“It’s not going to work, you know,” Alice warned him.

“What’s not going to work?”

“I’m not going to become so overwhelmed by my hormones that I can’t concentrate on the cards,” she said, setting the soup down in front of him.

Patrick’s lips twitched slightly. “You think not?”

“I know not,” she said emphatically.

“You’re turning it into a challenge,” he warned. “Men love challenges.”

Uh-oh, she thought, recognizing the truth in that statement. Men were disgustingly predictable when it came to challenges, especially ones uttered by a woman. She tried to regroup. “It wasn’t a challenge, just a warning.”

“Nice try, but I know a challenge when I hear one.” He grinned as he cupped the back of her neck and held her mere inches away from his face. “And when I decide to take you up on it, you won’t even see it coming.”

Patrick’s Destiny
Sherryl Woods

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SHERRYL WOODS

has written more than seventy-five novels. She also operates her own bookstore, Potomac Sunrise, in Colonial Beach, Virginia. If you can’t visit Sherryl at her store, then be sure to drop her a note at P.O. Box 490326, Key Biscayne, FL 33149 or check out her Web site at www.sherrylwoods.com.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Spring came late to Widow’s Cove, Maine, which suited Alice Newberry just fine. Winter, with its dormant plants, icy winds off the Atlantic and stark, frozen landscape, had been more appropriate for her brooding sense of guilt. The setting had been just as cold and unforgiving as her heart.

But she was working on that. In fact, that was the whole reason she’d come home to the quaint Victorian fishing village where many of her female ancestors had lost husbands to the sea. Eight years ago she’d had a bitter disagreement with her parents and left, determined to prove to them that she could make it on her own without any help from them.

She’d done it, too. She’d worked her way through college, gotten her degree in early childhood education and spent several years now teaching kindergarten, happily nurturing other women’s children. She’d assumed there would be ample time ahead to make peace with her parents, many more years in which to have a family of her own.

Then, less than a year ago, on a stormy summer night, John and Diana Newberry had died when their car had skidded off a slick road and crashed into the sea. The call from the police had shaken Alice as nothing else in her life ever had, not even that long-ago rift when she’d been little more than a girl. Not only were her parents dead, the chance for reconciliation had been lost forever. So many things between them had been left unspoken.

From that instant, a thousand if onlys had plagued her. It tormented her that they’d died with only the memory of her hateful words echoing in their minds…if they’d thought of her at all.

Alice had wondered about that. She’d been haunted by the possibility that they’d pushed all thoughts of her completely out of their heads on the day she’d climbed onto the bus leaving Widow’s Cove for Boston. While she had lived with a million and one regrets and too much pride to ask for forgiveness, had they simply moved on, pretended that they’d never had a daughter? The possibility had made her heart ache.

When their will had been read, she’d had her answer. John and Diana Newberry had left everything to her—“their beloved daughter”—and that had only deepened the wound. For eighteen years she’d been their pride and joy, a dutiful daughter who never gave them a moment’s trouble. And then she’d gone and they’d had no one left, at least no one important enough to bequeath their home and belongings to. She’d had to face the likelihood that they’d been not just alone, but lonely, in her absence.

Coming home after the school year to settle their affairs, Alice had spent a lot of time in the cozy little house on the cliff overlooking the rolling waves of the Atlantic and tried to make peace with her memories…of the good times and the bitter parting. She’d realized by July it was something that couldn’t be accomplished in a few weeks or even a few months. So she’d applied for a teaching position in Widow’s Cove and come home for good in August.

This first school year in Widow’s Cove was passing in a blur, the seasons marked only by the falling of the leaves in autumn, winter’s frozen landscape and her own unrelenting dark thoughts.

Now, finally, in mid-April, spring was creeping in. There were buds on the trees, lawns were turning green and daffodils were swaying in a balmy breeze. She hated the fact that the world was having its annual rebirth, while she was as lonely and as tormented by guilt as ever.

Worse, as if to emphasize how out-of-step she was with the prevailing spring fever, her kindergarten students were as restless as she’d ever seen them. She’d broken up two fights, read them a story, tried vainly to get them settled down before lunch, then given up in defeat. The noise level in the classroom was deafening, an amazing accomplishment for barely a dozen kids. Her head was pounding.

Desperate for relief, she clapped her hands, then shouted for attention. When that didn’t work, she walked over to the usual ringleader—Ricky Foster—and pointedly scowled until he finally turned to her with a suitably guilty expression.

“Sorry, Ms. Newberry,” he said, eyes downcast as the other students promptly followed his lead and settled down.

That was the wonder of Ricky. He could stir up mischief in the blink of an eye and just as quickly dispel it. He could charm with a smile, apologize with utter sincerity or assume the innocent face of an angel. A child with that kind of talent for leadership and spin control at five was destined for great things, assuming some adult didn’t strangle him in the meantime.

“Thank you, Ricky,” she said. “Since it’s such a lovely day outside, it occurred to me that perhaps we should take our lunches and go for a walk.” Maybe the fresh air and exercise would work off some of this pre-spring-break restlessness and she could actually teach something this afternoon. Maybe it would cut through her own malaise as well.

“All right!” Ricky enthused, pumping his fist in the air.

A chorus of cheers echoed his enthusiasm, which only made Alice’s head throb even more. Even so, she couldn’t help smiling at the children’s eagerness. This unchecked excitement and wonder at the world around them was exactly what had drawn her to teaching kindergarten in the first place.

“Okay, then, here are the rules,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers. “We form a nice, straight line. We stay together at all times. When we get to the park, we’ll eat our lunches, then come back here. No running. No roughhousing. If anyone breaks the rules, we come back immediately. Is that understood?”

They listened to every word, expressions dutifully serious as they nodded their understanding. “Yes, ma’am,” they said in a reassuring chorus.

Alice figured they would forget everything she’d said the minute they got outdoors, but she refused to let the prospect daunt her. She’d been teaching for several years now. No five-year-old had gotten the better of her yet, not for long, anyway.

“Do all of you have your lunches?” she asked.

Brown bags and lunch boxes were held in the air.

“Then line up, two-by-two. Ricky, I want you in front with Francesca.”

Ricky immediately made a face. Francesca was a shy girl who never broke the rules. Maybe she’d be a good influence, Alice thought optimistically.

With Ricky right where Alice could keep a watchful eye on him, they made their way without incident to the nearby park, which the school used as a playground. As the kids sat at picnic tables and ate their lunches, Alice turned her face up to the sun and let the warmth ease her pounding headache.

She’d barely closed her eyes when she felt a frantic tug on her arm and heard Francesca’s panicked whisper.

“Ms. Newberry, Ricky’s gone.”

Alice’s eyes snapped open and she scanned the park. She caught a glimpse of the errant boy heading straight for the waterfront, which every child knew was off-limits.

“Ricky Foster, get back here right this second!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. She saw his steps falter and shouted again. “This second!”

His shoulders visibly heaved with a sigh and he reluctantly came trotting back. She was there to greet him, hands on hips. “Young man, you know the rules. What were you thinking?”

“The fishing boats just came in. I was going to see if they brought back any fish,” he said reasonably. “I told Francesca not to tell, ’cause I was coming right back.” He scowled at the tattler. “How come you had to go and blab?”

“Francesca is not the one who made a mistake,” Alice informed him as predictable tears welled up in Francesca’s eyes. “You know that.”

“But it’s really cool when the boats come in.” He gave her a pleading look. “I think we should all go. We could have a lesson on fishing.”

Alice considered the request. Five minutes each way and they would still be back in the classroom in time for one last lesson.

And truthfully, it was hard to resist Ricky. If she had trouble ignoring that sweet face and coaxing tone, it was little wonder that the other kids were putty in his hands. Besides, she could remember what it was like when the air finally warmed and spring fever set in. There were too many tempting possibilities around the sea to sit still for long. At their age, she’d been just as bad, always eager to run off to the beach, to feel the sand between her toes and the splash of waves, no matter how cold.

“Why should I reward you for misbehaving?” she asked Ricky, trying to hold out as a matter of principle.

“It’s not a reward for me,” he said piously. “It would be punishing everybody else if you didn’t let us go.” He regarded her earnestly. “They don’t deserve to be punished.”

Alice sighed. “No, they don’t. Okay, then, I suppose we can go for a walk to see the boats,” she agreed at last. “The key word is walk. No running. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ricky said, his head bobbing.

“Class?”

“No running,” they echoed dutifully.

Satisfied that she at least had a shot at keeping them under control, she had the children throw away their trash, then line up. They looked like obedient little angels as they waited for permission to start. She knew in her gut what an illusion that was, but she wasn’t quite prepared for chaos to erupt so quickly.

Ricky spotted something—Alice had no idea what—and took off with a shout, his promise to remain with the group forgotten. Three others followed. Francesca immediately burst into tears, while Alice shouted ineffectively at Ricky, then set off in hot pursuit. The remaining kids galloped in her wake, obviously thrilled to have the chance to run at full throttle without fear of disapproval.

As she tried to catch the errant children and their sneaky little leader, Alice wondered where in her life she’d gone so wrong. Was it when she’d decided on this outing? Was it when she’d come back to Widow’s Cove? Or had it been years before, when she’d defied her parents just as rebelliously as Ricky had just defied her?

Whenever the beginning, her life was definitely on a downward spiral right this second, and something told her it was about to get a whole lot worse.

A dozen pint-sized kids thundered across the rickety, narrow dock straight toward certain disaster. Patrick Devaney heard their exuberant shouts and looked up just in time to see the leader trip over a loose board and nosedive straight into the freezing, churning water.

Muttering a heartfelt oath, Patrick instinctively dove into the Atlantic after the boy, scooped him up and had him sitting on the edge of the dock before the kid was fully aware of just how close he’d come to drowning. No matter how good a swimmer the kid was, the icy waters could have numbed him in no time, and his skill would have been useless.

Patrick automatically whirled on the woman accompanying the children. “What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded heatedly.

Clearly frozen with shock, cheeks flushed, she stared at him, her mouth working. Then, to his complete dismay, she burst into tears. Patrick barely contained a harsh expletive. A near drowning and a blubbering female. The day just got better and better.

Sighing, he jumped onto the deck of his fishing boat—which also happened to be his home at the moment—grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around the shivering boy. He shrugged out of his own soaked flannel shirt and into a dry wool jacket, keeping his gaze steady on the kid and ignoring the ditzy woman responsible for this near disaster.

“You okay, pal?” he asked after a while.

Eyes wide, the boy nodded. “Just cold,” he said, his teeth chattering.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly a perfect day for a swim,” Patrick agreed. The temperature was mild for a midafternoon in April on the coast of Maine, but the ocean was cold enough to chill a beer in a couple of minutes. He knew, because he’d done it more than once lately. The sea was more efficient than a refrigerator. And if the water was that effective on a beer, it wouldn’t take much longer than that to disable a boy this kid’s size and have him sinking like a rock straight to the bottom. He shuddered just thinking about the tragedy this accident could have become.

The kid watched him warily. “Don’t blame Ms. Newberry,” he pleaded. “I tripped. It wasn’t her fault.”

Patrick could have debated the point. Who in their right mind brought a bunch of rambunctious children onto a dock—a clearly marked private dock—without sufficient supervision? He scowled once more in the woman’s direction, noting that she’d apparently recovered from her bout of tears and was carefully herding the rest of the children back onto dry land. Her soft voice carried out to him as she instructed them firmly to stay put. He could have told her it was a futile command. Children as young as these were inevitably more adventurous than either sensible or obedient. Besides, they outnumbered her, always a risky business when dealing with kids.

“Ms. Newberry’s going to be real mad at me,” the boy beside him confided gloomily. “She told us not to run. We were supposed to stay together.”

Patrick bit back a smile at the futility of that order. “How come you didn’t listen?”

“’Cause I was in a hurry,” he replied impatiently.

Patrick understood the logic of that. He also thought he recognized the kid. It was Matt Foster’s boy. Matt rushed through life the same way, always at full tilt and without a lick of common sense. “You’re Ricky Foster, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, head bobbing. “How come you know that?”

“Your dad and I went to school together. I’d better call him and tell him what’s happened,” Patrick said. “You need to get home and into some dry clothes.”

“I’ll see that he gets home,” the woman in charge of the group informed him stiffly.

“You sure you can handle that and keep an eye on the others, too?” Patrick inquired, nodding toward the brood that was already racing off in a dozen different directions.

Muttering a very unladylike oath under her breath, she charged back to shore and rounded up the children for a second time. She looked as if she’d like nothing better than to tie each and every one of them to a hitching post.

Patrick took pity on her and carried the still-shivering Ricky back to join the others. With two adults presenting a united front, maybe they’d have a shot at averting any more disasters.

“Let’s take ’em all over to Jess’s where they can warm up while you call Matt Foster and get him down here,” Patrick suggested. He headed off in that direction without waiting for a reply. A firm grip on his arm jerked him to a stop.

“I don’t think a bar is an appropriate place for a group of five-year-olds,” she told him.

He frowned down at her. “You have a better suggestion?”

“We could take them back to the school. That’s what we should do,” she said, though without much enthusiasm.

Patrick understood her reluctance. The school’s principal, Loretta Dowd, had to be a hundred years old by now, and she wasn’t known for her leniency. Patrick knew that from his own bitter experience. He’d been every bit as rambunctious as Ricky at his age. There would be hell to pay for this little incident.

“Miss Dowd knows about this outing, then?” he asked, guessing that it had been an impromptu and ill-advised decision. “Permission slips to leave the school grounds are all on file?”

She faltered at that, then sighed. “No,” she admitted. “I suppose the bar is a better choice, at least for a few minutes.”

“It won’t be busy at this time of day,” he consoled her. “Most of the fishermen came in hours ago. And you know how Molly likes to cluck over kids.”

Jess’s had been catering to Widow’s Cove fishermen for three generations. Jess had long since passed on, but his granddaughter ran the place with the same disdain for frills. Molly served cold beer and steaming hot chowder, which was all that mattered to her regulars.

When Patrick and Ms. Newberry trooped inside with the children, Molly came out from behind the bar, took one look at the dripping wet Ricky and began clucking over him as predicted.

“What on earth?” Molly asked, then waved off the question. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll have hot chocolate ready in no time.” She looked at the teacher and frowned. “Alice, you look terrible. Sit down before you faint on me. Patrick, get the children settled, then for heaven’s sakes go and put on some dry pants and a warm shirt under that jacket. I have some of granddad’s I can lend you. They’re hanging in the pantry on the way to the kitchen. Help yourself. I’ll be back in a minute. While I’m in the kitchen, I’ll give Matt a call and tell him to get over here to pick up Ricky.”

Patrick knew better than to balk openly at one of Molly’s orders. She might be his age, but she’d had Jess as an example. She could boss around a fleet of marines without anyone questioning her authority. Besides, one glance at Alice Newberry told him that she was in no condition to take charge. He’d never seen a grown woman look quite so defeated. He had a hunch that today’s misadventure was the last straw in a long string of defeats.

He studied her with a bit more sympathy. Every last bit of color had drained out of her delicate, heart-shaped face, and her brown hair had been whipped into a tangle of curls by the wind. The fact that she was making no attempt at all to tame them spoke volumes. Her hands were visibly trembling, as well. If she wasn’t in shock, she was darn close to it. He tried not to feel too sorry for her, since she’d brought this mess on herself, but a vulnerable woman could cut through his defenses in a heartbeat. Usually he knew enough to avoid them like the plague. This one had reached out and grabbed him when his defenses were down.

“Sit,” he ordered her as he passed by on his way to the bar. Hot chocolate might be great for the kids, but she clearly needed something a lot stronger. He could use the heat from a glass of whiskey himself. He poured two shots and took them back to the table where she was sitting, then slid in opposite her. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when she reacted with dismay.

“I can’t drink that,” she said. “It’s the middle of the day and I’m working.”

Patrick shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He tossed back his own drink, grateful for the fire that shot through his veins. It was only a temporary flash of heat, but it was welcome and would do until he could get home and into his own dry pants.

When he glanced across the table, he found Alice Newberry’s solemn gaze locked on him. He had a feeling a man could drown in those golden eyes if he let himself.

“I never thanked you,” she said. “You saved Ricky’s life. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

“You would have jumped in after him,” he said, giving her the benefit of the doubt.

She shook her head. “I couldn’t,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I froze. It’s like it happened in slow motion and I couldn’t move.”

“You only froze for a second,” he said, surprised by his reluctance to add to her obvious self-derision. “It all happened very quickly.”

“That’s all it takes. In a second, everything can change. One minute someone’s there and alive and healthy…the next, they’re gone.”

Something told him she was no longer talking about Ricky Foster’s misadventure. Something also told him he didn’t want to know what demons she was wrestling with. He had more than enough of his own.

Now that he knew who she was, he had a dim recollection of hearing the gossip that the new kindergarten teacher in Widow’s Cove was returning home after some personal tragedy. Everyone spoke of it in whispers. Patrick hadn’t listened to the details. They hadn’t mattered to him. He made it a practice to keep everyone at a distance, to remain completely uninvolved in their lives. It was the one sure way to avoid being betrayed. He had no family in Widow’s Cove and few friends. And he liked it that way.

“Yeah, bad stuff happens like that,” he said neutrally, in response to Alice’s lament. “But all’s well that ends well. Ricky will be fine once he gets into some dry clothes. You’ll be fine once the shock wears off.”

She studied him with surprise. “You didn’t sound so philosophical down on the dock. I believe you asked me what the hell I was thinking.”

He shrugged. “It seemed like a valid question at the time.” Now that the crisis was over, his temper had cooled and his own share in the guilt had crept in.

“It was a perfectly reasonable question,” she agreed, surprising him.

“I don’t suppose you have a perfectly reasonable answer, do you?”

She nodded. “Actually, I do. The children were getting restless at school. Spring break starts tomorrow. I thought a walk would do them good. The next thing I knew, Ricky spied the last of the fishing boats coming in. He begged to come and see what kind of catch everyone had. He swore to me that he’d stay with the group. Everyone agreed not to run. I took them at their word.”

She shrugged and gave Patrick a wry look. “Obviously, I should have known better. Five seconds later, Ricky spied something, who knows what, and forgot all about his promise. He took off, and the next thing I knew they were all off and running. I’ve been teaching five-year-olds long enough now to have anticipated something like that.”

“Maybe so, but you couldn’t anticipate Ricky tripping,” Patrick replied, then conceded with reluctance, “Besides, the fault’s as much mine as yours. I’ve known that board was loose since I bought the dock, but I keep forgetting to pick up some nails when I’m at the hardware store. I’ve gotten so used to it, I just walk around it. Nobody else comes down that way. That dock’s supposed to be private.”

She regarded him with surprise. “In Widow’s Cove?”

Patrick chafed under the hint of disapproval he thought he heard. “I bought and paid for it. Why shouldn’t I put up No Trespassing signs?”

“It’s just unusual in a friendly town like this,” she said. “Most people don’t see the need.”

“I don’t like being bothered.” No need to explain that the signs were meant as a deterrent for certain specific people, Patrick thought. If they kept everyone else away, too, so much the better.

He glanced up and caught sight of Matt Foster coming through the door. “Ricky’s dad’s here,” he told Alice, making no attempt to hide his relief. “I’ll speak to him and tell him what happened, then I’ll be getting back to my boat.”

“I’ll explain,” Alice insisted, her chin jutting up with determination as she slid from the booth. “It’s my responsibility.”

“Whatever,” he said with a shrug. “One word of advice, though. Next time you think about taking your class for a stroll, think again. Either that or keep ’em away from the docks.”

There was a surprising flash of temper in her eyes at the order he’d clumsily tried to disguise as advice. For an instant Patrick thought she was going to address him with another burst of unladylike profanity, but one glance at the children silenced her. Discretion didn’t dim the sparks in her eyes, nor did it quiet her tongue. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “If the occasion ever arises again, I’ll certainly consider your point of view, Mr. Devaney.”

The fact that her meek tone was counterpointed by sparks of barely restrained annoyance pretty much ruined the polite effect he was sure she intended. Patrick shook his head.

“Just keep ’em away from my dock, then,” he said, dropping all pretenses. “And that’s not a simple request, Ms. Newberry. That’s an order.”

She was still sputtering indignantly when he spoke to Matt and then walked out the door.

Something about that little display of temper got to him, made his blood heat in a way it hadn’t for a while. He savored the sensation for a moment, then deliberately dismissed it. All it proved was that he needed to keep his distance from Alice Newberry. If a woman could get under his skin with a flash of temper, then he’d been seriously deprived of female companionship for far too long. He suspected the kindergarten teacher with the tragic past and the vulnerable expression was the last woman on earth he should choose to change that.

Chapter Two

The minute he’d taken a hot shower and changed into dry clothes, Patrick headed for the hardware store in downtown Widow’s Cove. Today’s near tragedy had been just the wake-up call he needed to repair the dock once and for all.

He’d let too many things slip the past few years, not caring about anything more than the hours at sea, the size of his catch and a cold beer at the end of a hard day. Ricky Foster’s plunge into the ocean had shocked him back to reality. Unless he planned to move to some uninhabited island, Patrick couldn’t keep the world at bay forever. And since he couldn’t, he’d better be prepared for the intrusions, if only to make sure that no one could sue his butt off.

That cynical response aside, he had another pressing issue to consider—his disturbing reaction to Alice Newberry. He could fix the dock to keep some other kid from tripping, but he wasn’t nearly as sure how to go about protecting himself from the likes of the teacher.

Maybe Molly would give him some pointers on that score. The two women were obviously acquainted. He figured, knowing Molly, that asking questions would stir up a hornet’s nest, but that was still better than risking another encounter when Alice Newberry could catch him off guard and get to him with those big golden eyes of hers.

At the old-fashioned hardware store, which was stacked from floor to ceiling with every size nut and bolt imaginable, along with tools for everything from fixing a leak to building a mansion, Patrick picked out the nails he needed to repair the dock, added some treated lumber to replace the boards that were warped beyond repair, then went up to the counter.

Caleb Jenkins, who’d taken over the store from his father fifty years ago and modernized very little beyond the selection of merchandise, gave him a nod and what passed for a smile. “Figured you’d be in,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Heard what happened on the dock,” Caleb explained. “Board’s been loose since Red Foley bought that dock thirty years ago. Told him a hundred times, the dang thing was a danger. Would’ve told you the same thing, if you’d come in here before now, but you’ve been making yourself scarce since you moved over here from your folks’ place.”

Patrick’s grin faltered at the mention of his parents, but that was a discussion he didn’t intend to have—not with Caleb Jenkins, not with anyone. He’d written his folks off, and the reasons were his business and his alone. The fact that they were less than thirty miles away meant he was bound to run into people who knew them from time to time. It didn’t mean he had to discuss his personal business.

Instead he focused on the rest of Caleb’s comment. “Doubt I’d have listened any better than Red,” he told the old man.

“Probably not.” Caleb shook his head. “You get old and finally know a thing or two and nobody wants to listen. Heard the boy’s okay, though.”

“Just wet and scared,” Patrick confirmed. “I imagine Matt will have quite a bit to say to him.”

“Doubtful. Matt never had a lick of sense. Always in a hurry, Matt was. Boy’s the same way,” he said, confirming Patrick’s previous thought that like father, like son.

“You have a point,” Patrick agreed.

“Matt lived to tell a tale or two about his narrow escapes. I imagine his son will, too.”

“Hope so,” Patrick said. He peeled off the money to pay for the nails and lumber, anxious to get home, finish the needed work and put this day behind him.

Caleb gave him a sly look as he handed back the receipt. “Hear Alice Newberry took what happened real hard.”

“She was upset, but she’ll get over it. After all, there was no real harm done.”

“Doubt Loretta will see it that way,” Caleb said, shaking his head. “How that woman ended up principal of a school is beyond me. She never did understand kids. You gotta let ’em explore and discover things for themselves. They’re bound to make a few mistakes along the way, but that’s just part of living, don’t you think?”

Patrick hadn’t given the topic much thought, since he had no kids of his own and didn’t intend to. “Makes sense to me,” he said, mostly to end the conversation. He had a hunch Caleb was leading up to something Patrick didn’t want to hear.

Unfortunately, Caleb wasn’t the least bit daunted. “Maybe you ought to go by the school and have a word with Loretta.”

Patrick gave him a hard look. “Me? Why should I get involved?”

“You are involved,” Caleb pointed out. “The boy fell off your dock. Besides, a man ought to be willing to help out a woman when she needs looking after. That’s the way of the world.”

The old-fashioned world, maybe, Patrick thought. He wasn’t sure he had any reason to get involved in Alice Newberry’s salvation. As well, he had a hunch she could stand up for herself just fine. Aside from that brief display of tears, which he attributed to shock, she hadn’t hesitated to speak her mind to him. She seemed to have some sort of fixation on personal accountability, too. He doubted she would appreciate him running to her rescue.

“I’ll think about it,” he told Caleb.

“Not much of a gentleman if you don’t,” the old man said, his tone chiding.

“If I hear Ms. Newberry needs any help, I’ll talk to Loretta,” he promised.

“That’ll do, I suppose,” Caleb said, looking disappointed.

“I imagine you’d go rushing over to the school right now,” Patrick said, feeling the weight of the subtle pressure.

Caleb’s expression brightened at once. “There you go. Best to nip this sort of thing in the bud. Be sure to give Loretta my regards.”

“I never said I was going to the school,” Patrick pointed out.

“Of course you are. It’s ten minutes away. Won’t take you but a couple of minutes to put things right with Loretta, and you can be back on that dock of yours in no time. You’ll have done a good deed.”

“I thought diving in the freezing ocean was my good deed,” Patrick grumbled.

“One of ’em,” Caleb agreed. “A smart man knows he needs a lot of ’em on the ledger before the day comes when he faces Saint Peter.”

Patrick sighed heavily. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He noticed that Caleb was looking mighty pleased with himself as he watched Patrick gather up his purchases. Just what he needed in his life…a nosy old man who thought he had a right to be Patrick’s conscience.

Nevertheless, he drove to the school, then stalked through the halls that still smelled exactly as they had twenty years ago—of chalk, a strong pine-scented cleanser, peanut butter sandwiches and smelly sneakers. He followed the all-too-familiar path directly to the principal’s office and hammered on the door, determined for once not to let Loretta Dowd intimidate him. He was all grown-up and beyond her authority now.

“Come in,” a tart voice snapped.

Patrick entered and faced Loretta Dowd with her flashing black eyes and steel-gray bun. He promptly felt as if he were six years old again, and in trouble for the tenth time in one day.

“You!” she said. “I might have known. There’s no need to break my door down, Patrick Devaney. My hearing’s still perfectly fine.”

He winced at her censure. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I imagine you’re here to tell me that it wasn’t Alice’s fault that Ricky Foster fell off your dock.”

Patrick nodded.

“Did you take him from his classroom to the waterfront?”

Patrick barely resisted the desire to squirm as he had as a boy under that unflinching gaze. “No.”

“Did you lose control of him?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see how this is your fault,” she said. “You may go now.”

Patrick started to leave, then realized what she hadn’t said. He turned back and peered at her. “You’re not firing Ms. Newberry, are you?”

She frowned at the question. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a fine teacher. She just happened to make a bad decision today. Spring makes a lot of people do crazy things. We’ve addressed it. It won’t happen again.”

Thank the Lord for that, Patrick thought. “Okay, then,” he said.

He turned to leave, but Mrs. Dowd spoke his name sharply.

“Yes, ma’am?” He noticed with some surprise that there was a twinkle in her eyes.

“It was very gallant of you to roar in here in an attempt to protect Ms. Newberry. You’ve turned into a fine young man.”

Warmth flooded through him at the undeserved compliment. “I imagine there are quite a few who’d argue that point,” he said, “but thanks for saying it, just the same.”

“If you’re referring to your parents, I think you know better.”

Patrick stiffened. “I don’t discuss my parents.”

“Perhaps you should. Better yet, you should be talking to them. And to your brother.”

“They’re in my past,” he told her, not the least bit surprised that she felt she had a right to meddle in his life but resentful of it just the same.

“Not as long as there’s breath in any of you,” she told him, her tone surprisingly gentle. “One phone call would put an end to their heartache.” She leveled her gaze straight at him. “And to yours.”

“My heart’s just fine, thanks all the same, and I didn’t come here to get a lecture from you,” he said. “I left grade school a long time ago.”

“But you haven’t outgrown the need for a friendly nudge from someone older and wiser, have you?” she chided.

It was the second time in less than an hour that someone in town had seen fit to pull rank on Patrick. It was Caleb’s push that had gotten him over here, and for what? He hadn’t done a thing to help Alice Newberry, and he’d gotten another lecture on his own life in the bargain.

“Forgive me for saying this, Mrs. Dowd, but in this case you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough to recognize a miserable man when I see one standing in front of me,” she said. “You won’t be truly happy until you settle this.”

“Maybe it can’t be settled and maybe I don’t care about being truly happy,” Patrick retorted. “Maybe all I care about is being left alone.”

That said, he whirled around and left the school, regretting that he’d ever let Caleb talk him into coming over here in the first place. Some days a man would be smart to listen to his own counsel and no one else’s.

Alice had never been so humiliated and embarrassed in her life. Of all the boneheaded things she could have done…not only had she lost control of her students and let one of them nearly drown, she had done it in front of Patrick Devaney.

Everyone in Widow’s Cove knew that Patrick had turned into a virtual recluse. He lived on that fishing boat of his, ate his meals at Jess’s and, for all Alice knew, drank himself into oblivion there every night as well. What no one knew was why, not the details, anyway. There had been some sort of rift with his parents, that much was known. He’d left his home, about thirty miles away, and moved to Widow’s Cove. That thirty miles might as well have been thirty thousand. From what she’d heard, none of them had bridged the distance.

Alice almost hadn’t recognized Patrick when he’d emerged from the ocean dripping wet and mad as the dickens. His hair was too long and stubble shadowed his cheeks. He looked just a little disreputable and more than a little dangerous, especially with his intense blue eyes shooting angry sparks.

Alice remembered a very different Patrick from high school. Although she’d been two years older, everyone at the county high school located here in town knew each other at least by sight. Even as a sophomore, Patrick had been the flirtatious, wildly popular, star football player; his twin brother, Daniel, the captain of the team. The two of them had been inseparable. Now they barely spoke and tried to avoid crossing paths. No one understood that, either.

Alice hadn’t been surprised that Patrick hadn’t remembered her. Not only had she been older, but in high school she’d kept her head buried in her books. She’d been determined to go to college, to break the pattern of all the women in her family, going back generations, who’d married seafaring men, borne their children and lived in fear each time a violent storm approached the coast.

Too many of those men had been lost at sea. Too many of the wives had raised their children alone, living a hand-to-mouth existence because they’d had no skills of their own to fall back on. It had been such a bitter irony that her own father had been lost to that same sea—not in a boat, but in a car—and that he’d taken Alice’s mother to her death with him.

Alice could still recall the heated exchange when she’d told her parents of her plans. They’d both thought she was casting aspersions on their choices, that by wanting more she was being ungrateful for the life they’d struggled to give her.

Maybe that was why, even when Patrick had been lambasting her for what had happened this afternoon, Alice had felt a strange sort of kinship with him. She knew all about family rifts and unhealed wounds. He, at least, still had time to heal his before it was too late. Maybe they’d met so that she could pass along the message she’d learned, assuming they ever crossed paths again.

She was about to leave school for the day when the screechy public address system in her room came on with a burst of static. “Alice, my office now, please,” Mrs. Dowd said in her usual tart manner.

Alice sighed. She thought they’d already been over today’s transgression and moved on. Apparently she’d been wrong. Maybe Matt Foster had called and made an issue of what had happened to Ricky. Maybe he’d forced the principal’s hand.

Gathering her things, she headed for the office, filled with a sense of dread. Even though living in Widow’s Cove hadn’t yet brought her the peace she’d hoped for, she didn’t want to leave, and that was exactly what being fired would mean, since there was no other kindergarten class for miles and miles along this remote stretch of coast.

She tapped lightly on the principal’s door, then walked in when the woman’s sharp tone summoned her.

“There’s something I thought you should know before you go off on break for the next week,” Loretta Dowd said, a surprising hint of a smile on her usually stern lips.

“Yes?”

“Patrick Devaney was here.”

Alice stared at her. Had he come to complain that she wasn’t responsible, that she had no business being in charge of a classroom full of children?

“Why?” she asked, barely able to squeeze the word out past the sudden lump in her throat.

“I believe he wanted to save your job if it was in jeopardy. I told him it wasn’t, but I think the attempt spoke very well of him, don’t you?”

Alice nodded, too shocked for words. Patrick had come rushing to her rescue? He’d been furious with her. Obviously someone was behind it. Molly perhaps. Of course, as fast as news spread in Widow’s Cove, it could have been anyone. Few people in town hesitated to share their opinions of right and wrong under the guise of being helpful. Someone had definitely given him a nudge, no question about it.

“Be sure to thank him when you see him,” the principal said, a twinkle in her eyes.

“I hadn’t planned—”

“The man dove into the icy water to save one of your students,” Mrs. Dowd said, cutting her off. “And then he came charging into my office to save you. Don’t you think the least you can do would be to take him some homemade soup as an expression of gratitude?”

Alice stared at her, trying to process this bit of advice. If she wasn’t mistaken, Loretta Dowd was matchmaking. “What are you up to?” she asked, stunned that the woman even had an interest in Alice’s love life.

The principal drew herself up and gave Alice one of her most daunting looks. “I am not up to anything,” she declared fiercely, but the indignation came too late.

Alice could see quite clearly now that Loretta Dowd was a complete and total fraud. She was not the strict, unfeeling disciplinarian everyone feared. She had a heart.

“If you can’t make soup, I made a fresh pot of chowder this morning,” the principal added.

Alice grinned. “I can make soup. In fact, I made some last night and there’s plenty left. I baked several loaves of bread, too.”

“Well then, what are you standing around here for?” Mrs. Dowd said with her familiar exasperation. “Get on over to that boy’s boat before he catches his death of cold.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Relieved to have an excuse to force her to do what she’d been half wanting to do, anyway, Alice walked to her house, filled a container with some of her homemade beef vegetable soup, added a loaf of her home-baked bread to the basket, and headed right back to Patrick Devaney’s private, No Trespassing dock.

Once there, she took a certain perverse pleasure in pushing open the flimsy gate and making a lot of noise as she approached his trawler. She wasn’t the least bit surprised when he emerged from below deck with a scowl already firmly in place.

“Which part of ‘stay away’ didn’t you understand?” he inquired, leaping gracefully onto the dock and blocking her way.

“I figured it didn’t apply to me, since I come bearing gifts,” she said cheerfully, holding out the soup and bread as she took note of the fact that there were several new boards in place underfoot. “You never mentioned the fact that you were in that freezing ocean because of me—”

“Because of Ricky,” he corrected.

She shrugged at the distinction. “I thought some hot soup might ward off a chill. I don’t want it on my conscience if you get sick because of what happened. Besides, I need to thank you for going to see Mrs. Dowd this afternoon. She was impressed.”

His mouth curved into an arrogant grin that made her heart do an unexpected flip.

“I don’t get sick,” he informed her. “And I didn’t go by the school to impress Loretta Dowd.”

“Which makes it all the more fascinating that you did,” she replied. “As for your general state of good health, having some nutritious soup won’t hurt.”

“You casting aspersions on Molly’s chowder?”

“Hardly, but you must be tired of that by now.”

The grin faded. “Meaning?”

She faltered. She hadn’t meant to admit that she knew anything about his habits. “She says you’re there a lot, that’s all.”

“You asked about me?” He didn’t even attempt to hide his surprise.

The arrogant tilt to his mouth returned, and Alice saw a faint hint of the charming boy he’d once been. She wasn’t here to inflate his already well-developed ego, though. “I most certainly did not,” she said. “Molly tends to volunteer information she thinks will prove helpful.”

He sighed at that. “Yeah. I keep talking to her about that. She seems to think she can save me from myself if she gets enough people pestering me.”

“What do you think?” Alice asked curiously.

“That I don’t need saving.”

She laughed. “I keep telling her the same thing. It hasn’t stopped her yet. Now we’ve both got Loretta Dowd meddling in our lives. She’s the one who insisted on the soup. We’re probably doomed.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said. “I imagine Mrs. Dowd will want to know exactly how polite I was when you came over here. She and Caleb Jenkins will probably compare notes.”

“How on earth did Caleb get involved in this?” Alice asked.

“He thought I should speak to Mrs. Dowd on your behalf.”

“Ah, that explains the trip to the school. I guessed it wasn’t your idea.”

“Oh, I suppose I would have come around to it sooner or later on my own,” he claimed. “The point is, there are any number of fascinated bystanders in this town. I’ll hear about it if I act ungrateful and send you away.” He pushed off from the railing and held out his hand. “You want to come aboard and share a bowl of that soup? Looks to me like there’s plenty for two.”

Alice hesitated. Wasn’t this the real reason she’d come, to see if she and Patrick Devaney had as much in common as it seemed? Wasn’t she here because of that feeling of kinship that had sparked to life in her earlier?

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You don’t seem very receptive to company.” She nodded toward the No Trespassing sign.

He gave her a steady, intense look. “It doesn’t apply to invited guests, and where you’re concerned, I’m not sure of anything,” he said in a way that sent a surprising shiver of awareness racing over her.

“Want to wait till you are?” she asked, startled by the teasing note in her own voice. She almost sounded as if she were flirting with him. Of course, it had been a long time, so maybe she wasn’t being as obvious as she thought.

“Hell, no,” he said, grinning. “I’ve gotten used to living dangerously.”

Alice laughed, then reached out to accept his outstretched hand as she stepped onboard. She noted that unlike the previously decrepit dock, the boat was spotless and in excellent repair. Every piece of chrome and wood had been polished to a soft sheen. Fishing nets were piled neatly. Apparently Patrick Devaney used the time he didn’t spend socializing or shaving to pay close attention to his surroundings.

Below deck in the small cabin, it was the same. The table was clear except for the half-filled coffee cup from which he’d apparently been drinking. The bed a few feet away was neatly made, the sheets crisp and clean, a navy-blue blanket folded precisely at the foot of the bed.

Moving past her in the tight space, Patrick took a pot from a cupboard, poured the soup into it and set it on the small two-burner stove, then retrieved two bowls and spoons from the same cupboard. Alice was all too aware of the way he filled the cramped quarters, of the width of his shoulders, of the narrowness of his hips. He’d filled in since his football-playing days, but he was definitely still in shape. It was the first time in ages she’d recognized the powerful effect pure masculinity could have on her.

From the moment she’d lost her parents, nearly a year ago, she’d gone into an emotional limbo. She let no one or nothing touch her. She even kept a barrier up between herself and her students, or at least she had until Ricky Foster had scared the living daylights out of her this afternoon. Nothing had rattled her so badly since the night the police had called to tell her that her parents had driven off that road they’d traveled a thousand times in all kinds of weather.

Don’t go there, she thought, forcing her attention back to the present. One appreciative, surreptitious glance at Patrick’s backside as he bent to retrieve something from the tiny refrigerator did the trick. It was all she could do not to sigh audibly at the sight.

Don’t go there, either, she told herself very firmly. She was here for penance and for soup. Nothing more. A peek at Patrick Devaney sent another little shock of awareness through her and proved otherwise.

Oh, well, there was certainly no harm in looking, she decided as she sat back and enjoyed the view. Even a woman living in a self-imposed state of celibacy had the right to her fantasies, and any fantasy involving Patrick Devaney should definitely not be dismissed too readily.

Chapter Three

Patrick wasn’t sure what had possessed him to invite Alice Newberry aboard the Katie G., a boat he’d named for his mother as a constant reminder that people weren’t to be trusted. For eighteen years he’d considered his mother to be the most admirable woman he’d ever known. Now, each time he caught a glimpse of the name painted on the bow of the boat, it served as a reminder that everyone had secrets and that everyone was capable of duplicity. It was a cynical attitude, but experience had taught him it was a valid one.

Maybe he’d invited Alice to join him because he was getting sick of his own lousy company. Or maybe it was because he had a gut instinct that she’d learned the same bitter lesson about humanity’s lack of trustworthiness. Not that he planned to commiserate. He just figured she was probably no more anxious than he was to start something that was destined to end badly, the way all relationships inevitably did.

Oddly enough, for all that they’d had going against them, his own parents were still together. He supposed there was some sort of perverse love at work, if it could survive what they’d done to their own family. Funny how for so many years he’d thought how lucky he was to have had parents who’d stayed together, parents who preached about steadfastness and commitment and set an example for their sons.

He and Daniel had had a lot of friends whose parents were divorced, kids who’d envied them for their ideal home. Not that Patrick or Daniel had shared the illusion that everything was wonderful in the Devaney household. There were arguments—plenty of them, in fact—mostly conducted in whispers and behind closed doors. And there were undercurrents they’d never understood—an occasional expression of inexplicable sorrow on their mother’s face, an occasional hint of resentment in their father’s eyes—just enough to make him and Daniel wonder if things were as perfect as they wanted to believe.

In general, though, he and Daniel had had a good life. There had been a lot of love showered on them, love that in retrospect he could see was meant to make up for the love their parents could no longer give to their other sons. There had been tough times financially, but they’d never gone to bed hungry or doubting that they were loved. And in later years, his father had settled into a good-paying job as a commercial fisherman, working not for himself but for some conglomerate that guaranteed a paycheck, even when the catches weren’t up to par. After that, things had been even better. There were no more arguments over rent and grocery money.

He and Daniel had been eighteen before they’d discovered the truth, and then all of those whispered fights and sad looks had finally made sense. Not that their parents had confessed to anything in a sudden flash of conscience. No, the truth had been left for Patrick and Daniel to find discover by accident.

Daniel had been digging around in an old trunk in the attic, hoping to use it to haul his belongings away to college, when he’d stumbled on an envelope of yellowing photos, buried beneath some old clothes. It was apparent in a heartbeat that the envelope was something they’d never been meant to see.

Patrick still remembered that day as if it were yesterday. If he let himself, he could feel the oppressive heat, smell the dust that swirled as Daniel disturbed memories too long untouched. To this day, if Patrick walked into a room that had been closed up too long, the musty scent of it disturbed him. It was why he’d chosen to live here, on his boat, where the salt air breezes held no memories.

He remembered Daniel shouting for him to come upstairs, remembered the confused expression on his twin’s face as he’d sifted through the stack of photographs. When Patrick had climbed the ladder into the attic, Daniel looked stunned. Silently, he held out the pictures, his hand trembling.

“Look at them,” he commanded, when Patrick’s gaze stayed on him rather than the photos.

“Looks like some old pictures,” Patrick had said, barely sparing them a glance, far more concerned about his brother’s odd expression.

“Look at them,” his brother had repeated impatiently.

The sense of urgency had finally gotten through to Patrick, and he’d studied the first picture. It was of a toddler with coal-black hair and a happy smile racing toward the camera at full throttle. He was a blur of motion. Patrick had blinked at the image, thoroughly confused about what Daniel had seen that had him so obviously upset. “What? Do you think it’s Dad?”

Daniel shook his head. “Look again. That’s Dad in the background.”

“Okay,” Patrick said slowly, still not sure what Daniel was getting at. “Then it has to be one of us.”

“I don’t think so. Look at the rest of the pictures.”

Slowly, Patrick had worked his way through the photos, several dozen in all, apparently spanning a period of years. His mom was in some of them, his father in more. But there were happy, smiling boys in each one. That first toddler, then another who was his spitting image, then three, and finally five, two of them babies, evidently twins.

Patrick’s hand shook as he studied the last set of pictures. Finally, almost as distressed and definitely as confused as Daniel, he dragged his gaze away and stared at his brother. “My God, what do you think it means? Those babies, do you think that’s you and me?”

“Who else could it be?” Daniel had asked. “There are no other twins on either side of the family, at least none that we know of. Come to think of it, though, what do we really know about our family? Have you ever heard one word about our grandparents, about any aunts or uncles?”

“No.”

“That should have told us something. It’s as if we’re some insular little group that sprang on the world with absolutely no connections to anyone else on earth.”

“Don’t you think you’re being overly dramatic?” Patrick asked.

“Look at the damn pictures and tell me again that I’m being too dramatic,” Daniel shouted back at him.

Patrick’s gaze had automatically gone to the top photo, the one of five little dark-haired boys. “Who do you suppose they are?”

“I don’t even want to think about it,” Daniel said, clearly shaken to his core by the implications.

“We have to ask Mom and Dad. You know that,” Patrick told him, feeling sick. “We can’t leave it alone.”

“Why not? Obviously, it’s something they don’t want to talk about,” Daniel argued, far too eager to stick his head right back in the sand.

It had always been that way. Patrick liked to confront things, to lay all the cards on the table, no matter what the consequences. Daniel liked peace at any cost. He’d been the perfect team captain on their high school football squad, because he had no ego, because he could smooth over the competitive streaks and keep the team functioning as a unit.

“It doesn’t matter what they want,” Patrick had all but shouted, as angered now as Daniel had been a moment earlier. “If those boys are related to us, if they’re our brothers, we have a right to know. We need to know what happened to them. Did they die? Why haven’t we ever heard about them? Kids don’t just vanish into thin air.”

“Maybe they’re cousins or something,” Daniel said, seeking a less volatile explanation. It was as if he couldn’t bear to even consider the hard questions, much less the answers.

“Then why haven’t we seen them in years?” Patrick wasn’t about to let their folks off the hook…or Daniel, for that matter. This was too huge to ignore. And it could explain so many things, little things and big ones, that had never made any sense. “You said it yourself, the folks have never once mentioned any other relatives.”

Even as he spoke, he searched his memory, trying to find the faintest recollection of having big brothers, but nothing came to him. Shouldn’t he have remembered on some subconscious level at least? He scanned the pictures again, hoping to trigger something. On his third try, he noticed the background.

“Daniel, where do you think these were taken?” he asked, puzzled by what he saw.

“Around here, I guess. It’s where we’ve always lived.”

“Is it?” Patrick asked, studying the buildings in the photos. “Have you ever noticed a skyscraper in Widow’s Cove?”

Daniel reached for the photo. “Let me see that.” He studied it intently. “Boston? Could it be Boston?”

Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know, I’ve never been to Boston. You went there with some friends last Christmas. Does it look familiar to you?”

“I honestly don’t know, but if it is Boston, why haven’t Mom and Dad ever mentioned that we took a trip there?”

“Or lived there?” Patrick added. “We have to ask, Daniel. If you won’t, then I will.”

Patrick remembered the inevitable confrontation with their parents as if it had taken place only yesterday. He’d been the one to put the photos on the kitchen table in front of their mother. He’d tried to remain immune to her shocked gasp of recognition, but it had cut right through him. That gasp was as much of an admission as any words would have been, and it had stripped away every shred of respect he’d ever felt for her. In a heartbeat, she went from beloved mother to complete stranger.

“What the hell have you two been doing digging around in the attic?” his father had shouted, making a grab for the pictures. “There are things up there that are none of your business.”

But all of Connor Devaney’s blustery anger and Kathleen’s silent tears hadn’t cut through Patrick’s determination to get at the truth. He’d finally gotten them to admit that those three boys were their sons, sons they had abandoned years before when they’d brought Patrick and Daniel to Maine.

“And you’ve never seen them again?” he’d asked, shocked at the confirmation of something he’d suspected but hadn’t wanted to believe. “You have no idea what happened to them?”

“We made sure someone would look after them, then we made a clean break,” his father said defensively. He looked at his wife as if daring her to contradict him. “It was for the best.”

“What do you mean, you made sure someone would look after them? Did you arrange an adoption?”

“We made a call to Social Services,” his father said.

“They said someone would go right out, that the boys would be taken care of,” his mother said, as if that made everything all right.

Even as he’d heard the words, Patrick hadn’t wanted to believe them. How could these two people he’d loved, people who’d loved him, have been so cold, so irresponsible? What kind of person thought that making a phone call to the authorities made up for taking care of their own children? What parents walked away from their children without making any attempt to assure beyond any doubt that they were in good hands? What kind of people chose one child over another and then pretended for years that their family of four was complete? My God, his whole life had been one lie after another.

Patrick had been overwhelmed with guilt over having been chosen, while three little boys—his own brothers—had been abandoned.

“How old were they?” he asked, nearly choking on the question.

“What difference does it make?” his father asked.

“How old?” Patrick repeated.

“Nine, seven and four,” his mother confessed in a voice barely above a whisper. Tears tracked down her cheeks, and she suddenly looked older.

“My God!” Patrick had shoved away from the kitchen table, barely resisting the desire to break things, to shatter dishes the way his illusions had been shattered.

“Let us explain,” his mother had begged.

“We don’t owe them an explanation,” his father had shouted over her. “We did what we had to do. We’ve given the two of them a good life. That’s what we owed them. They’ve no right to question our decision.”

Patrick hadn’t been able to silence all the questions still churning inside him. “What about what you owed your other sons?” he had asked, feeling dead inside. “Did you ever once think about them? My God, what were you thinking?”

He hadn’t waited for answers. He’d known none would be forthcoming, not with his mother in tears and his father stubbornly digging in his heels. Besides, the answers didn’t really matter. There was no justification for what they’d done. He’d whirled around and left the house that night, taking nothing with him, wanting nothing from people capable of doing such a thing. It was the last time he’d seen or spoken to either one of his parents.

Daniel had found him a week later, drunk on the waterfront in Widow’s Cove. He’d tried for hours to convince Patrick to come home.

“I don’t have a home,” Patrick had told him, meaning it. “Why should I have one, when our brothers never did?”

“You don’t know that,” Daniel had argued. “It’s possible they’ve had good lives with wonderful families.”

“Possible?” he’d scoffed. “Separated from us? Maybe even separated from each other? And that’s good enough to satisfy you? You’re as bad as they are. The Devaneys are a real piece of work. With genes like ours, the world is doomed.”

“Stop it,” Daniel ordered, looking miserable. “You don’t know the whole story.”

Patrick had looked his brother in the eye, momentarily wondering if he’d learned things that had been kept from Patrick. “Do you?”

“No, but—”

“I don’t want to hear your phony excuses, then. Leave me alone, Daniel. Go on off to college. Live your life. Pretend that none of this ever happened. I can’t. I’ll never go back there.”

He’d watched his brother walk away and suffered a moment’s regret for the years of closeness lost, but he’d pushed it aside and made up his mind that he would spend the rest of his life living down the Devaney name. Maybe what that meant wasn’t public knowledge, but he would live with the shame just the same.

That was the last time he’d gotten drunk, the last day he’d wandered idly. He’d gotten a job on a fishing boat and started saving until he’d been able to afford his own trawler. His needs were simple—peace and quiet, an occasional beer, the infrequent companionship of a woman who wasn’t looking for a future. He tried with everything in him to be a decent man, but he feared that as Connor and Kathleen’s son, he was a lost cause.

He spent a lot of lonely nights trying like the very dickens not to think about the three older brothers who’d been left behind years ago. He’d thought about hunting for them, then dismissed the notion. Why the hell would they care about a brother who’d been given everything, while they’d gotten nothing?

He heard about his folks from time to time. Widow’s Cove wasn’t that far from home, after all. And in the past twenty-four hours, he’d heard far too many references to his family, first from Caleb Jenkins, then from Loretta Dowd. As for Daniel, Patrick knew his brother was in Portland much of the time, working, ironically, as a child advocate with the courts. Daniel had found his own, less-rebellious way of coping with what their parents had done.

Patrick sighed at the memories crashing over him tonight. He concentrated harder on the soup he was heating, then ladling into bowls, on the crusty loaf of homemade bread he sliced and set on the table with a tub of margarine.

Over the past few years of self-imposed isolation, Patrick had lost his knack for polite chitchat, but he quickly discovered that tonight it didn’t matter. Alice was a grand master. From the moment he sat down opposite her, his presence at the table seemed to loosen her tongue. Maybe it came from spending all day talking to a bunch of rowdy five-year-olds, trying desperately to hold their attention. She regaled Patrick with stories that kept him chuckling and filled the silence better than the TV he usually kept on as background noise. In his day, Ricky Foster would obviously have been labeled a teacher’s pet, because his name popped up in the conversation time and again. Alice clearly had a soft spot for the boy.

“Then today wasn’t Ricky’s first act of rebellion?” he asked when she’d described another occasion on which the boy had gotten the better of her.

“Heavens, no. I’m telling you that boy will be president someday.” She shrugged. “Or possibly a convicted felon. It depends on which way his talents for leadership and conning people take him.”

“His daddy always lacked the ambition for either one,” Patrick said. “I suppose in retrospect a case could be made that Matt had attention-deficit disorder. He couldn’t sit still to save his soul. Maybe that’s Ricky’s problem, too.”

Alice regarded him with surprise. “You know about ADHD?”

Patrick leaned closer, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Why? Is it a secret?”

She blushed prettily. “No, it is not a secret. I just didn’t expect…” Obvious embarrassment turned her cheeks a deeper shade of pink as her words trailed off in midsentence.

“Didn’t expect a fisherman to know anything about it?” he asked, trying not to be offended.

“I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.”

“Making assumptions about people is usually the first step toward getting it totally wrong,” he replied. Then, because he couldn’t resist teasing her, he added, “For instance, right now I am trying really, really hard not to assume that you’re here because you want to seduce me.”

The color staining her cheeks turned a fiery red. “I see your point. And in case there’s any doubt, you would definitely be mistaken about my intentions.”

Something about the hitch in her voice told him he wasn’t nearly as far off the mark as she wanted him to believe. “Is that so?” he asked, tucking a finger under her chin and forcing her gaze to meet his.

“I came to thank you for saving Ricky,” she insisted. She swallowed hard as he traced the outline of her jaw. “And for going to see Mrs. Dowd.”

“I’m sure you believe that,” he agreed, noting the jump in the pulse at the base of her throat when he ran his thumb lightly across her lower lip.

“Because it’s true,” she said.

Patrick deliberately lowered his hand and sat back, noting the sudden confusion in her eyes. He shrugged. “Sorry, then. My mistake.”

Confusion gave way to another one of those quick flashes of anger that had stirred him earlier in the day.

“That sort of teasing is totally inappropriate, Mr. Devaney,” she said in a tone she probably used when correcting a rambunctious five-year-old.

Patrick imagined it had the same effect on Ricky Foster that it had on him. It made him want to test her.

He stood up, picked up his empty soup bowl, then reached for hers. He clasped one hand on her shoulder as he leaned in close, let his breath fan against her cheek, then touched her delicate earlobe with the tip of his tongue. She jumped as if she’d been burned.

“Mr. Devaney!”

Patrick laughed at the breathless protest. “Sorry,” he apologized, perfectly aware that he didn’t sound particularly repentant. Probably because he wasn’t.

She frowned at him. “No, you’re not. You’re not the least bit sorry.”

“Maybe a little,” he insisted, then ruined it by adding, “But only because I didn’t go for a kiss. Something tells me I’m going to regret that later tonight when I’m lying all alone in my bed.”

“You would have regretted it more if you’d gone for it,” she assured him, drawing herself up in an attempt to look suitably intimidating. “I know a few moves that could have put you on the floor.”

He caught her gaze and held it, barely resisting the urge to laugh again. “I’ll bet you do,” he said quietly.

“Mr. Devaney…”

“Since we’re old schoolmates, I think you can call me Patrick,” he said.

“Maybe the informality is a bad idea,” she suggested. “You tend to take liberties as it is.”

He did laugh again then. “Darlin’, when I really want to take liberties with you, you’ll know it.” His let his gaze travel over her slowly. “And you’ll be ready for it.”

“Is that some sort of a dare?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“No, of course not.” She shook her head. “I really don’t know what to make of you. I expected you to be more…”

“Difficult,” Patrick supplied.

“Distant,” she corrected.

“Ah, yes. Well, there’s still a little life left in the hermit. You’d do well to remember that, before you come knocking on my door again.”

“I won’t be back,” she said emphatically.

“You think soup and bread are sufficient thanks for me putting my life on the line to bail you out of a jam?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she said. “And your life was never on the line.”

“That water was damn cold,” he insisted.

“And you were in and out of it in ten seconds flat.”

He gestured toward the outside. “You want to dive in and see how long ten seconds becomes when you hit those icy waves?”

She shuddered. “No, thanks. I’ll take your word for it. You were very brave. I am very grateful. Let’s leave it at that.”

Probably a good idea, Patrick thought, given the way she tempted him. Fortunately, before he could ignore his good sense, he heard voices and yet more footsteps on the dock. Apparently, no one in the whole blasted town could read, or else, like Alice, they were all starting to assume that the No Trespassing sign didn’t apply to them.

Alice apparently heard the noise at the same time. “You obviously have company coming. I should go,” she said a little too eagerly.

Given the choice between the company he knew and the uninvited guests outside, he opted for the familiar. “Stay,” he commanded. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”

But when he stepped onto the deck, he saw not one or even two people who could be easily dismissed, but three, all dark-haired replicas of the man he’d come to hate—Connor Devaney.

“Patrick Devaney? Son of Kathleen and Connor?” one of them asked, stepping forward.

Patrick nodded reluctantly, his heart pounding. It couldn’t be that these three men who looked so familiar were really his brothers. Not after all these years. And yet, somehow, he knew they were, as surely as if they’d already said the words.

“We’re your brothers,” the one in front said.

And with those simple yet monumental words, his past and present merged.

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