But there was another reason for his reluctance to sail away from Sable Island. Something had cast a spell on him, and he wasn’t sure he truly understood it. Maybe it was his attraction to the young woman at his side. Or maybe it was something more. He didn’t know what to call it exactly, except a soulful experience, a connection to peace and serenity.
All his adult life, he’d been surrounded by chaos. War. Explosions. Terror. Before that, a rush to get married. And always, the unpredictability of the ocean from a place of command where lives were at stake—and where he held each of those precious lives in his imperfect hands.
Oliver realized his entire existence had become one of hypervigilance. He had never paused to simply be quiet, to reflect and look inward. He still didn’t know what he was looking at, but at least he felt alive, and he was grateful to be so.
By the time Emma and Captain Harris returned to Main Station, the sun had retreated behind a misty veil. It was lovely in its own way—a soft and gentle light upon the island.
Emma led Willow to the barn doors. She was conscious of Captain Harris dismounting behind her—the sound of the leather straps creaking, his boots landing on the ground. She forced herself not to look back as she entered the barn. Instead, she listened to the rhythm of Mrs. Miniver’s hooves on the plank floor as the captain walked her to her stall.
Bobby, one of the staff men, was filling a bucket with water. “I’ll take care of these two,” he said to Emma. “You should get home. Your father’s been looking for you.”
She handed Willow’s reins to him. “He wasn’t angry, I hope.” She hadn’t told her father she was going riding that morning, and he expected her to be setting up for the party.
“You’ll have to ask him,” Bobby said, leading the horses away.
Emma and the captain walked out of the barn. As soon as she inhaled the fresh air off the water, she touched the captain’s arm. “I want to apologize again for my emotions this morning.”
“Please ...” He stopped and raised a hand.
“No, I need to say this because I don’t want you to think that I feel sorry for myself, or that I was a poor orphan girl with no mother. I was quite lucky, actually, to have a mother figure on the island during my childhood.”
The captain inclined his head curiously. “Abigail?”
Emma laughed softly and lowered her gaze. “No, not Abigail. She and Philip came here a few years ago to replace the former meteorologist and his wife, Ruth. They were here for fourteen years, and Ruth took care of me when I was young. She was a wonderful teacher of life, and she loved me, truly. Sometimes I wonder if my mother sent her here to be my guardian angel.”
“You must miss that woman,” the captain said.
“I do.”
“I can’t imagine that Abigail has been able to fill those shoes,” he added with a knowing look.
Emma tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “No, but I’m not a child anymore and I don’t need babysitting.”
“I understand that,” he replied. “But still, I saw how she treated you when you brought the books to me. She’s not ... How can I say this without sounding ungrateful? Because I do appreciate her care over the past week. But she’s not a very pleasant person, is she?”
“No,” Emma replied matter-of-factly. “But I can’t fault her for that because I heard that her family abandoned her and she grew up in an orphanage, never adopted. My childhood was heaven compared to that. Which is why I can’t be too critical of her.”
His blue eyes connected intimately with hers. “You’re a very forgiving person.”
Emma’s whole being flushed with contentment. “I just think everyone has their own struggles,” she explained. “No one’s life is perfect, even if it appears that way on the surface.”
He let out a sigh, which, to Emma, felt like admiration. “More wise words that I won’t forget.”
They started walking slowly across the station yard, still talking, and finally said goodbye to each other at Emma’s front door. The captain walked on toward the McKennas’ house, and Emma watched him go, dreading the thought of his departure from the island the following day.
At least she would see him again at the party. If she could have her druthers, she’d spend every single minute with him, talking all night, until dawn.
Chapter 7
At the sight of Abigail sitting on a chair outside her house, knitting furiously in the sunshine, Oliver stopped in his tracks.
He had not revealed the whole story to Emma when they’d spoken about Abigail earlier. He’d refrained from describing Abigail’s troubling possessiveness, and that she was either fawning over him—caring for him like mother cares for beloved sick child—or she was cross with him for getting out of bed or, heaven forbid, leaving the house. Over the past week, Oliver had grown all too familiar with the many shades of her temperament, both light and dark. Her husband, Philip, seemed only to experience the spiteful version of his embittered wife. She was openly critical of Philip at the dinner table, often asking why he didn’t do something he was supposed to do, or complaining about the way in which he did it. She never let anything go. It was embarrassing for Philip and equally awkward for Oliver as their dinner guest.
He took a deep breath to prepare himself, because he had the uneasy feeling that she’d been waiting for him all morning and he was about to get an earful of her disapproval.
Crossing the sandy yard toward her, he kept his eyes on the ground. When he drew near, Abigail lowered her knitting needles and, without a word, glared up at him.
“Good morning,” he said, fully aware that she was in a huff and wanted him to know it.
