Page 52

He would not be careless.

Poet. But somehow that doesn’t make me feel better. Perhaps because I know Dav is on that farm and that he’s a soul who trouble always seems to find. And of that, I am certain. So I gun the throttle and power the Sirona home faster than a day like today deserves.

I motor into the harbour to meet the buyer waiting on us. As I moor the Sirona, my watch beeps with an incoming message.

Hanna.

One hand on the wheel, I check my phone. It’s a video of Aras watering his tomato plants in her garden. The metadata tells me she shot it five minutes ago and the anxiety clawing at me should fade. But it doesn’t. Because I don’t have a video from Poet showing me he’s okay.

I don’t even have his number.

Mal ties us in.

We unload the catch onto the quay and I negotiate a price that should lift my mood.

But the antsy feeling remains as I pilot us out of the main harbour and into the cove, and amps up a gear as I spot a lone figure on the jetty.

Folk Whitlock.

He’s standing in the afternoon sun, his face tilted to the sky, hair as messy and windswept as Mal’s is after a day on the water. His eyes are closed, but he opens them as we come about and I find myself searching everything about him for any sign that he’s brought bad news.

Why would he bring news of Poet to you? He does not even know you are friends.

Or does he? I pay attention and I haven’t missed the flicker in Poet’s blue eyes when Folk comes up in conversation. It took me a while to understand there’s no resentment in it. Just the kind of affectionate frustration that comes with a lifetime of being compared to a man it’s impossible not to admire.

I don’t know what that leaves between the two of them.

If Poet tells Folk things.

Confides in him—if there is anything to confide, from his point of view. I mean, we do not know each other well. We have only encountered each other a handful of times. And yet…we’ve tangled ourselves together enough that I now apparently search harbour fronts for disaster when I see his brother waiting there.

Folk widens his stance as we pull alongside the jetty. His gaze sweeps over us. Then it drops, briefly, to my wrist and the bracelets there. They catch the sunlight as I reach for the mooring line, the smooth stones as warm against my skin as they were the night Poet put them there. Folk’s expression doesn’t change, but I’m suddenly more aware than ever of my own.

I jump onto the dock and tie us in.

Mal lands beside me. “What are you doing here?”

“Checking in.” Folk embraces him. “I was around anyway.”

Mal shoots a glance up the hill, to where Poet’s farm lies beneath the smoky clouds. “Who’s burning up there?”

“Next door. Po’s keeping an eye on it.”

Po. I like that. “He is okay?” The words are out of me before they form on my tongue.

Folk fixes me with a steady gaze. “Seems to be. I’m not sure he’d tell me if he wasn’t, though.”

“You know Dav is working there now?”

Folk hums, which lets me know whatever his opinion is on that, he’ll keep it to himself.

Mal is less diplomatic. “Since fucking when?”

“This week.” Folk keeps his attention on me. “Sol was okay with it, so here we are.”

Mal growls with the same annoyance I’ve felt since I saw Sol’s father working Poet’s land. “That’s not going to end well.”

“It might,” Folk reasons. “Poet’s a tough crowd. Not much gets past him. Besides, maybe this is Dav’s moment to be a better man, and there are worse places to have that than my brother’s farm.”