Page 1 of Their Reluctant Catch

Chapter1

Todd

The docks are quiet this early—a quiet that sinks into my bones and makes me feel like I’m the only one alive. The air is icy, sharp enough to sting my nose and bite my fingers through my gloves, but I’m used to the cold. March in Northwick Cove doesn’t care how many layers you’ve got on—it always finds a way to remind you who’s boss.

My brother is already on our boat, theSea Spirit, and Colton moves like a man who’s been doing this his whole life. Which he has. We both have. His boots thud against the deck and mix with the sounds of the Gulf of Maine lapping at theSea Spirit, as he checks our traps and the nets.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. Neither of us do. This isn’t the kind of work where you talk much. We know what needs doing, and we do it.

I haul the last crate of bait onboard, and the weight pulls at my shoulders. Nothing new there either, nor is the briny and sour smell any different than usual. I wrinkle my nose. It doesn’t bother me like it used to, but the first sniff in the morning isn’t pleasant. You get used to it after a while, the same way you grow accustomed to the creak of the wood beneath your feet and the constant tug of the tide against the hull.

“Ready?” I ask, even though I know it is. Colton’s nothing if not thorough.

He glances up from the winch, his face half-hidden under the brim of his cap. “Almost. Check the lines.”

I nod and head to the stern. The rope is in my hands before he finishes speaking. It’s the kind of rhythm I don’t think about anymore. Pull the lines, tie the knots, double-check the traps. Every loop and twist is ingrained in my body like muscle memory, like I don’t have to think about breathing.

The sun’s barely a suggestion on the horizon, a pale smear of light against the gray sky. The water laps against the pilings, and somewhere in the distance, a gull screams its morning greeting. We will return to the docks in a few hours to sell our catch in a small shop to tourists and locals. But right now, it’s only us and the sound of the ocean. Not many tourists here at this time of year. Too fucking cold!

I glance back at Colton as he secures the winch.

He’s got that look on his face—the one that says he’s completely in his head. He’s always been like that. My brother thinks too much. He worries too much, too. It’s what makes him good at his job and why I’m satisfied with letting him lead, but sometimes I wish he’d let himself breathe.

“You gonna stand there all day or are you gonna help me with this?” His voice is loud in the quiet and knife-sharp.

I smirk, grabbing the nearest coil of rope. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m coming.”

He shakes his head, but the ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. That’s as close as Colton gets to admitting he enjoys our banter as much as I do.

By the time theSpirit’s ready, the sky has shifted to that washed-out shade of blue that means the day’s finally waking. The wind’s still cold, but it’s not biting anymore, just nudging—trying to remind you not to get too comfortable.

Colton climbs up to the wheelhouse and fires up the engine. It sputters once, twice, then roars to life. The tang of diesel fills the air and the engine settles to a steady hum. I grab the thermos from the bench and pour two mugs of coffee, the steam curling up into the cold like smoke signals.

I hand Colton his mug as he leans out of the wheelhouse. He takes it without a word, already focusing on the ocean ahead. That’s just how taciturn he is. I won’t get a “thanks,” let alone small talk. Colton is all action.

I lean against the railing, the mug warm in my hands, and watch as the docks start to blur and fade, swallowed up by the open water. The horizon stretches out ahead of us, endless and unbroken, the waves catching the morning light like shards of glass.

Colton glances at me, and his brow furrows.

Yeah, he knows what I’m thinking about.

I sip my coffee and enjoy the bitter brew as I anticipate the kick of my morning caffeine.

We agree on most things in life—working with the sea instead of against it, using its resources but not misusing them, and taking care of the things and people we love.

He doesn’t speak and keeps his eyes on the horizon. That’s Colton for you. Always waiting, always watching.

TheSea Spiritlurches forward, and the engine groans against the pull of the waves. I plant my boots firmly on the deck and glance back at the shore, at the soft glow of lights from Northwick Cove shrinking into the fading darkness. It’s always like this—watching the town disappear into the horizon feels like leaving a piece of myself behind. It’s no different when I return from the ocean, though. I’m a man of the land and the sea.

The wind flaps my jacket and tugs at it with invisible hands, so I put up my collar with one hand, still holding my rapidly cooling mug with the other. I let my gaze linger on the shoreline until it’s no more than a smudge of light against the black sky. There’s comfort in that faint glow, a reminder of what’s waiting for us when we get back—our people, our home. What’s left of it, anyway.

Northwick Cove wasn’t always like this. Hell, there was a time when this place was alive, thriving. Back in the nineteenth century, the hills were rich with minerals—iron, silver, even traces of gold—and the sea provided a bounty of its own. Fishermen pulled in nets so heavy they’d snap if you weren’t careful, and the woods were teeming with game. Everything the earth had to give, Northwick Cove took, and for a while, it worked.

But by the end of that era, the mines were worked out. The veins of ore the townspeople had relied on for decades were scooped clean by men who didn’t think about tomorrow. And the sea gave her treasures, too, until there were no more to give. By the time the twentieth century rolled around, the cod and haddock were gone, the lobster traps came up empty, and the woods were a shadow of what they’d been.

Northwick Cove was bled dry. By generations who took without thinking of what came next. And when nothing remained, people did what people always do—they left, too. Packed up their lives and dreams and moved on to greener pastures. All except for the stubborn ones, the ones who stayed because they couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Because this was home, no matter how hard it got. Like our grandparents.

The people who stayed learned to work with the land and the ocean, not against it. To take only what we needed and give back where we could. It’s an uphill battle, and one we’re still fighting every day. The ocean’s slowly recovering, and so are the woods, but we haven’t yet fixed what has been broken.

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