eyes bright, always sparkling. No wonder men were attracted to her. Rousing himself as she watched him quizzically, he replied, "Captain Bell told me about the papala spears. They’re for the Petrel, all right. Because it’s a Winslow ship, and you’re going into Winslow country, Dr. Duvall. Only the Winslow ships land at Hana, and because almost everyone at Hana works for the Winslows, they are generally careful to give their ships a royal greeting. He shrugged, then turned to lean against the knighthead and watch the showers of flaming spears plunge from high up on the slopes of the mountain, arching gracefully on the trade winds, lightly falling into the sea hundreds of feet below. It’s also a signal, you see. Helps the captain make certain of his course. Although the roadstead at Hana is very deep, there are some tricky reefs and atolls in the channel."

Cheney brooded on this but felt no sense of peril. The Petrel was a sturdy, businesslike barkentine. From her three masts virgin-white sails flew joyously, the decks gleamed, the brass fittings shone, the crew was seasoned and dignified. Behind Cheney and Walker, amidships, six men of the watch attended to the task of negotiating an anchorage with quiet words and occasional laughter. Captain Bell stood by the wheel, giving commands to the steersman in a relaxed monotone.

The great Pacific Ocean, tonight as well as during the entire two-week voyage, rocked the ship in a sleepy rhythm, unafflicted with the fits and tempers that seemingly ruled her smaller, fiercer brother, the Atlantic. The breeze seemed to be from a scented fan, gliding lightly over the skin, forming languorous waves in the sails that matched the lazy swells of the water. Cheney inhaled deeply. That scent . . .

Mmm, Walker agreeably hummed.

Her eyes on the signal fires and the slim darts of flame that still rained into the sea, she said softly, Shiloh told me once that it’s not the smell of the sea that people are always talking about . . . it’s the smell of the beach, actually. I noticed that when you’re at sea, an empty sea, an eternity away from land, the only smell is the dull alkali smell of salt. It’s the smell of the land, you see, that sailors actually love. . . .

Yes? he said alertly. That’s very interesting. Of course, it makes sense. That wet loamy smell is of earth, not the sea, of earth soaked with aeons of the fish catch and the brine and the salt rain. . . .

They fell silent in harmony and a restful compatibility. Cheney was thinking what a fine man Walker Baird was and how agreeable it was to have a friend—and now a self-appointed escort and protector—who had such a curious and active mind, who was interested in anything and everything. She recalled once, at St. Francis de Yerba Buena Hospital where they both worked, seeing Walker sitting by a patient’s bedside at two o’clock in the morning. Walker was in full evening dress, having come from the theater, and the patient was elderly Mr. Dibley, the butler, who was recovering from pneumonia. The two were deeply engrossed in a conversation about the particulars of polishing silver, and Walker had been so interested in Mr. Dibley’s secrets that he hadn’t even looked up when Cheney passed. She smiled a little at the memory.

Walker Baird saw the smile and thought what a fascinating woman Dr. Cheney Duvall was. She was different from any woman he’d ever met—any person he’d ever met. Her persona was as unique and engrossing as her looks. She was, he supposed, what was called a handsome woman, since she was not classically beautiful. Her face was square, with a strong jaw and full, firm lips, a small nose that would have been pert on a more frivolous woman, heavy and glossy auburn hair, and great sparkling green eyes. The beauty mark beneath her left eye seemed to be imprinted there for the sole purpose of stressing her unusual looks. He had once thought he was falling in love with her. But though Walker Baird was young, he was not a complete fool, and after he’d known her for a while, he’d realized the difference between deep romantic love for someone and loving to be with someone. He loved to be with Cheney. He didn’t want to be in love with her.

I’m glad you came, Walker, Cheney said lightly, jarring him out of his very private thoughts. He blushed a bit and was glad she couldn’t see in the purple-black tropical night. Turning back to watch the island spectacle of looming volcano and fire-spears, she said in a carefully neutral tone, I wish we could just meet Shiloh, tell him to get on this ship, and sail on back to San Francisco. I wish it would be that easy. I wish . . . She sighed deeply, and Walker waited. Finally she finished, I wish things were as they used to be.

He made no comment, for there was nothing to say.

In silence they sailed into the shadow of the House of the Sun.

It’s certainly not difficult to see Shiloh, Cheney observed. Even at half past midnight, a crowd of people were at dockside to greet the Petrel. From the roadstead one hundred yards out, Cheney could make out individual outlines; most of the people—all men, she thought—were short, with dark hair. Two men were quite tall. One was an enormous man, dark-skinned and massively built, as solid as a column. Standing by him was Shiloh: blond hair shining like a beacon, taller than them all, wide shoulders tapering to a flat stomach and slim hips. He was holding a torch, and he waved it over his head in an enthusiastic greeting.

Six canoes were lined up at the small jetty. As soon as the Petrel came to a rolling rest, Shiloh jumped into one of them and paddled out to the ship. Behind him came two more canoes, each rowed by another of the men standing dockside. As they neared, Cheney could see that they were Chinamen.

A wooden ladder with a curved top was hooked onto the starboard side for the passengers to descend to the canoes. Searching around, she saw that Walker was giving instructions to one of the sailors about their luggage, and Nia was already at the ladder waiting for her.

Miss Cheney, you go first . . . no, what are you thinking? Hand me your reticule and fan . . . you can’t scamper down that thing with two hands full and another armload. Cheney’s maid’s bossiness was jarring when one considered her. Nia Clarkson was tiny, delicate, with great dark liquid eyes and a little girl’s hands and voice. Though eighteen, she looked about five years younger. She was, however, fully capable of ruling Miss Cheney Duvall within the confines of her responsibilities. Meekly Cheney handed her things to Nia.

Darkly the maid went on, Now just a minute, Miss Ma’am. What you think you’re going to do with them flapping skirts and . . . and . . . Nia looked around suspiciously at the men surrounding them and then whispered, your other skirts? Nia would never have uttered the word petticoats in public. With barely concealed triumph she knelt at Cheney’s side and fiddled with her hem. I just sewed these loops on here, so you can loop them around your thumb and hold them up. But you mind, Miss Cheney. Ain’t no need in ever’ man in Haw-aye seein’ your . . . your . . .

Shoes? Cheney suggested, stifling a giggle. Never mind, Nia. I’ll be circumspect. With very little trouble Cheney gathered up her skirts enough to free her ankles and nimbly descended the ladder.

Hey, Doc, Shiloh said. He was holding the canoe steady against the ladder.

Hello. Cheney studied him.

He looked back up and made a slight adjustment to the boat as it rocked slightly. Walker was descending the ladder. I’m glad to see you, Doc. Are you glad to see me?

Well . . . well . . . of course, she stammered. I . . . you’re . . . I . . . She was trying to say: You’re the reason I’m here. I had to come, to tell you in person about the Winslows. Then you should come back to San Francisco immediately with me and Walker.

But the sight of Shiloh Irons had wrecked both her composure and her determination.

He looked wonderful. Cheney had fully been expecting to see a melancholy, thin, hungry ghost of the man who had left San Francisco two months ago. Instead, he looked so vital, so healthy, so strong that he could have been a model for a statue of a Greek athlete. His thick straw-colored hair was sun bleached lighter than gold. His skin was darkened to a glowing bronze, which made his strong teeth seem to glow and his light blue eyes startling. Untanned, the V scar beneath his left eye was a defiant white slash. Through the thin white shirt he wore, his hardened muscles were clearly delineated from the light of the lantern behind him. Cheney stared at him in uncomfortable confusion that was quickly turning into embarrassment. Shiloh Irons radiated strength and vigor.

Cheney told herself with raking sarcasm, And here I am on a noble quest—to rescue you!

He looked at her, saw her flustered stare, and grinned. If you fall in the drink, he said, I’ll have to rescue you.

Hana Guest House offered the only accommodations in the small port. A plain frame house with a miniature parlor, a generous dining room, and four spare bedrooms, it offered amenities without luxury, cleanliness without sterility, and careful service from the proprietor, a Chinese woman named Tang Lu.

She stood in the parlor, head bowed subserviently, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her plain gray tunic. Loose pantaloons, white stockings, and soft black slippers completed her humble costume. Perhaps thirty years old, Tang Lu had a work-weathered face and guarded dark eyes.

I should like for my maid, Nia, to have a room next to mine, if possible, Tang Lu, Cheney said decisively. Please have all of the luggage put into Nia’s room. We’ll sort it out later. And I should like something to drink—tea, perhaps? Nothing to eat, though. And take some tea up to Nia too.

Without a word, Tang Lu bowed and left the parlor, taking small hurried steps as Chinese women seemed wont to do.

I wonder if she understood a word I said, Cheney murmured.

Sure, Doc, Shiloh told her. She speaks good English.

I’m glad. I wasn’t even certain she could speak, period. Tang Lu had not spoken to Cheney. The Chinese woman had merely acknowledged Shiloh’s introduction with a bow.

White ladies make them nervous. In fact, white people make them nervous. After all, the Winslows are the only ones here, except for Konrad Zeiss, their overseer.

Cheney looked around the room. It was a typical Victorian parlor, with heavy red draperies and an uncomfortable-looking dark velvet couch, two horsehair armchairs, a heavy round tea table with ball-and-claw feet, too many knickknacks on the sideboard, and two lamps burning some kind of oil that smoked and stank. A small but hot fire burned in the grate.

It’s crowded and stifling in here, she complained. Could we open the windows?

Walker hurried to the side window, which had drapes from ceiling to floor, and pulled them aside to reveal a ludicrously small window without glass or shutters. Mosquito netting was hung to one side, he saw gratefully, and he arranged it to cover the opening. The two windows that faced the front of the house, however, were a little larger, and as soon as Shiloh pulled aside the heavy draperies, a nice cross-breeze filled the room and made it seem much less oppressive. A gentle hint of spice floated in the thick breeze, and Cheney inhaled gratefully. Hawaiian ginger was planted in flower beds on the front and sides of the house. Seating herself in one of the armchairs, she fanned herself languidly. That’s much better, thank you.

Walker settled on the couch, while Shiloh crossed to the fire and threw in some chips he took from a small ivory box on the wooden mantel. A sultry incense smoke wafted through the room. Cheney sniffed appreciatively. Mmm, sandalwood, my favorite scent.

Keeps the bugs away too, Shiloh commented, settling into the armchair closest to the fire, next to Cheney. How ya doin’, Doc? Make the trip okay?

Cheney replied, Oh yes, it was a pleasant trip. But she saw that Shiloh was very intent, which meant that the question was serious, even though the words sounded merely polite. Oh, I see what you mean. Was I seasick? Of course. But only for three days.

Really? His ice-blue eyes brightened.

Though Cheney couldn’t understand the import of this conversation, she indulged him. Besides, it gave her a little more time to plan her speech. Yes, and it didn’t seem to be as severe as when I’ve traveled by ship before. Surprising, isn’t it? I would have thought that sailing would be much more taxing on the system than traveling by steamer.

I don’t think so, Shiloh said with animation. "I think sailing is great. Somehow it seems like more of a natural rhythm than steaming, at least when the seas and wind are fine. Steaming, to me, was sorta like chopping wood. It was a rhythm, all right. Chukka—chukka—chukka—"

Don’t remind me! Cheney interrupted with a grimace. Just the very sound . . . perhaps you’re right, Shiloh. It did seem that the noise of the paddles invaded your brain until you were struggling to breathe with it, move with it, talk with it . . . wishing your heartbeat matched it, and the blood rushing in your ears would keep up with it. Maybe that’s what actually made me so ill. Being out of time with the paddles.

But you liked sailing? he persisted, his sharply sculptured features oddly boyish.

Why, yes, I enjoyed it once I felt myself again. Of course, we had a very uneventful voyage. I suspect that if we’d been in a storm or something I might not be so courageous.

Yes, you would, Shiloh said, then turned to Walker Baird. I was kinda surprised to hear you’d be coming, Walker. But I’m glad you did. I think you’ll like it here—or in Hawaii, at least. Are you going on to Honolulu or Lahaina for a vacation?

No, he replied, gazing steadily at Shiloh. I am here for the same reason as Dr. Duvall. I wanted to see you and talk to you.

Shiloh was amused. That’s a good enough excuse for an island holiday, I guess. He saw Walker, who was regarding him gravely, and Cheney, who was looking flustered and severe at the same time. Wait a minute, Shiloh went on, the light dawning on his face. You mean that’s the truth? The only reason you came to Hawaii was to see me—to talk to me?

Cheney cried, No, I want to talk to you, and then I want you to come back to San Francisco.

Huh?

"Now. On the Petrel. She’s going on to Lahaina to drop the other passengers, and then she’s coming back here in the morning to see if I’m ready to return. And I will . . . if . . . if . . . you will."

Shiloh looked bewildered and glanced at Walker Baird. He was still somber. Taking a deep breath, Shiloh turned back to Cheney and spoke with slow patience. Doc, would you mind starting at the beginning instead of somewhere in the middle? Kinda makes it hard to follow your reasoning, if you get me.

It’s simple, Cheney said stubbornly. "You don’t need these Winslow people. You aren’t a part of their family anyway. You can’t be—it’s just not possible. So you need to just come back to work, back to San Francisco tomorrow. With . . . with . . . I mean, tomorrow. On the Petrel."

Shiloh settled back in his chair, crossed one booted ankle over his knee, and stared at Cheney as if she had suddenly begun speaking in Urdu. Then his face changed and he chuckled. Walker stifled a grin.

Cheney sat even more stiffly in the horrible chair, her cheeks flaming. I can’t imagine what’s so amusing, she said acidly. Men do have such a crude sense of humor.

Neither Shiloh nor Walker could stifle their laughter. Then Shiloh repentantly said, Sorry, Doc. It’s just that women have such strange ways of reasoning things out. Are you saying that you took a two-week sea voyage, across half the Pacific, to come to this little dot of an island, just to say that? ‘Come back to San Francisco with me now.’ It wouldn’t have—

I didn’t say ‘with me,’ Cheney blurted.

So even if I go back, you’re staying?

No! Of course not!

You staying if I don’t go back?

Yes! I mean no!

Shiloh grinned. Cheney’s green eyes glinted dangerously, and she pronounced carefully, "If I can persuade you to return to San Francisco tomorrow, then I shall return too. If I cannot persuade you to return tomorrow, then I shall stay for two weeks, until the Mongoose comes here on its way to San Francisco, and then go back. But that is all the time I intend to take to try to convince you."

Shiloh’s left eyebrow rose sardonically during this speech, but he grew very still. When Cheney finished, he cocked his head slightly to study her. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her hands were unrestful.

As the silence swelled, Cheney grew more uncomfortable, and the hectic color in her cheeks heightened even more in the warm red light.

Finally Shiloh calmly asked, Doc, what’s wrong?

Dropping her eyes, she picked at the coarse horsehair upholstery. Shiloh waited, watching Walker Baird for some sign, but the doctor merely shrugged.

Tang Lu silently entered, holding a tray with a plain earthenware teapot and three exquisite porcelain cups. Setting the tray down without a single clink, she asked in a musical voice, Doctah Duvall, you wish me to pour?

No thank you, Tang Lu, I’ll pour, Cheney replied with relief. She was glad for the interruption and, with economical grace, made three cups of tea. It was China tea, she saw with some disappointment, for she preferred India. And there was no honey or lemon, only sugar and cream. Cheney put so much sugar in hers that she knew it would almost negate the delicate taste of the tea, but she didn’t care. It was, at least, hot, and she felt less ragged after a few sips.

Walker Baird, noting Cheney’s continued struggle to broach the subject of why she had come to Hawaii, politely commented, By the way, Shiloh, I’m a little confused about your connection here with the Winslows. All I know is that you thought Bain Winslow might know something about your parents, and he asked you to come to Hawaii with him to see his mother. Would you mind if I asked the particulars?

Sure, Walker, Shiloh said easily, with a knowing glance at Cheney. You remember, I told you I was an orphan? A foundling. Left on the steps of the Behring Orphanage at Charleston, South Carolina.

Right, Walker murmured. "You found out you’d been left on the beach after a shipwreck. You found out that you’d been on a clipper, called the Day Dream, that sank in the storm. And with you, in the box you were found in, was an Oriental tapestry and a compass in the form of a metal fish."

We—me and the Doc, here, who helped me find all of this stuff out—didn’t understand the significance of either, Shiloh continued, until Reverend Merced looked at them. He told me that the fish was a compass. And he said the tapestry told a story about a white couple who got a young Chinese girl for a servant, and then the couple had a baby.

You.

We think so, Shiloh said, nodding. The tapestry told us about the Chinese girl—I call her Pearl—and the man and woman that she worked for. They sailed in a great ship with sails reaching up to the sky, he said, his voice growing soft, all over the world. They lived in a place, an island, with tall black mountains that sometimes were capped with red.

Volcanoes, Walker murmured.

Yes. Shiloh made a careless gesture. "Which could have been lots of places in the world. But Hawaii seemed logical, since it’s in the shipping lane between China and San Francisco. Anyway, then at Mrs. de Lancie’s and the Doc’s party, I overheard this man talking about a ship he owned that he had almost bet in a poker game. The name of it was Locke’s Day Dream. He also said something about betting one of his Sandwich Islands."

Hawaii.

"Right. The man’s name was Bain Winslow, and his family owns the clipper Locke’s Day Dream, and they’ve lived here for almost thirty years. Bain had an uncle, he said, who died at sea when Bain was just a child. He said that I probably wasn’t connected with his family, but if I wanted I could come here with him—he was returning anyway—and talk to his mother."

Shiloh fell silent, and neither Cheney nor Walker spoke. The quiet was heavy, brooding. Shiloh turned to stare neutrally into the fire. The blood-red glow of the lantern on the tea table flickered high, then faded out, thickening the shadows in the room.

Walker cleared his throat uncomfortably. Well, Shiloh, Dr. Duvall mentioned a couple of things to me from your letters. I don’t wish to pry into a man’s private affairs, of course, but would you mind telling us what’s happened since you left San Francisco?

Shiloh shrugged, then gave Walker a mischievous glance. Guess not. Guess you did come all this way to hear it, didn’t you?

Walker’s midnight-blue eyes sparkled. Did, didn’t I? On second thought, I do wish to pry into your private affairs. What’s going on, Shiloh?

I dunno, he answered wryly. But I’m going to find out. He noticed Cheney was looking peculiar at this exchange, but he went on, "Well, I guess the first thing that happened was that as soon as I got on board Locke’s Day Dream, all of Bain Winslow’s goodwill went south real quick. When we were pulling away from the dock, he introduced me to Captain Manning and told him that I was going to work my way to Hana. Then he disappeared into his cabin, and I didn’t see him again until we got to Honolulu."

The inconstant light made Shiloh’s light blue eyes glitter. Captain Manning looked real, real happy that he had a raw landlubber to work on a clipper. But I can scrub decks and polish brass as good as anyone, I guess. And I did get to learn a lot about sailing. Even started learning about navigation. Didn’t turn out to be half bad, you know.

His voice had a tinge of longing, and Cheney said irritably, Do you mean to tell me that Bain Winslow practically shanghaied you—and you enjoyed it?

Well, Doc, that was the best revenge I could think of, Shiloh rasped. I’m a better sailor than Bain Winslow, and that seemed to kinda bother him.

I’ll bet, Walker said gleefully.

Cheney looked disgusted, so they both sobered, and Shiloh obediently went on. So we go first to Honolulu, on Oahu, because that’s where the Winslows bank. Bain had a chest he personally lugged off the ship, and Perkins, the bosun’s mate, told me that the Winslows always get paid for their cargo in gold in San Francisco, because they buy their shipments from China in gold. Currency of the world, you know. Anybody takes gold for anything. . . . What’s the matter, Doc? Cheney had jerked and made a peculiar sound in her throat. N-nothing. Please go on.

Shiloh’s eyes narrowed shrewdly, but he continued. So the crew—including Mr. Irons, the best deck swabber in the Winslow fleet—went ashore that night to . . . uh . . . sight-see.

I’ll bet you saw some sights, Cheney muttered.

Shiloh went on innocently. Oh yes, I did see some sights. Lots of ’em. Took all night, as a matter of fact.

All night, Cheney repeated darkly.

Shiloh nodded, his expression pious, but then his clean features drew into harsh lines. Anyway, when I got back to the ship, my stuff was gone. My compass and the tapestry. Funny thing too. They were in my seabag, you know. Seems like it would’ve been easier just to steal the bag. But no, the thief rifled through it and picked out those two things, then stuffed everything back in the bag and put it back under my bunk.

I never saw them, Walker remarked. Were they valuable?

Shiloh, bemused, looked at Cheney.

She answered quietly, The compass probably isn’t, but the tapestry may be. It’s very expensive satin and exquisite work. The intrinsic value, however, is the greatest loss.

What’s that mean? Shiloh asked bluntly.

It means, Cheney answered sadly, that they were worth much more than a price in gold to you.

"They are worth that much more, he said harshly. And I’ll get them back."

All right, you left Honolulu, Walker said with precision, so what happened next?

We came to Hana, Shiloh answered, and Winslow got off the ship and disappeared. I stayed here that first night. Next morning he came and got me and said he’d take me to see his mother. So we went to Winslow Villa, and I met Mrs. Denise Winslow.

He hesitated, and Cheney prompted him, And what did she say?

Grimly he answered, Not much. She let me know in about four seconds that it wasn’t possible for me to be connected to their family. I was mistaken. That was all. I was dismissed.

But did you tell her about everything? Cheney demanded.

Shiloh’s well-shaped mouth twisted. What’s the point? To win the argument?

This, of course, was the crux of the matter. Cheney’s mind began first to grope, then to whirl. All this time I’ve been thinking—or hoping?—that Shiloh’s not actually connected with Bain Winslow! But Shiloh obviously thinks, or knows, that he is. . . . And it does seem that it must be true! Why have I been dancing around it? Why don’t I want it to be?

Cheney dropped her head as she frowned fiercely and pleated her skirt between her long, slender fingers. It’s simple—isn’t it? I don’t want Shiloh to be a part of this family, to be connected by blood to that terrible man. Face it, girl! It’s not quite that easy, is it? Just as you told Walker, you want things to be as they were . . . you and Shiloh, close, so close, in fact, because you were his best friend. He depended on you, needed you . . . and now that’s threatened, and you don’t like it one little bit, do you!

Cheney sighed deeply. It was true. But it was also true that she felt a great pity and sorrow for Shiloh. First he’d had nothing and no one. Now he had a family, and they had cruelly rejected him.

But why? Why have they gone to such great lengths to deny him?

They think I’m just trying to con them out of some money, I guess, Shiloh murmured, breaking the long silence. It looks like they have money. I do know they have property. They own this town; this house, in fact, belongs to the Winslows. It was their first home. Now, of course, they have Winslow Villa and a town house in Lahaina. They have a fleet of five ships: two fine clippers and three merchant sailers. This plantation is about eighty thousand acres. They grow sugarcane for export, and they’re also experimenting with growing pineapples and sandalwood. And Winslow Brothers ships all kinds of goods back and forth between the Orient and here and San Francisco.

This time Cheney almost choked. Her color furiously high, she dropped her eyes and began to fan herself with jerky movements.

Shiloh watched her discomfiture with a knowing half smile. Turning to Walker, he said, Look, Walker, you and the Doc didn’t come two thousand miles just to listen to me talk. I think you’ve got somethin’ to say, too, right? Like, ‘I came here because of so-and-so’?

Now it was Walker Baird’s turn to look uncomfortable. He shifted on the sofa, and the effect, with his boyish looks, was that of a guilty schoolboy squirming in the headmaster’s office. Actually, Dr. Duvall didn’t tell me—exactly—why it was so urgent she see you, only that it was important that she speak to you in person. I . . . um . . . I . . . that is, after I heard, Shiloh, that you wrote Dr. Duvall about this fight, you know—

Cheney, who was much distracted by her own thoughts, still keyed in on this. Sitting bolt upright, she stopped her furious fanning. "Dr. Walker Baird. Do you mean that the only reason you came was because you wanted to see a fight?"

Well, it will probably be the last time the Iron Man fights, Walker defensively answered. Right, Shiloh?

Shiloh, who was grinning, nodded. Yup. In fact, it will probably be the last time the Iron Man walks, or talks, or breathes.

I don’t believe it! Walker said sturdily. You’re just being modest. You can beat anyone, Shiloh, and you look as if you’re in terrific shape.

Yeah, well, you oughta see the other guy, Shiloh said dryly, stretching out his long legs and lacing his fingers across his flat stomach. Meholo. Pure Hawaiian. Weighs about four hundred pounds, I guess. ’Bout six five, six six. Looks like a baobab tree.

Doesn’t matter, Walker said spiritedly. In fact, it’s probably to your advantage. You’ll dance around him like he’s a pretty little Maypole, Shiloh, and you can run in those sneaky snake jabs to the jaw all day and night.

Huh, Shiloh grunted. "If we were boxing, maybe. But what Winslow’s got in mind is lua. The ancient Hawaiian

Reviews for Island of the Innocent

[Sally Black · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellent read. Enjoyed the camaraderie between Cheney and Shiloh and the growing romantic relationship. Can hardly wait to read next sequel.

[Ann Bush · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved the setting and the beautiful descriptions of an area that has changed so much. I visited Hawaii as a tourist, but to hear about it in the late 19th century was really special. The story was great too!