Read the book: «Wild Rose»

Critical praise for
RUTH AXTELL MORREN

DAWN IN MY HEART

“Morren turns in a superior romantic historical.”

—Booklist

LILAC SPRING

“Lilac Spring blooms with heartfelt yearning and genuine conflict as Cherish and Silas seek God’s will for their lives. Fascinating details about nineteenth-century shipbuilding are planted here and there, bringing a historical feel to this faith-filled romance.”

—Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Whence Came a Prince

WILD ROSE

“The charm of the story lies in Morren’s ability to portray real passion between her characters. Wild Rose is not so much a romance as an old-fashioned love story.”

—Booklist

WINTER IS PAST

“[This book] inspires readers toward a deeper trust in the transforming power of God…. [Readers] will find in Winter Is Past a novel not to be put down and a new favorite author.”

—Christian Retailing

“[The] faith journeys are so realistic all readers can benefit from the story. Highly recommended.”

—CBA Marketplace

Wild Rose
Ruth Axtell Morren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Here’s to you, Dad.

A “down-easterner” in spirit if not by birth.

And to Mom, who probably rejoiced as much as I

did when I got “the Call.”

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Prologue

Haven’s End, Maine, August 1872

Geneva felt the push from behind, a blow between the shoulder blades. The next instant she lay flat on her face against the rough, gray wharf, her toes caught in the spaces between the worn wood slats, her brimming baskets wrenched sideways. Helpless, she watched their contents scatter. The fruits and vegetables she’d taken such pains to arrange that morning in neat, concentric circles tumbled across the sun-bleached planks.

Heads of cabbage rolled like croquet balls off the edge of the wharf to land with a plop into the awaiting tide. The smaller items—the precious raspberries she’d handled so gently to prevent bruising and the bright green string beans—disappeared down the cracks to join the bobbing cabbages below. The shriek of gulls mingled with the cackle of laughter around her, as the birds were alerted to the treasures floating on the sea.

“Salt Fish Ginny! Salt Fish Ginny! How come you’re so skinny?” The teasing chant resonated above the laughter. “Salt Fish Ginny! Dirty as a hog, mean as her dog!”

Geneva glared at the trio of village boys stampeding by her, shouting the hated words that described her occupation, fishing for cod.

She forgot the boys as the thump of footfalls farther down the wharf reached her ears. Her glance passed the pranksters to the group turning down the wharf from the street. Rusticators! Her face flamed in humiliation as she watched the smartly dressed ladies and gentlemen on holiday, the very ones who bought her produce, stroll down the pier from the quaint, white clapboard village.

Before she could do more than pull herself to her knees, they had reached her, and stood hesitating as if looking for a way to pass through the mess. Wrinkling their noses, the ladies lifted their skirts to avoid soiling them.

Only one gentleman moved. His boots resonated against the wood, but as soon as Geneva saw who it was, her heartbeat muted the sound. She stared openmouthed as Captain Caleb Phelps came and knelt beside her. She had never been in such close proximity to him before.

Geneva found herself looking straight into the bluest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. They were the blue of the open ocean off Ferguson Point after the morning fog burned off and when the noon sun hung high overhead. Not a cloud diminished the hue of the vast, flat expanse of sea then, but its inky blue depths sparkled with a thousand lights and depths from the reflecting sun.

Captain Caleb’s eyes danced with a mixture of concern and amusement. It wasn’t the sly amusement of the onlookers, she realized, but a companionable sort, as if he and she were sharing some private joke. His eyes’ wry twinkle was telling her that he had been in a similar predicament in another time and place, long ago enough to look back with humor.

Geneva blinked to break the spell. Don’t be a fool. Captain Caleb didn’t care what she was thinking. His world was so far removed from hers, it might as well be across the sea. She needed to get back on her feet and quick. There’d been enough damage done already, and she had to see what she could salvage.

But her commands didn’t reach her legs. Geneva caught sight of the untidy patchwork on one threadbare knee of her overalls and suddenly became conscious of her appearance. She cringed in shame at the contrast between the man’s easy elegance and her own homespun looks. The seams of her pa’s old flannel shirt were visibly frayed, the color faded from numerous washings.

Geneva glanced down at the hand the captain placed on her forearm. Despite the tanned skin, it was the hand of a gentleman. His fingernails were clean and neatly trimmed. She curled her own hands into fists to hide the broken nails, traces of garden dirt still clinging to them.

“Are you all right, miss?” After a cursory glance over her as he asked the question, his gaze returned to her face.

Miss. It sounded so respectful. He might be talking to a fragile, young lady.

Geneva nodded and mumbled something, hardly believing what she was experiencing. For the first time, a man wasn’t undressing her with a look. No matter how oversized her pa’s old shirts or thick the bib of her overalls, they never did enough to flatten her bosom. Everywhere else she was bone thin, an unfortunate circumstance that only served to make the fullness of her chest more apparent.

Geneva flushed, meeting the intense indigo gaze focused on her. Captain Caleb scarcely gave her body a glance. He seemed to look beyond her features to the person within.

Although the captain’s face was one she recognized, she’d only seen it two or three times in her life, from afar. “Cap’n Caleb,” as he was known in these parts, hailed from Boston and rarely came to port in Haven’s End.

Geneva couldn’t help staring at it now, from the deep chestnut-colored hair brushed back from the bronzed forehead, to the strong jaw and rugged cleft chin, every feature in perfect proportion as if the artist’s hand hadn’t faltered once in executing his work.

Not like her uneven features: too-sharp nose, eyebrows arching like bird’s wings across her brow, stick-straight dark hair and eyes black as pitch, attesting to her half-breed status.

She broke away from his grasp and pushed herself to her feet. Taking a step away from him, she forced herself back to the situation at hand. Her heart sank as she contemplated the wreckage around her. Well, it would do no good to cry about it.

She stooped to gather her baskets, but was stopped by Captain Caleb’s firm grasp. He spoke with a tone of authority so different from the one he’d used with her, she had to look twice to make sure it was the same man speaking.

“Come here, lads, and rectify the damage you’ve inflicted on the lady.”

The boys hooted at this. “But, Cap’n Caleb, that ain’t no lady,” one of the boys protested. The others doubled over in amusement at the very thought. “That’s Ginny. Salt Fish Ginny!” Their laughter was joined by the discreet titters of the ladies and gentlemen still standing there.

Geneva wished the planks beneath her feet would widen enough to let her through so she could join her vegetables on the incoming tide. Of all the people to witness her disgraceful fall and hear that odious nickname, why did it have to be Cap’n Caleb?

“Young men—” the voice grew softer “—if I have to repeat my request, you’ll find yourselves floating alongside those lettuces down there.”

“Yessir,” the trio mumbled, shuffling forward.

“Wait,” he added. “Apologize to the lady first.”

Their eyes looked just about ready to pop out of their heads. Under other circumstances, Geneva would have laughed out loud at their amazement.

The boys bobbed their heads, each in turn. “Sorry, Ginny.” “Beg pardon, Ginny.” “No offense, Ginny.” Then, their natural exuberance restored, they bent to collect what remained on the dock. Geneva, stunned by what had just occurred, stood motionless. When she recovered from her surprise and moved to help, the captain’s grip tightened on her arm.

The boys finished quickly. Proudly, they handed her the two baskets, only half full now, the bruised and battered fruits and vegetables a jumble. Geneva took them without a word, anxious to be out of sight as quickly as possible. She’d forget her deliveries in the village today, and continue on up the coast, where no one would know of the incident.

But she wasn’t allowed such a quick retreat.

When everything was set to rights to his satisfaction, Captain Caleb turned to her and took off his cap. “Caleb Phelps, at your service, as you can see.”

He smiled, and the warmth of his smile gave her the sensation she was the only human being worth knowing on the face of the earth. Now she understood why everyone in the village thought so highly of him and had nothing but good to say about “Cap’n Caleb” whenever he came to port.

“Whom do I have the pleasure of assisting?”

He was asking her name! “Geneva Patterson,” she croaked, her throat so dry that she didn’t know how she managed the syllables.

By this time, a pretty young lady came to stand beside the captain, taking his arm as if it was her rightful place to do so.

He turned to her, his voice tender. “Arabella, may I present Miss Geneva Patterson? My fiancée, Miss Arabella Harding.”

The blond woman was dressed in a light blue suit that matched her eyes. “Pleased, I’m sure.” Her glance slid off Geneva before she turned her attention back to the captain. “Caleb, we must be on our way while the day is so pleasant.”

Geneva dodged aside before the captain could say anything more to her. But he reached out one last time, detaining her by holding the handle of one basket.

“I’d like to purchase these from you.”

Geneva stared down at the crushed raspberries staining the wilted radish tops and lettuce leaves.

“How much are the two baskets worth?” He was already reaching inside his jacket to pull out his wallet.

Geneva shook her head, horrified at the completion of her shame. She backed away, bumping against a piling just in time, before she toppled over the edge of the wharf like her produce.

“I don’t mean to offend you, Miss Patterson. I realize you won’t be able to deliver them wherever you had originally intended—”

“They’re not for sale. Thanks just the same, Cap’n.” She stumbled toward the ladder and, reaching it, scurried over the side, afraid the captain would insist further.

Geneva dropped the baskets into her boat, not caring what tumbled out now. When she climbed back up the catwalk to free her line, she saw the captain and his betrothed standing where she had left them, their backs to her.

Miss Harding’s cultivated tones reached her ears. “Caleb, sometimes your sense of chivalry goes too far. What possessed you to aid that creature? I could hardly distinguish whether it was a man or woman. She looked perfectly capable of picking up that dirty rubbish herself.” Miss Harding’s back shuddered.

Geneva watched the impeccably dressed young lady clutch the captain’s arm more closely as she propelled him back toward their friends. Miss Harding’s soft laughter floated to her. “That poor thing. She’ll probably dream of your attentions for weeks.”

Geneva didn’t wait to hear the captain’s reply, but slipped back down the catwalk, unable to bear it if she heard an answering chuckle. She jumped into the boat. Unmindful of its rocking, she set the oars in the pins, pushing one against a barnacle-encrusted piling to shove herself out into the harbor as quickly as possible.

The memory of Miss Harding’s words burned on Geneva’s heart like lye as she recognized the prophetic truth of them.

Chapter One

Haven’s End, June 1873

The door to Mr. Watson’s general store banged shut behind Geneva. She paused a few seconds at the door to give herself time to adjust to the dim light. The sweeter smells of spices, tobacco and new leather mingled with the more pungent odors of pickling barrels, hard cheeses and salted fish.

Three women leaned over one end of the long counter that ran the width of the store, examining lengths of ribbon and lace. At the sight of Geneva, they drew in their ranks, as if afraid of contagion in such close quarters. Used to such a reaction to her presence, Geneva ignored them and strode to the opposite end of the counter. She would state her business and leave as quickly as she had come.

Leaning her hands against the counter, she drummed her fingers lightly against the scarred, wooden surface.

“What can I do for you, Geneva?” Mr. Watson approached her with a smile.

Geneva didn’t smile back, lest she give the storekeeper any encouragement. Suspicious of the teasing look in his eyes, she deemed it best to keep him at a distance.

“I’ll take two dozen long nails.”

Mr. Watson slapped the counter with his palms. “Two dozen nails it’ll be.”

When he turned his back to her to rummage in the keg, Geneva could hear Mrs. Bidwell’s voice at the other end of the store.

“I hear tell he begged and pleaded with his intended to forgive him.”

Geneva glanced toward the speaker, whose bonnet nodded up and down, giving the impression she had been in the very room at the time, an eyewitness to the scene she was describing. Her listeners seemed to think so, too, the way they drank in her words.

“Poor Miss Arabella Harding must have been brokenhearted.” Young Annie Chase, who was engaged to one of Mrs. Bidwell’s boys, expressed this opinion. “Such a pretty woman. So ladylike.”

At the name, Geneva’s fingers stopped their drumbeat against the countertop. She’d never forget that name. Nor the way Captain Caleb had looked at its owner when he’d introduced her, as if she were an angel.

Annie was soft-spoken, and everything she said came out sounding tenderhearted. “I don’t know what I’d do if my Amos ever did anything dishonest like Captain Caleb.” She hugged herself. “But Amos would never dishonor his family name in such a despicable manner.”

“Of course not! Amos would never do any such thing,” his mother answered, aghast at the mere notion. “He hasn’t been brought up that way.”

Geneva could feel every fiber in her body poised to attack. What gave these biddies the right to pass judgment on Captain Caleb? She bit her lip, holding in her anger, when Mr. Watson set the nails down in front of her.

“These long enough?”

She glared at him, as if he, too, were guilty of blaspheming her sacred memory of the captain.

“Anything else?”

She shook her head, her reasons for being in his store pushed aside by the more pressing matter of Captain Caleb’s reputation.

“How could anybody be so foolish?” Mrs. Bidwell’s voice carried the clearest. Geneva knew she prided herself on her opinions, and she gave full voice to them now. “Embezzling company money! Didn’t he think he was going to get caught? He was Phelps’ heir. Had everything he could wish for. If anyone was ever born with a silver spoon in his mouth, it was Caleb Phelps III. To go and steal from his own father! Why, it’s wicked!”

The thudding between Geneva’s temples drowned out their voices. She was sick and tired of hearing the captain gossiped about. It seemed she couldn’t come into the village anymore without hearing the accusations hashed and rehashed. Didn’t people have anything else to talk about?

“He had to pay for that big, fancy cottage on the Point,” Mrs. Webb reminded the others. “The old farmhouse wasn’t good enough for him. Oh, no. He had to tear that down. He probably ran short of money to pay for it all.”

Mr. Watson looked toward the women and gave a chuckle. “I hear Phelps Senior’s a mite close to the bark. I figure he kept young Phelps on a tight leash with his salary. The young captain probably got impatient, wantin’ to give that pretty Miss Harding all that money can buy. After all, he had to fight off her other suitors. She was the belle of Boston, I hear.”

Geneva told herself to turn around and march out of the store, but her feet seemed stuck to the floor with spruce gum.

Mrs. Webb tapped the counter with a large knuckled forefinger. “That doesn’t excuse what he did. If he was short on money, he should have gone straight to his father. What did he do with all the money he earned as a captain? Look at our own captains—they live well on their shares the rest of their lives.”

Mrs. Bidwell sniffed. “They don’t squander their wealth on extravagant living. I saw the wagon-loads on their way to the Point to build that grand summer cottage of his. Cap’n Caleb only bought the best for his place. No hand-split shakes for his roof. Only slate all the way from Wales. And the glass! Enough panes you’d think he was going to live in a greenhouse. Mahogany shipped in from Santo Domingo. And that’s not sayin’ a thing about his residence in Boston. He overreached himself, all right!”

“I hear he up and left everything in Boston.” Mrs. Webb snapped her fingers. “Just like that. If anything’s proof of guilt, it’s running. Now he’s buried himself up in that mausoleum. Thinkin’ he can hide himself here.” She sniffed. “We’re honest, God-fearing folk. He’ll find that out in short order.”

Mr. Watson nodded. “What I always say is, money’s the root of all evil.” He wrapped up the nails in brown paper. “That’ll be twelve cents,” he told Geneva, then turned back to the ladies. “You know how rich folks think they can be above the law, but things have a way of catchin’ up with ’em.” He gave a final nod of emphasis.

Geneva slapped her coins onto the counter. Mrs. Bidwell opened her mouth to speak. Before she could draw breath, Geneva turned to the three women, hands on her hips, her back straight, her eyes narrowed.

“Poor folks seem to think they’re above mindin’ their own business. Guess they’ve never heard gossipin’s a sin just like stealin’. Nor ’bout hittin’ a man when he’s down, even though he’s never done nothing to them. I seem to recall just a while back, nothing but praise for Cap’n Caleb. Now he’s tarred and feathered with your tongues when no one knows what really went on down there in Boston. Why, he’s never treated any one of us but kindly and fairly, even some that don’t deserve it!”

She glared at each one in turn. They stared at her, their jaws slack. These women probably hadn’t ever heard her say so much all of a piece. Deciding the sooner she was away from these old harpies the better, she turned back to Mr. Watson.

Stifling the urge to tell him to wipe the smirk off his face, she picked up the parcel of nails. “Good day to you!”

She shoved away from the counter. It was then she noticed the silence. Not one of the women had said a word, not even the outspoken Mrs. Bidwell. In fact, they weren’t even looking at her. Everyone was staring at the door.

Slowly Geneva turned. There, his dark form silhouetted against the sunshine of the open doorway, stood Caleb Phelps. She couldn’t make out his features, but she could feel his gaze on her, as intense as it had been that day last summer.

Hugging the parcel to her chest as if it might conceal the workings of her heart, Geneva took a step forward, then another. The pounding of her heart was so loud, he must surely see the bib of her overalls flapping up and down clear across the store. She kept on marching until she reached the captain’s looming figure. She’d forgotten how tall he was, a good head above her, and she was as tall as several men of her acquaintance.

He moved aside just as she approached and tipped his hat to her as she passed. Touching her own hat briefly at the brim, she lunged through the doorway into the sunshine. She took the steps down two at a time, her boots clattering on the rickety wooden planks.

Why was it that every time she ran into the captain, she felt compelled to flee afterward, as if she were guilty of something?

Caleb Phelps turned toward the banging screen door, the only sound in the small village store. He watched the long strides of the overalled figure taking her rapidly away from the store and toward the wharf.

Only her voice gave her away as a woman.

In the couple of weeks he’d been back to Haven’s End, he’d felt a distinct chill every time he was in the presence of the villagers.

Funny how quickly bad news traveled. He had thought he’d become inured to suspicious looks—or worse, those self-righteous, smug expressions that said more clearly than words, Well, he got his just deserts! He’d certainly endured enough of them in Boston.

Somehow he’d thought this little village where he was scarcely known, but where he’d always had pleasant if superficial dealings with the residents, would welcome him differently.

The woman’s harsh words to the villagers rang in his ears. She’d expressed more clearly than he ever could exactly what he’d felt.

Strange, how belief in one’s integrity could come from the strangest quarters. What did she know of him or of events in Boston?

From her yard farther up the road from Ferguson Point, through the thin screen of hackmatack trees, Geneva watched her new neighbor with a frown. Ever since Captain Caleb had begun to turn the soil in a portion of his yard, she’d started to worry. When it became clear he was making a garden, her concern deepened. As she hoed her own young plants, she fretted that her neighbor wouldn’t have the same success, not knowing the land in these parts.

“If I was plantin’ a garden on the Point,” she told her black Labrador, Jake, “I’d make it on the other side. For one thing, it’d get sun there the whole day. I remember Pa telling me there used to be a chicken yard nearby, so the soil’ll be rich over yonder.”

She banged her buckets together. “Ain’t none o’ my business what he does. Even if nothin’ comes up, he won’t go hungry. Isn’t as if he depends on his garden to live, like most of us.”

But no matter how much she debated with Jake over the next few days, Geneva couldn’t help observing Captain Caleb each time she went outside. And the longer she watched him bent over his fork, the more she itched to offer her advice. He had helped her out of a mess once. She told herself she owed it to him.

Finally, making up her mind, she threw down the pump handle. “No, you stay here,” she told Jake. “Don’t need you scarin’ him before I can get a word out.” She wiped her hands down the sides of her trousers and headed for the dirt road. When she saw Jake at her heels, she stopped once again and shook a finger at him. “Now, do I have to chain you up, or are you going to obey?”

The dog whined, but after another stern look from Geneva, he stayed put. Her tone softened. “That’s a good fellow. I knew I could count on you.”

She walked down the sloping dirt road to the end of Ferguson Point, where a gate stood. The newly erected barrier, the lumber still raw and unpainted, matched the house beyond it. Together, house and gated fence stood out like intruders against the familiar landmarks of the Point. Geneva’s gaze swept the vista before her, never tiring of it. She’d always thought this the best location in all Haven’s End.

A large expanse of cleared land descended toward the sea. Below was a sheltered cove with dark, rocky cliffs curved around, protecting it from the open sea. Tall, ancient firs and spruce, their long, thin peaks looking black against the sky, grew down to the very edge of the cliffs, like multi-tiered sentinels standing guard against the sea.

Above the cove, where there had once been an old, abandoned house, now stood an imposing, new structure. Despite its freshness, there was something sad about it, Geneva thought as she observed the overgrown grass in the yard. It wouldn’t take long for the bright reddish-brown luster of the cedar shingles to take on the faded gray of her own shack. The curtainless windows stared back at her like empty eye sockets.

Shaking aside the morbid thought, Geneva opened the forbidding gate. Spying her target at the far side of the yard beyond the barn, she walked resolutely toward the new owner of Ferguson Point.

The captain squatted by the half-turned garden plot, a clod of dirt and grass held in one hand. He was studying this as if it held the answer to a mystery.

Already she regretted coming. What in the world was she going to say to him now? So she stood, not saying a word, until he raised his head. His initial glance was startled, but it quickly changed to one of suspicion.

He sat back on his heels, pushing his hat away from his eyes to observe her. The sun shone full on his face, and Geneva struggled to hide her shock. Was this the same gentleman who’d helped her last summer? It wasn’t just the absence of a smile, but the complete lack of welcome. His dark hair hung long and shaggy over his collar, his jaw shadowed with several days’ growth of beard. Sweat and dirt stained his shirt. Only the color of his eyes remained unchanged—the same hue of the ocean.

But now they were no longer crinkled at the corners with mirth, but narrowed in bitter distrust. They gave her no encouragement to proceed.

Well, she was in for it now. Best have her say and be done.

“Be lucky to get much of anything to grow here.” She kicked a clump of dirt with the toe of her boot.

After several seconds of silence in which Geneva wasn’t sure whether he was going to order her off his land or just plumb ignore her, he answered in a quiet voice, each word carefully modulated as if he was holding on to his patience with an effort. “Why is that?”

Geneva made an abrupt gesture with her hand. “Poor soil.” She jerked her head sideways. “Get half day’s shade from those trees.”

She watched him swallow as he digested her words. By the set of his unshaven jaw, she could tell he was having a hard time just being civil to her.

“Where do you propose I plant?”

She moved her chin forward. “Over yonder.”

The captain turned his head in the direction she indicated, his mouth a stern line.

“Why?”

“My pa used to tell o’ folks had a turnip patch there. Fine soil, full sun the whole day. Used to be a chicken yard right next to it. Lots o’ manure.” When he didn’t reply, she made another motion with her chin. “You’re late plantin’. Short growing season ’round here.”

He turned back to her, giving her a look that told her he welcomed her advice about as much as he would a skunk under a house.

“I’m certainly obliged to you for telling me at this late date that I should abandon one field for another that looks identical to it.” He threw aside the clump of turf he’d been holding and took a deep breath, as if continuing the conversation was an effort.

“I realize I’m nothing but a sailor who doesn’t know a spade from a hoe, but I didn’t have much choice about planting time.”

She’d been right—he didn’t know a thing about gardening. She kicked at the dirt again. “Awful shame. But ’twouldn’t take you long with two people. I’ve already planted my garden. Could come over here tomorrow morning and help you till up yonder.”

He let out a breath—whether in annoyance or amusement, she couldn’t tell. “Are you proposing to help me dig up a field of the toughest, most rock-ridden sod I’ve ever encountered in my life?”

She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “If we prepare the soil good, I can give you some o’ my seedlings. Have more’n I can use, anyway. That’ll make up for lost time.”

He paused as if considering. “That would be very generous of you.”

She hurried on, afraid he’d change his mind. “You can still plant carrots, taters, squash, beans, greens.” She nodded. “It’ll do you for the winter.”

“In that case, you’ll probably have to show me how to put them up as well,” he replied, the first hint of a twinkle beginning to thaw the chill in his eyes. Geneva felt something inside her begin to melt, too, and felt a profound relief that the man she remembered had not disappeared entirely.

A second later his eyes resumed their coldness. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to plant.” He stood and, once again, she was conscious of his height.

He picked up a fork. “By the looks of it, I have a few days of hard labor ahead, so if you’ll excuse me…” Without waiting for her reply, he began to walk toward the field she’d indicated.

“I’ll come by tomorrow to help you with the tilling,” she muttered to his back.

He heard her and turned around. “I will not have a woman wielding a fork alongside of me.” He enunciated like a teacher to a stubborn pupil.

“Suit yourself. If you want to be a fool, ain’t no concern o’ mine.”

“No?” His voice reached her. “Seems to have concerned you the other day.”

So, he had heard. She could feel the blood heating her face up to the roots of her hair. She kicked at the tough grass. “Folks should mind their own business.”

“What they ought to do and what they do are frequently two different things.” He tipped his hat to her. “I want to thank you for your kind if unnecessary defense of me.”

Wrestling with something inside herself, Geneva gave an abrupt nod and turned to begin her trek back to the gate.

She’d spent too many years protecting her own hide to know how to reach out to anyone. The captain would have to learn to sink or swim on his own. She’d help him with his garden. That was all. She owed him that much.

Caleb sat on the veranda, staring out at the silvery sea, the hot coffee cup enveloped by his hands. He couldn’t see the horizon this morning. It was obscured by the milky white fog that lay offshore and high overhead.

The sun was already visible, its strong yellow orb promising to burn through the white film shrouding but not obliterating it. He listened to the movement of sea against rock, its sucking, rushing sound ceaseless.

He’d been listening to it off and on all night.

Finally the nausea he had felt since rising began to ebb. He took a cautious sip of coffee, feeling as if he were just finding his sea legs.

In truth, he knew his physical condition was the result of more than rising too early and sleeping too little over several days.

He ventured another sip of the scalding coffee, needing something—anything—to wash out the vile taste in his mouth.

Lost in thought again, the knock didn’t penetrate his consciousness the first time. It was only at the second knock that it intruded like something at the periphery of his vision gradually taking shape.

He got up slowly at the third knock, his head shifting like sand, his body weak and wobbly like one who hasn’t eaten in a few days.

Caleb walked back inside, following the echo of the now silent knock. His footsteps reverberated against the polished wood floor as he walked through the wide living room, into the dining room, and finally reached the kitchen. He approached the door leading out into the shed and opened it a crack.

The tall woman wearing men’s attire—denim overalls and a straw hat—was just turning to leave.

He opened the door wider. “Good morning,” he said, immediately clearing his throat as he heard the raspy sound of the syllables emanating from it.

She nodded by way of greeting. “Brought you some loam.”

He frowned. “Loom?” He repeated the word the way she’d pronounced it.

“Topsoil. And dry manure,” she added.

“Oh.” Was this supposed to mean something to him?

The way she waited, just staring at him, made him conscious of his appearance. His fingers touched the collar of his shirt, and he realized the top buttons were undone.

She shifted in her boots. “I’ll bring the seedlings ’round as soon as we work in the loam. Thought you’d want to get started early with the planting.”

He finally nodded in understanding, remembering her offer of seedlings. Somehow it had slipped his mind amidst the backbreaking labor of the last two days.

“And so I do.” He yawned. “Excuse me. I didn’t get to sleep until late.” When she said nothing, he asked, “What time is it anyway?”

He saw her blink at his question. She was younger than he’d imagined. In her men’s getup and her clipped sentences, she had seemed ageless to him.

Not waiting for her to answer, he pulled out his watch. “Eight o’clock. It feels more like daybreak.” He looked at her questioningly. “Don’t you have your own work to do? I don’t want to keep you from it.”

She shook her head. “Already weeded and watered this mornin’.”

He nodded. “Of course.” If her speech was anything to go by, she wasn’t a person to waste time. “I suppose if I am to accept your generous gift, I should at least know your name. You seem to know mine.”

All he understood of the mumbled words was “Neeva Patterson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Patterson.” He took a last swallow of coffee. “Well, let’s be at it, then.”

He followed her out into the yard. The morning was still cool and he shivered slightly in his thin shirt. She marched ahead of him, straight toward the garden patch. Once there, she looked it over like a general reviewing his troops.

She turned to him. “What made you decide to turn your hand to gardening?”

“Sheer boredom.”

As if finding no response to that, she pointed to the wheelbarrow. “We’ve got to spread this over the garden and then use the fork to dig it in deep. I’ll empty it out and go bring some more. You’ll need to cover the garden good.”

As she reached for the handles of the barrow, Caleb came alive, realizing she’d meant what she’d said the other day about helping him. He got to the handles first and flipped the contraption over.

Then he turned toward the barn. “I’ll go get the shovel and fork,” he said over his shoulder.

It was after noon before Geneva judged the soil ready for planting. She stood back from where she had been working the manure into the soil with her fork. “Reckon we can rake it smooth now.”

The captain stopped his work at once, and she wondered whether he was as glad of the respite as she.

She hadn’t liked his pallor this morning. She’d kept telling herself it came only from lack of sleep, but being out in the sunshine hadn’t improved it. Now his paleness was overlaid with a sheen of perspiration.

The noonday sun burned down on their backs. They’d spent the morning carting manure and compost from her yard and forking it into his newly tilled garden. The captain hadn’t even stopped to drink a dipper of water. The back of his shirt was wet, and every so often he’d stop to swat at the blackflies that hovered around him in a cloud and remove his hat to wipe his brow with a handkerchief, or just straighten up, as if his back pained him.

He worked steadily, almost as if he was trying to prove something, but she couldn’t fathom what a gentleman like himself wanted to prove by bending over a garden patch.

Whatever the reason, she admired him for it. He had grit. Not like her pa, who’d bullied her ma all the time she was alive, but when she was gone, he’d just given up. Not all at once, but gradually, taking to the bottle until he was no longer fit to carry out the logging work that was his livelihood. One day they’d carried his body home after he’d slipped from a log into the rushing river on a spring log drive….

Geneva shook away the memories and sneaked another peek at the captain. She bit her lip to keep from voicing her concern. She’d had long years of practice keeping silent. The captain had made it clear this morning that he was not interested in chitchat.

Her own throat felt parched and her belly empty. She leaned against her rake. “I think we oughtta quit for dinner.” Before he could refuse, she added, “We can plant the seeds this afternoon, but it’s not a good idea to plant the seedlings in full sun. Best thing is to set them tomorrow morning, early.”

He considered a moment, looking over the neatly tilled plot. Finally he gave a short nod, and Geneva breathed her relief.

She gave a doubtful look at the seedlings. “I don’t like setting everything out all at once, but guess it can’t be helped, it being so late for your first planting.”

“What do you mean?”

“All your stem vegetables should be planted when there’s a moon, and all the root crops, ’cluding your taters, when it’s dark.”

He gave the little plants, which were already beginning to droop, an uninterested look. “I don’t think it’ll make much difference to these plants one way or another. They should be grateful just to be planted.” He gave one of the pots a kick.

Instead of showing outrage, Geneva smiled. The contrast between the sweat-stained man before her and the polished gentleman who’d helped her on the wharf was too great.

He caught her smiling at him and frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” She pinched her lips together. “I’m just glad those seedlings are hardy things.”

He looked at her for a second without reacting, then slowly he smiled. Her own lips relaxed in answer. Suddenly she felt like his partner in the garden.

“You’ve helped me more than I had any right to expect,” he said. “The least I can do is offer you some dinner.”

She stared at him, too startled by his invitation to answer.

“What’s the matter? Have I offended you?”

She shook her head. How could she explain it to him? To eat at someone’s table was truly to be accepted as his equal. He didn’t know what he was offering. Captain Caleb Phelps III, son of a Boston shipping magnate, dining with Salt Fish Ginny, pariah of Haven’s End? No, she’d spare him the humiliation. He was suffering enough at the hands of the villagers with his own troubles. She wouldn’t add to them.

With a heavy heart she said, “Much obliged, Cap’n, but I better be getting back. Got to feed Jake.”

“Jake?”

“My dog,” she added.

“Certainly. Well, perhaps another time.” He began picking up the tools, as if the invitation was already forgotten.

She hurried to help him, dumping the smaller items into the wheelbarrow. “I’ll just keep my things in your barn, if you don’t mind. That’ll save hauling everything back tomorrow.”

“You won’t need them yourself?”

She shook her head. “Not for a couple of days, anyhow.”

He pushed the wheelbarrow while she carried the long-handled implements toward the open barn door. He showed her a space inside where she could set the things, then went back to the garden for the remaining tools. Geneva took a turn about the barn while she waited for his return. She wanted to thank him again for the invitation.

She shook her head. No one in Haven’s End had ever invited her to eat. Even when her ma died, and then her pa, her nearest neighbor had brought a few covered dishes, but no one had invited her over.

They’d tried to force her to the Poor Farm when she’d been left with no living relatives, but she’d had none of that. She’d fended off the town do-gooders with the help of her pa’s rifle and hounds. Since then, she’d been pretty much left to herself.

Geneva kicked at the wisps of hay on the wooden floor, trying to understand how Captain Caleb could treat her the same as he would one of his own world.

She reached the doorway leading to the shed that connected the barn to the house. There in the dim corridor sat a wooden crate. Its yellow slats of new wood made it stand out.

Geneva stepped back when she saw what it contained.

The crate was filled with empty bottles, stacked every which way, right side up, upside down, sideways. The sickly sweet smell of liquor reached her nostrils. She knew that odor well. It had lingered for months in her own one-room house after her pa died. Geneva held her stomach, feeling as sick as if she’d drunk the contents herself.

Chapter Two

Caleb swung the scythe back and forth across the lawn at the side of the house. It had taken him the whole morning to learn to wield it properly, but now he began to see some progress on the grass that reached his knees and gave the house a derelict appearance. Just like its owner, his mind echoed. He glanced down at his work clothes—denim trousers and rough cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up on his forearms, revealing the undervest beneath—what would his father say of him now?

Nothing that he hadn’t heard his whole life.

Caleb abandoned that line of thought and concentrated on his strokes. He hadn’t had such a workout since he’d climbed the ratlines of a ship. He turned to look with pleasure at the swath behind him, ignoring for the moment the much larger portion that remained to be cut.

Just then, he saw his neighbor coming down the road toward his property. Caleb wiped his brow with his bandanna, wondering what the strange Miss Patterson was coming to see him about now. He hadn’t spoken to her in over a week. Occasionally he’d glimpsed her at her tasks, up beyond the field and trees that separated their two properties or out on her boat, but she’d made no more silent ventures into his territory since the day she’d helped him prepare the soil for planting.

The two of them had worked hard that day. Caleb chuckled, remembering how he’d felt when she first appeared at his door. He’d about forgotten her promise of seedlings.

Working in a field in the full sun was not a remedy he’d recommend to anyone after the amount of alcohol he’d consumed the evening before. But he didn’t let on about his physical condition, though he suspected her sharp black eyes didn’t miss much.

He watched his neighbor open his gate now and wondered what sage advice Miss Patterson was going to offer him on this occasion. At least he knew her name properly. He’d found out the last time he’d been to the village.

She was making her way toward him with her purposeful stride. Did she ever wander aimlessly?

She’d probably take one look at his garden and make a dour prophecy of doom. At least the seedlings had survived his inexperienced planting; several rows of seeds and the quartered potatoes with their eyes had sprouted as well. Except for that one row of beans, everything had looked promising to him this morning. Now he wasn’t so sure. His plants began to take on a thin and sparse appearance as he tried to picture them through Miss Patterson’s experienced eyes.

“Morning.” She wasted no excess words in greeting.

Caleb leaned against the scythe and touched his hand to his hat brim. “Good morning to you, Miss Patterson.” She gave him a sharp glance, as if his words held some double meaning. He returned her look blandly. “What can I do for you?”

“Came to see how the seedlings were doing.”

“Just getting around to worrying about their fate?”

She flushed at that and looked away from him. “I been busy. Couldn’t make it back the other day.”

“You were under no obligation. I am grateful enough for all your help.”

“Still, it wasn’t right. I should’a finished what I begun.”

“Shall we have a look?” He invited her to go before him with a gesture of his hand.

Giving an abrupt nod, she turned and led the way to his garden, saying along the way, “You can set out seeds every week for another couple o’ weeks. That’ll give you crops right through the summer and into the first frost.”

When she got to the plot, she walked the length of it, silently inspecting the inch-high rows of peas, the tiny pairs of leaves on the sprouted radish and beet seeds, the feathery carrot tops, the pale gray-green of the cabbage and turnip sprouts. She nodded at the taller seedlings she’d given him to transplant from her own supply, which showed a few new leaves. Caleb hadn’t felt so nervous since holding out his slate for his tutor’s scrutiny.

“You water ’em when they’re dry?”

“Yes, miss.”

She gave him another glance, then bent down to pull out a thin weed Caleb could have sworn hadn’t been there that morning. “Hoe around the bigger plants after it rains?”

“I will now.”

Then she came to the pole beans. She squatted down beside them and took one little stem between her thumb and forefinger. It was thick and green, but where its two first leaves should have been was a shriveled, brown stump. Before Caleb could offer any explanation, any denial that he’d treated these seeds with any less care than the others, she pronounced her verdict.

“Cutworms.”

The word conjured up an image of a pair of shears going through all his rows, hacking the tender plants to shreds.

“We’ll have to replant ’em. This time we’ll sprinkle some wood ashes all along the rows. If that don’t do it, I’ll mix up a mess of cornmeal and molasses. That should keep ’em off. Lucky they haven’t gotten to your other plants.” She stood once more, thrusting her hands into her back pockets. “Everything else is coming up fine. You did a good job planting,” she acknowledged.

She didn’t give him much chance to enjoy the sense of victory that filled him.

“If you notice anything else eating the leaves, let me know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered automatically.

Again she narrowed her eyes at him, as if suspicious of his tone. When she didn’t say anything more, Caleb tried to think of something to add. For some reason, he didn’t want her to leave just yet. Up to now, he’d avoided all company.

But he was intrigued. Perhaps it was because she seemed as content to leave him alone as he was to be left alone. Or perhaps it was the fact that she’d defended him that day in the store.

He still wanted to know why.

When she started walking away from the garden patch, he spoke up. “I’m thinking of buying a boat. Know anything of Winslow’s Shipyard?”

She nodded. “Don’t think much of old man Winslow, but young Silas’ll build you a good craft. He’s got a gift.”

“A gift?”

“It’s in his hands.” She looked briefly down at her own dirt-stained ones. “Anything he builds is light, easy to handle, seaworthy. He won’t charge you much for a small vessel. What are you looking at?”

“Nothing too big. Something I can handle myself. I noticed your little craft. She serves you well. Where do you take her?”

He couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or not by the compliment. “Up and down the coast. She’s just a double-ender, but that’s all I need.” She nodded. “Silas built her for me. In his spare time.” She made a sound of disgust. “Winslow wouldn’t let him waste his time on a little peapod for the likes o’ me. Farmers usually build their own. Folks use ’em for fishing and some lobstering.”

“I’ll have to see him. I don’t believe I’ve ever met him, although Phelps Shipping has commissioned the Winslow Yard for schooners.”

“Silas has been with Winslow for a long time. Ever since he was a boy. Apprenticed with him. He isn’t from these parts. Comes from one of the islands—Swans or Frenchboro.”

Another pause. Silence filled the space between them like a physical presence. Caleb still didn’t want her to leave. Maybe it was just boredom. He felt as if he had all the time in the world on his hands.

“You wouldn’t have any extra seeds?” he asked on impulse.

“Seeds? Oh, sure, I’ll see what I have.”

“Mind if I come along?” Now, why had he said that?

But she just shrugged. “Suit yourself. I have a little bit o’ everything.”

Caleb walked beside her across the lawn, but as they neared the gate, he heard the sound of a wagon coming down the road toward them. He shaded his eyes against the sun, trying to see who would be coming out to the Point.

It was old Jim, the man who’d driven him out the first day, with another man beside him. Caleb felt his gut tighten as soon as he recognized Nate, his former first mate, now a captain on a Phelps bark.

What did Nate want? Was he bringing a message from Boston? Caleb steeled his features to betray nothing, but he couldn’t silence his heart as it began to hammer in anticipation.

He stood, bracing himself to face the man who was like a brother to him. The only one who’d believed in him throughout. If anyone knew him, it was Nate. If it hadn’t been for his friendship on Caleb’s first voyage, he didn’t think he would have survived the trip in the forecastle of one of his father’s square-riggers.

How would Caleb stand up to the coming encounter? Could he really convince his friend all was well with him at Haven’s End?

As the horse and wagon ambled slowly forward, Caleb glanced over at Miss Patterson. She stood, silently watching the two men, nodding a greeting to Jim when he drew up.

Nate thanked the driver and descended, retrieving his bag from the back.

Before Caleb had a chance to introduce her, Miss Patterson muttered, “Be seeing ya,” and walked off.

Caleb’s glance flickered briefly to her, but he made no move to stop her, his attention centered on Nate.

The two men stood watching the horse and driver depart. When they were alone, Caleb turned to Nate. “What are you doing here?”

Nate removed his blue cap and scratched his head. “I’m glad I wasn’t expecting a warm greeting, otherwise my feelings might be hurt.”

Caleb looked hard at his friend. “I thought I made it clear I didn’t want you or anyone else feeling obliged to come and check up on me.”

Nate ignored the remark. “How was your journey?” he asked himself, then answered, “The seas weren’t too rough.”

Caleb crossed his arms and remained silent.

“We had a good passage. Would you like to come in? Yes, thank you kindly, I’ve had a long journey. Can I get you some refreshment? Why, yes, if it wouldn’t presume on your hospitality.”

Caleb turned on his heel, ignoring Nate’s soliloquy, and walked toward the house, knowing his friend would follow.

Once inside, Caleb left Nate in the living room and went to the kitchen to fetch him something to drink. When he returned, Nate stood with his back toward him, admiring the view from the rear windows.

“I can see why you came here.” He turned around with a smile. “Ahh! Just the thing for a parched throat.” He smacked his lips after the first long sip of the cold tea. “Wonderful.” He looked around. “Would you like to have a seat? Why, thank you.” Seeing only the one armchair in the room, he raised an eyebrow. Caleb fetched a straight-backed, wooden kitchen chair and gestured for Nate to take the armchair.

“Now, are you ready to tell me why you’ve come? Or do you need some food first?”

Nate smiled. “Perhaps a little later, if it’s not too much to ask.” He set his glass on the wooden crate beside the armchair. Then he looked straight at Caleb, his expression serious for the first time since he’d stepped down from the wagon. “Your father needs you.”

“Did he send you?” The words were out before Caleb could stop them.

“You know him better than that. He wouldn’t send for you even if he were gasping his last breath. That doesn’t change the truth. He needs you. The firm needs you. Not to mention countless others. Your mother, for one.”

When Caleb made no reply, Nate stood and raised his voice. “What is it going to take to get you back? This place is beautiful, I’ll grant you that,” he said, motioning toward the ocean view, “but what are you doing here? You don’t belong here. You belong in Boston, taking over the reins of a shipping empire, not in some tiny harbor hardly visible on a map.”

Caleb rubbed his hand against his jaw, holding his emotions in check. He’d made his decision and was not going to defend it to anyone. Not anymore. “If you don’t understand why I won’t go back, you who know me, then I can’t explain it to you.”

His friend continued in a more reasonable tone. “I know how these little villages work. The people living here don’t accept outsiders. Their families have been living here for centuries. It’s all right for summering, but to live here…You have everything waiting for you in Boston. You can’t just walk off and leave it all!”

The ship’s clock above the mantel ticked in the silence. “Are you finished?” Caleb asked, his calm tone belying his inward turmoil.

Nate scowled at him in outrage for a second. Then he grinned. “Yes, sir. Are you ready to talk?”

Caleb sighed. He’d been foolish to think he’d be able to draw a line between everything in his previous life and his reclusive existence now in Haven’s End. “None of what happened in Boston matters anymore.”

“In a pig’s eye.”

“Maybe,” Caleb conceded, “but I’m settled here now. Whatever goes on back in Boston is no concern of mine.”

“Your father is sorry for not trusting your word. He realizes he shouldn’t have condemned you out of hand on the basis of circumstantial evidence. But you know him. He’ll never be able to tell you that. But let him show you. He’ll never doubt your word, nor your loyalty, again.”

Why was it too little, too late? Caleb stood, unable to contain himself within the confines of a chair.

“It won’t work, running away.” Nate’s tone was soft, persuasive.

“It’s called renouncing,” Caleb said quietly.

“Is nothing I say going to make any difference?”

“No.” The one syllable conveyed finality. He had thought long and hard about his decision.

Nate took up his glass and tilted it, watching the circle of liquid around its edge. He met Caleb’s gaze over its rim. “I’m not giving up, you know.” Without allowing the other a chance to reply, he changed the subject as if he hadn’t just thrown down a serious challenge.

“So, what do you find to do in this place?” He looked around the sparsely furnished room and added, “What do you do when the fog rolls in?”

“I sleep.”

Nate threw back his head and laughed. He took another sip of his drink before placing it on the crate and rising to stroll the perimeters of the room. “Glad to see you didn’t renounce every last remnant of your past life,” he said, stopping by the sea chest and picking up the spyglass sitting atop it. He focused it out the window.

“At least you shall never be bored with this view before you. I envy you that.”

“How reassuring there’s something you find redeeming about my new home.”

Nate lifted his brow at the word home. He replaced the spyglass and continued his perusal of Caleb’s belongings, fingering sextant, chronometer, compass—those tools by which a captain located his position at sea.

At the bookcase he examined Caleb’s pitiful collection of books, which filled only half a shelf. Leafing through Becher’s Navigation, he said, “Arabella has set a date for her marriage.”

The news hit Caleb like an unexpected blow to the gut. His muscles hadn’t had a chance to tense and form a wall rigid enough to withstand the assault.

Well, it was done. He should have known it was coming. Now he could get on with his life, knowing this chapter was irrevocably closed. What life? a part of his mind countered, taunting him with the emptiness of his days.

As if in reply to a question, Nate continued. “August twenty-fifth. Three o’clock. At the Congregational Church. Reception to follow at the home of the bride’s parents.”

Once again, the only sound in the room was that of the clock. “There’s still time to do something about it. She continues in ignorance of Ellery’s role.”

Caleb turned to look beyond his back lawn, beyond the cove, to the sea. Cloud cover gave the ocean a silvery green appearance. A small whitecap here and there signaled the stiff breeze blowing in from the Atlantic. A few islands lay directly in front of his cove, outcroppings of rock more than real landmasses. The larger one was flat, like an old man lying half submerged by water.

He watched a wave curl against one side of its forbidding gray rock, then slip back down into the ocean in defeat. His soul felt like that rock. Assaulted. Barren. Alone.

Knowing Nate waited for him to say something, he asked, “Why shouldn’t Arabella continue in ignorance about Ellery? What went on in the firm has nothing to do with her.”

Nate slammed the heavy tome shut and turned to Caleb. “Nothing to do with her that the man she’s planning to marry is the man who did everything in his power to make you look guilty? Nothing to do with her that the man who could have cleared you with one word was silent throughout the whole ordeal? And that you’ve done nothing to make her see the truth? Caleb, why do you insist on continuing the martyrdom? Wasn’t it bad enough when you had no choice? Now you’ve got your father behind you.”

Caleb tightened his hands into fists against the windowsill. Hadn’t he had the same discussions in his head over and over?

“Arabella made her decision.”

“She made a mistake.” Nate’s voice softened. “We all make mistakes. Is that a reason for condemning her to a lifetime shackled to a weak, envious, backstabbing—”

Caleb turned toward the room once more.

“You forget, Ellery is my cousin.” When Nate made a sound of disagreement, Caleb held up a hand. “I made the decision to leave.” He looked steadily at Nate, reminding him of his promise not to interfere. “My decision was final. What Ellery chooses to tell Arabella, or anyone else, is no longer my concern. It’s not the reason I left Boston. You and I both know why I did that.”

Nate replaced the book on the shelf. The care he took in putting it back exactly where he’d taken it told Caleb that his friend was using the time to compose himself. When he faced Caleb once again, his tone was calm.

“You’re still letting your father rule you. Even way up here, where you can’t see him or hear him, he continues to be a tyrant over you. I just wonder how long it’s going to take you to figure that out.”

Caleb awoke and looked up at the whitewashed ceiling, orienting himself. His mind was permeated with a feeling of anticipation, and he had to think a minute, wondering at its origin.

Nate had stayed until the day before, when he’d left on a schooner to Eastport, where he’d catch the overnight steamer to Boston. Caleb spent the two days of his visit showing him around. They had hiked and explored the coastline the same way they’d done as young sailors exploring the various ports of call.

Caleb stretched, reaching his arms up behind him, wondering at the sense of purpose he’d awakened with. He lay back on his pillow, the sunlight streaming in through the bare panes, until it came to him. The seeds!

Like an interrupted conversation that needed to be picked up where it had broken off, Caleb felt the need to follow through on his last encounter with Miss Patterson. She’d offered him seeds, and he was going to see about getting them.

Caleb threw back his sheet and blanket and jumped up from his bed, glad he no longer had to pretend that everything was all right, or weigh each word to make sure his faithful friend wouldn’t pounce on it, ready to use it as ammunition for Caleb’s return to Boston.