“About the herds.” Emma kicked her heels to get Willow moving again. “Yes, I remember, and my father offered them to you freely, without my permission.”
Logan followed. “I understand what you’re saying. I wouldn’t have liked it much if I were in your shoes—to have my life’s work handed over to someone else, who might take all the credit and glory.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder and chuckled. “I wasn’t thinking in those terms exactly. But yes, I felt a certain degree of ... let’s just say I’m a bit territorial.”
“Understood.” Logan removed his cap, scratched the top of his head, and replaced it. “But it hardly matters, because I haven’t had time to be the least bit scholarly. Joseph keeps me too busy.”
Emma glanced across at him. “I’ve seen you practicing drills on the beach.”
“And in the station yard,” he said, “and during the patrols, and inside the staff house ... it never ends. But I do believe I’m ready for the worst shipwreck of the century, and I’ll know exactly what to do. But do they even happen anymore? With radar and sonar and all that?”
Emma shook her head. “Hardly ever. So it’s lucky that you came here to see this place when you did. I’m waiting for the government to render us all obsolete. Then no one would live here.”
They approached the break in the high dune that took them back to Main Station.
Logan locked eyes with her. “Any chance we could make a date to talk about your research? I’d love to see your notebooks and learn what you know about herd behavior. And I promise, if I ever publish, I’d cite you as a source and give you full credit for any material you share with me.”
She pulled Willow to a halt. “I shouldn’t admit this to you, but I don’t know the first thing about citations or how to write university-level papers.”
His eyes sparkled, and his voice brimmed with excitement. “I can teach you about that. But it’s not exactly a fair trade, depending on how much of your research I end up using. Maybe we should be coauthors.”
Coauthors?Emma sat back in the saddle and considered the long summer ahead. A project like this might be the perfect diversion from the challenges of her day-to-day life, baking bread, helping to cook for the staff, and waiting for her future to begin.
“That sounds intriguing,” she said.
He smiled. “Wonderful. When can we meet?”
“How about tonight after supper? Come to the house, and I’ll dust off my notebooks.”
Logan’s excitement seemed to rouse his young horse, who spun in a circle, raring to bolt. “I owe you the world!”
Emma laughed. “That’s a lofty price tag. I’ll be satisfied with an author credit on your paper if we produce something worthwhile.”
Logan held out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
They shook on it.
Emma grinned and urged Willow into a fast trot. With the fresh sea breeze in her hair, she felt a pleasant rush of anticipation. It was just the sort of visceral sensation she’d never expected to feel again.
Logan arrived after supper, and Emma served biscuits and tea in the great room. Her father was present, of course, reading a book in his leather easy chair, glancing up frequently with interest while they pored over Emma’s notes, which were spread out on the coffee table before them.
It had been years since Emma had read the journals she’d kept as a young girl. Most of the entries were childishly written, but interesting facts emerged about the horses and other wildlife on the island, including encounters with beetles and insects. Thankfully she’d never written about movie stars—or worse, any handsome young staff men.
When the hour grew late, Emma’s father began to yawn—a not-so-subtle signal that it was time for Logan to leave—so they packed up their books and papers, and Emma escorted him to the door.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said as he shrugged into his wool coat. “I hope we can do this again. It feels like we barely scratched the surface.”
“I agree. Are you free tomorrow evening at the same time?”
He spoke heartily. “I’ll make sure of it. Maybe getting up at the crack of dawn for those early patrols will pay off if it means I can have free time after dinner.”
“The early bird gets the worm,” she replied. “Good night. Sleep well.” Emma closed the door behind him.
When she returned to the great room, her father reached for his cane. “It sounded like a productive evening.”
“It was,” she replied. “And it’s so strange. I’d forgotten about some of the things I wrote. In a way, it was a trip down memory lane.”
Her father rose from his chair and limped to the kitchen. “For me too, listening to the passages you read aloud.” He seemed in good spirits as he set his teacup and saucer on the counter. “It was good to have company tonight. It was a nice change.”
