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  She really did need to get out more.

  “I’m looking for a job and I was told I should try here.” His voice was slow and languid, sending a fresh shudder up her spine. It held a slow caress of a southern twinge that slid down the length of her and settled at her toes. It was sultry, deep and not from Maine.

  He moved closer, covering the distance between them in a few easy steps. His height blocked the sun from her face and allowed a rather up close and personal look at his features. He was handsome.

  Still, he was a stranger and in a town the size of Chandler, there were few who welcomed outsiders, especially ones that looked too pretty to get themselves dirty doing hard work for a living.

  “I’m afraid that you’ll be hard pressed to find work around here unless you know something about baiting traps or hauling lines.”

  “You don’t think I’m suited for it?” He gave her a hard unnerving gaze that settled upon her face. He smiled the same slow, one-sided grin he’d offered before.

  “Well, looks can be deceiving, can’t they? When I pulled up I thought you were a man.” His words slid between them before he added. “But you are definitely not a man.”

  Sensibility said she should be outraged at his chauvinistic attitude. But she was finding it hard to muster up anything beyond the squeak that threatened to come out of her throat. After all, she was judging him on appearance. Fair was fair.

  Shelby reached behind her in the lobster tank for her forgotten pliers. Maybe if she ignored him he’d go away and leave her alone.

  No such luck.

  “Do you know where I’d find the owner? I was hoping he’d know where I could pick up a job on a boat.”

  Shelby slammed the lid down on the tank. Water splashed inside the tank, but she didn’t care. It was a natural question and one she got often. So, why was it the same words from this stranger should get her ire up?

  “Try again,” she said through clenched teeth. Any trace of humor she may have had vanished. Strangers tended to think the fishing industry was a male-dominated occupation. They couldn’t begin to imagine anything different.

  “Excuse me?”

  Shelby looked out over the wharf and the green-gray water hitting against the docks. At that moment, she wanted to be anywhere, but where she was.

  “I own this place.”

  Instead of looking uncomfortable, he smiled. “Great! So you can help me.”

  Shelby rolled her eyes. “Look, you don’t know me and I don’t know you. So, let’s cut through all of this, shall we? If you’re looking for a job on one of the boats, then you should be talking to the boat owners.”

  “In other words, you have no intention of helping me because I made you mad.” He raised his chin a bit.

  “Are you always this honest, Mr…”

  He smiled again. “It’s Rivard, Jamie Rivard. And my intention was not to offend you.”

  “Well, Mr. Rivard, while I appreciate your offer of help, I’m not the person to help you. I’d suggest that if you’re interested in a job on one of the boats you should speak with the owner of the Crosstide. It’s moored down off Pine Ledge road.”

  He nodded at her. “My thanks to you for the help. It’s much appreciated.”

  Shelby held up her hand. “I wouldn’t thank me yet. You haven’t gotten the job.” Deciding this was the best time to make her exit, she headed for the store.

  “Are you always this prickly or is it only with strangers?”

  Shelby stopped, turning back to look at him.

  “Mr. Rivard, I’ll give you fair warning. Strangers are not always accepted here. Some of these people have lived here most of their lives and are still considered from away. So, if you’re looking for some fun for a few months you need to keep a few things in mind. For these people, this is their life. This is their income and they take it very serious. They rarely trust anyone they haven’t known since they were in diapers and if you cross them just once you’re sunk. So, if you’re still up to the job, then go. I have work to do.”

  Finished with her tirade, Shelby walked through the door to the store. Her knees and hands were shaking and her teeth hurt from clenching her jaw.

  She had plenty of work to do and it didn’t entail sitting around jabbering with some ego-inflated, tight-jeans wearing tourist with an attitude.

  The Crosstide was tied to the wharf when Jamie pulled up. From the garbled directions he’d gotten from a neighbor down the road, this had to be it.

  A wooden boathouse was settled against the ledges. Rough weathered shingles and an aging tin roof did nothing to hide the fact that a good, strong tide and some hurricane force winds could wash it out to sea.

  Jamie pulled his motorcycle up outside the boathouse and cut the engine. He sat there for a moment letting the quietness sink into his body. He loved his motorcycle. It was fast and fun, but the sound of it could wake the dead. What he had thought would be a nice trip up the coast had constituted nothing more than a perpetual pounding headache and a sore leg. Still, it was nothing a good night’s rest and some fresh salt air couldn’t cure.

  The gritty, whining crank of an engine pulled him from his thoughts.

  He had something to do and he’d better get it over. He knew from his own personal experience that the woman at the wharf was right. People in these small Maine towns were not always open to newcomers. They tended to guard their privacy closely. And nothing could change the fact that he was an outsider.

  Swinging his leg over the motorcycle, Jamie made his way down the narrow, pebble path to the wharf, his boot-clad feet sliding against the small pebbles.

  The weathered planking of the dock was piled high with gear, leaving only a small pathway to pass through. As he approached the Crosstide, the sound of the engine grinding filled the air.

  “Hello, anyone here?” No one was on deck.

  A muffled curse preceded the sound of movements below deck. A man made his way out of the boat housing, wiping his greasy hands on a rag as he looked cautiously at Jamie.

  “Can I help ya'?” He asked. The man was a mammoth with broad shoulders and rough hands the size of dinner plates.

  Jamie straightened up some as he pushed his sunglasses back to the top of his head. The man scowled at him.

  Jamie reached out a hand in greeting and put on his most winning smile. “The name is Jamie Rivard.”

  “Yeah.” The man looked down at Jamie’s hand and back up again as he continued to wipe his hands on the rag. Jamie dropped his hand, stuffing it into his pocket. He was a school kid squirming in the chair in the principal’s office.

  “Are you the owner?” Jamie motioned toward the Crosstide.

  The man shook his head. “One of ’em.”

  Having made it this far, he pushed on.

  “The lady at the store told me that you might be able to tell me where I could get a job on a boat.”

  He stopped wiping his hands and looked at Jamie again, sizing him up.

  “Shelby sent you here?” He shook his head, dismissing him. “You don’t look like you could do the job.” It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact.

  Jamie hadn’t been this uncomfortable since the nuns at St. Catherine’s had hauled him before the Mother Superior for smoking in the bathroom. He cleared his throat and tried standing a little straighter. He had no choice. He had to convince him he was capable of the work.

  “I’ve got experience working on a boat.”

  “What kind of experience would that be?” The older man grabbed at the large, blue bait barrel at his side and began half-rolling, half-dragging it to the back of the boat.

  “I worked on a shrimp trawler off Louisiana.”

  “Louisiana, huh?”

  Jamie nodded.

  “Never been there. Besides,” He looked Jamie in the eye this time as he shook his head. “Not quite the same up here. You wouldn’t like it much.”

  Their conversation, much as it was, had ended as soon as it had begun. The man grabbe
d a hose and start spraying down the deck. Jamie was in a spot. He needed this job if he were going to have a cover.

  “Look, you need someone to help out and I’m looking for a job. It seems like a good fit to me.”

  The fisherman just shrugged and looked over at Jamie again and then back at the job at hand. He couldn’t help wondering what it took to impress a man like him.

  “I’ve already got a teenager, who goes out with me on the off days. But he’s got himself a job in town at one of those fast food joints. I’m looking for someone to go out with me a few times a week. I fish a hundred or so traps and I only go out about four days a week. I leave early most of the time and I’m back in the afternoon. You’d have to be getting up pretty early to work with me.”

  “Not a problem.” Jamie said.

  The man ignored him, shrugging his shoulders as though he was already counting Jamie out. “I imagine you’re looking for full-time money. I can’t pay that so you won’t be wanting this work.”

  Finished with the deck, he wound the hose in a circle on the deck.

  Jamie looked at the boat. Working a couple days a week would be just the right cover. He’d have some time to look around and get a feel for what was going on and have a legitimate reason for being here. But, if he were too anxious, he’d never give him the job.

  “You having problems with the engine?”

  “Do you know anything about motors?” He motioned toward the engine compartment. “I can’t get the blasted thing to turn over. She sparks, but won’t catch.”

  Jamie launched himself over the side of the boat. If this were what it was going to take to get a job, he’d do it. Besides, they’d taught him a thing or two about marine engines at the Maritime Academy. So what, if he wasn’t known for being mechanically inclined. How bad could it be?

  He moved into the engine compartment. The thick odor of gasoline hung in the air and he coughed as it filled his lungs. At least he’d managed to find the engine. That was a good sign. Now, if he could bluff his way through he just might be able to convince the guy to give him the job.

  The obvious answer would be a flooded engine, but it would take some work before the lines drained and the engine could be started. He looked around the cramped quarters. It was clean and well-tended. The man took pride in his equipment.

  Jamie fiddled around for a few minutes checking out the wires and valves on the engine. It looked pretty close to the engine in his Thunderbird. He’d had a problem once with one of the lines. Maybe that was the case here. Pulling off the air intake line, he blew through tubing. No obstacles there.

  Next, he went on and checked the carburetor, but it also appeared to be in order. So much for it being something obvious. He wasn’t going to be able to dazzle the man with his mechanical abilities. He had none. He was already at the end of his limited knowledge and he still had no idea why it wouldn’t start.

  “Try and turn her over again,” he called out. Maybe, if he could just hear what the engine was doing, he might be able to guess what was wrong.

  There was a click, click, followed by a low whining noise.

  “That’s more than I got before. At least there’s some improvement.”

  Jamie began fiddling around and checking the points. Nothing looked out of place.

  “Did you say her name is Shelby?” He asked, looking up at the man over the motor.

  The man nodded. “Aye, she’s Shelby Teague.”

  “She and her husband have a nice place there. It must keep them quite busy during the summer.”

  The other man shook his head. “Shelby runs the place by herself and does a right good job of it. It hasn’t been easy since her husband passed, but she does it anyway.” There was appreciation in his voice. It was a high compliment and it was easy to see his appreciation wasn’t easily won.

  Jamie filed away the knowledge for later as he checked everything over once again. Running his fingers over the connecting wires, he checked the spark plugs and motioned for him to try the engine again. This time there was more chugging and a few whining noises, but it still wouldn’t catch.

  On a hunch, Jamie pulled the gas line, draining the small amount of fluid into an old coffee can he found nearby and checked the line for blockage. A few particles of sand filtering out of the tube when he shook it, but not enough to kill the engine. It could, however, hamper the fuel intake.

  Clearing the tube, he bent it back into place and reconnected it. It was then that he made another discovery. There was a cut severed halfway through the line near the connectors. It was a clean with no signs of wear.

  Under different circumstance, he’d have suspected foul play. But maybe he was just testing him. Or maybe he’d just missed the cut in the line.

  “There was some sand in the line, but my guess is it was this.” He handed him the line and he took it, inspecting the cut.

  He shook his head. “That’s the last time I buy my gas and parts at Guthrie’s. Why that no good bait-for-brains. I should have known he’d sell me bad part. Cripes, he probably sold it to me on purpose.”

  Jamie stepped out of the engine housing and stood up, shaking off the crick in his back. His leg ached from being crouched in the small compartment, but he chose to ignore it. The last thing he needed was for his perspective employer to notice his injury. Any sign of weakness could be a reason for him not to hire him.

  Jamie edged his way to the side of the boat and levered himself up, over and onto the dock. The other man followed along behind, scratching his head.

  “I appreciate you finding it. I guess I missed it when I was down there.”

  Jamie shook his head. “You’d have gotten it sooner or later.”

  He held out his hand to him. “Name’s John Case.”

  Jamie looked at John’s hands. His long callused fingers were cracked and thick. One fingernail was almost gone.

  John Case. Shelby's uncle and the man who topped the suspect list.

  Case had dropped into his lap and he hadn’t even known. Now, all he had to do was figure out what an Irishman with no past to speak of was doing in Chandler, Maine and acting as though he’d been here all of his life.

  Jamie reached out for the offered hand. “Does this mean you’re going to hire me?”

  John looked out past the boat, toward the water, weighing his options, keeping his cards close to his chest. “You’re hired. I just have one question.”

  “What’s that?” He was ready for anything. If he had to, he’d give a skill demonstration. Hell, he’d work a week for free if it meant he could get close to Case.

  John nodded at Jamie's feet. “Are you gonna work in those fancy boots or are you gonna get yourself some real ones like mine?”

  Jamie looked down at his worn, cowboy boots, with their smooth soles and raised heel. They were out of place with John’s black rubber boots. “I guess I’ll just be buying myself some of them fancy ones like yours.”

  John laughed, clamping a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “And I know just the place you can get some. We start on Monday, bright and early. Be here at five, or I leave without you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the time Shelby finished putting the kettle on the stove for her after-dinner tea, the afternoon light outside her kitchen window was turning to evening dusk.

  There was no sign of her uncle. He’d gone down to the wharf to make sure everything was set for the night, leaving her to bear the quietness of the vacant house. She hated it. It was much too quiet.

  She’d given in to the lingering, Indian summer warmth and donned a pair of cut off jeans, the edges frayed with washing. Her sleeveless top left her arms bare to the cooling breeze.

  It had been quite a day.

  All afternoon she’d been distracted by the image of Jamie Rivard on his motorcycle. It sounded trite, like a reference to a country song, but she couldn’t get his slow, easy smile out of her mind. Or the way he’d been relaxed, even polite, as she’d given him a dressing down.


  Her cheeks flared with embarrassment. She was rude to him, more than he deserved. But there was something about him that made her uneasy. More than anyone else in a very long time.

  She piled the dishes into the sink and started running the water into one side, adding the dish soap as her mind wandered.

  Josh wasn’t in yet and it was getting late.

  And because he was late, she couldn’t help thinking about that night almost a year ago when she’d waited for Tommy to come back. The hours had gotten later and later, with no sign or word of him or his boat. And she’d been left waiting and hoping for the best and somehow knowing the worst was yet to come.

  Tommy had been late before. He was a hard worker, always pushing himself to pull in one more string of traps or set out one more line. But that night she’d spent hours standing at the window looking out over the water, watching for him as the other boats had come in for the night. And then, she’d called the Coast Guard.

  After hours of searching, they’d found his boat circling unmanned. All of the safety equipment had been found intact, except for his diving gear. But there had been no Tommy. Finally, after two days of searching, the search and rescue had turned into a recovery mission.

  Eventually, they’d just given up altogether. The official determination was recklessness on Tommy’s part. They concluded he’d been diving alone and his inexperience had caused him to drown. It was all very cut and dried. All very polite, and all very devastating.

  But their logical answers had done nothing to ease her mind or her grief. At twenty-six, her husband was gone and she was a widow. Three weeks later, Tommy’s body washed up on a nearby island and the Coast Guard’s determination was confirmed. Tommy’s carelessness had taken him away from her.

  Now, Josh had decided he could make money faster by diving and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop her headstrong little brother. She couldn’t go on trying to protect him forever. At some point, she was going to have to let him make his own mistakes no matter what the consequences.

  Looking out the window at the shoreline, she watched the lights flickered on, one by one, in the windows of the houses along the shore.