Romances

Innocent Hearts

Promising Hearts

Love’s Melody Lost

Love’s Tender Warriors

Tomorrow’s Promise

Love’s Masquerade

shadowland

Passion’s Bright Fury

Fated Love

Turn Back Time

When Dreams Tremble

The Lonely Hearts Club

Night Call

Secrets in the Stone

Desire by Starlight

Honor Series

Above All, Honor

Honor Bound

Love & Honor

Honor Guards

Honor Reclaimed

Honor Under Siege

Word of Honor

Justice Series

A Matter of Trust (prequel)

Shield of Justice

In Pursuit of Justice

Justice in the Shadows

Justice Served

Justice For All

The Provincetown Tales

Safe Harbor

Beyond the Breakwater

Distant Shores, Silent Thunder

Storms of Change

Winds of Fortune

Returning Tides

Sheltering Dunes

First Responders Novels

Trauma Alert

Firestorm

Short Fiction

Collected Stories by Radclyffe

Erotic Interludes: Change of Pace

Radical Encounters

Edited by Radclyffe

Best Lesbian Romance 2009-2011

Stacia Seaman and Radclyffe, eds.:

Erotic Interludes 2: Stolen Moments

Erotic Interludes 3: Lessons in Love

Erotic Interludes 4: Extreme Passions

Erotic Interludes 5: Road Games

Romantic Interludes 1: Discovery

Romantic Interludes 2: Secrets

Breathless: Tales of Celebration

By L.L. Raand

Midnight Hunters

The Midnight Hunt

Blood Hunt


Sheltering Dunes

© 2011 By Radclyffe. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-609-0

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Edition: November 2011

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

Editors: Ruth Sternglantz and Stacia Seaman

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

Acknowledgments

Safe Harbor (the first in the Provincetown Tales) was one of the first books I wrote, and at the time, my intention was to write about a place I loved and populate it with characters I admired. I hoped to tell a love story filled with passion and healing. I wasn’t thinking about archetypes, or the hero’s journey, or any literary convention. I was thinking about what made a hero, and words like honor, valor, bravery, dedication, and sacrifice came to mind. I like to write lesbian heroes, because heroism is a daily part of queer life, whether we are serving our country and our fellow human beings, or living our lives, day by day, as honestly as we can, even as we demand our right to do so. Reese Conlon turned out to be an archetypal hero—the warrior chief whose attributes have not changed in centuries. She is not without weakness, or fear, or uncertainty, and she finds her strength as heroes often do, in a woman as strong as her.

When I wrote Sheltering Dunes (book seven), I wrote a different kind of hero than in many of my books. I usually write women of action because I believe women need to see themselves portrayed as being in charge, being leaders, being fearless, being capable and competent— because we are all those things. And of course, we are far more. In this book I had the opportunity to write a spiritual warrior, and Flynn Edwards has been one of my most satisfying characters to explore and develop. Like so many others in this series, Flynn came to Provincetown to leave her past behind and to search for her future. I hope you enjoy her journey and the unlikely love she finds, along with the return visits of other characters from the Provincetown and Justice series. Thank you all for continuing on the journey.

I’d like to thank my assistant, Sandy Lowe, for research support and the many ways she finds to free me to write; author Nell Stark for being an enthusiastic reader and a sensitive critic; Ruth Sternglantz for her tremendous job of editing this and all my novels; Stacia Seaman, who always brings a fresh eye and impeccable knowledge to the final edits; and my first readers Connie, Eva, Jenny, and Paula for support during the most difficult stage of all, the first draft.

And to Lee, who has weathered every storm, literally and figuratively, and still provides unwavering support—Amo te.

Radclyffe, 2011






To Lee

My shelter in a storm

Chapter One

Provincetown, MA

She couldn’t be late on the third morning of a new job, not when the job was the only thing standing between her and everything she’d escaped. Pedaling the borrowed bicycle as fast as she could down the center of Commercial Street, weaving around parked delivery vans, early-morning coffee seekers, and dog walkers, she sped toward the restaurant at the far west end of town. Despite the chill coming off the harbor at six fifteen in the morning, sweat trickled down the center of her chest, dampening the pale blue tank top in a small circle directly between her breasts. Wisps of hair escaped the tie she’d carelessly wrapped around the thick waves at the back of her neck in her haste to leave the small, nearly airless room in the sprawling rooming house across the street from the harbor. One strand caught in the corner of her mouth, and she jerked her head, trying to dislodge it in the wind. Her heart beat a staccato rhythm against her rib cage. She couldn’t lose this job. She had nowhere else to go. Here, she was safe, or as safe as she might ever be.

She glanced down at the thrift-shop watch, the hands moving far too quickly beneath the scratched crystal. Five minutes. She would make it just in time. Relief flooded through her like a tender word, unexpected and rare. She rocketed into the intersection of Standish and Commercial at the foot of MacMillan Wharf. A white van with black letters appeared like an apparition rising in a dream. She had one heart-stopping second to jerk the handlebars and swerve around the front grille, the screech of brakes and the blare of a horn piercing the early-morning stillness. The impact startled her more than anything else, and then she was airborne. The cool, damp air smelled of salt and seaweed, so different from the pungent odors of trash and broken dreams on the streets of the barrio.

*

“Hey, Flynn,” Dave called across the squad room, “are you going to play or not?”

Flynn closed her book, keeping her finger between the pages to hold her place, considering her answer. She’d been avoiding thinking about the Columbus Day weekend touch football fund-raiser for a week and a half. She ought to play. The game was a town tradition, the proceeds went to a number of community outreach programs, and she couldn’t avoid seeing Allie in social situations forever. Other than brief encounters on the job, she hadn’t seen Allie since the day Allie had been shot and Flynn had told Ash Walker that Allie needed her. Allie had needed Ash, not Flynn. No matter how much Flynn had wanted to be the one standing by Allie’s bedside, had wanted to be the one Allie needed, she hadn’t been Allie’s choice. She’d never been Allie’s choice. Allie had always been in love with Ash, and it hadn’t taken Flynn more than seeing them together once to figure that out. So she’d walked away and Allie and Ash had worked out their issues, just like she’d known they would. She’d pretty much worked out her own too. She wasn’t in love with Allie, not exactly. She might have been, if they’d seen each other a few more times. If they’d slept together, but they hadn’t. Not quite. The spark had been there, the possibility had been there, but the timing had been wrong.

Flynn almost laughed. Timing seemed to be everything with her, and she had yet to get it right. She kept almost falling in love, only to discover she’d been too late or too love-struck to see there were problems, time after time. When she’d come here, changing the entire direction of her life, she’d hoped the pattern of her life would change as well. As if that were in her control. She knew it wasn’t. Even if she hadn’t believed that a greater plan, a greater power, was at work, she couldn’t alter the road her life was destined to follow any more than she already had. She was done running. This was home and she was staying.

“I’ll be there,” Flynn called, because she couldn’t change the facts. Not about Allie, not about herself, not about where she’d been or where she was going.

“Good.” Dave tossed the damp rag he had used to polish the medic unit into a bucket. “I’ve seen you run and we need a fast cor—”

An alarm blared—the computerized dispatch system signaling a callout. Flynn dropped the book into the gear bag she carried everywhere when on duty, jumped up, and jogged into the vehicle bay. Dave was already climbing behind the wheel as she grabbed a radio. She dove into the passenger seat, stashed her bag on the floor, and buckled in as Dave roared out onto Shank Painter Road. He liked to drive, and she didn’t mind riding shotgun. She slid the electronic tablet from the slot on the dash and pulled up the stats on the call. The details came up on her screen, relayed from the officer in the field to the emergency dispatcher who had entered the data into the system.