Page 23 of Christmas Harbor Secrets
“What if… what if it’s true?” The words trembled, and she let them. “What if my father’s not—” the word died in her throat, and she shook her head. “What then?”
He didn’t hand her a single easy thing. He stood there and took the weight of the question like a man shouldered into a door so somebody else could get through. “Then we find the part of that sentence that keeps you breathing,” he said, and left.
She locked the door. Echo lay down with his head pointed at the threshold, eyes half-closed, the way soldiers pretended to sleep. Isobel sank to the floor for a moment, back against the cabinet, and let herself feel everything she’d refused to feel while her hands were busy: the fear, yes, but also the small flare of something that looked like trust.
She rose after a minute because rest was a choice like anything else, and she chose the version that would let her think more clearly. She rinsed the bowl, set the kit on the counter, and turned off the light.
In the pre-dawn darkness, the boat’s little noises returned—the tap and hum, the soft whisper of current as it slid along the hull. She stretched out on the settee, not because it was comfortable but because she could see the door from there. Her hand found Echo’s ear without needing to search. His tail thumped twice and stilled.
She closed her eyes with the taste of salt and ash still on her tongue and the promise of coffee later like a silly, necessary anchor. Outside, a footstep creaked on the dock. Not Rone’s. Lighter. Stopping at her swim platform.
Echo’s head lifted.
Isobel held her breath.
The footstep faded.
Her heartbeat matched the boat’s slow sway from the current and then outpaced it.
She opened her eyes to the dark, reached for the prayer that had steadied her since childhood, and whispered it into the quiet—only names this time. God’s. Her father’s. Rone’s. The dog’s.
Outside, the dock answered with a long, low groan.
She didn’t remember closing her eyes. One moment, the steady rocking of the boat had lulled her, and the next, a thin band of sunlight slipped through the porthole, gilding the edges of the galley table. The hum of the generator continued. The marina beyond the window was quiet except for gulls squabbling over breakfast and the lazy slap of water against hulls.
For a moment, she didn’t move—just breathed, letting the memory of the night drift in fragments: the fire, the stranger’s words, Echo’s wet fur against her legs, Rone’s calm voice cutting through the chaos.
He hadn’t come back yet.
She sat up, wincing at the stiffness in her neck, and brushed a hand through her hair. Echo barked at the door.
“Need to go outside?” She unlocked the door and opened it, but before she could attach the leash, he bolted off her boat and ran a few slips over to Rone’s.
The thought tugged a small smile out of her. They fit together, the two of them—quiet, capable, bruised in ways that didn’t show. But she also longed for Echo to pick her, the wayher father hadn’t. She shrugged off the notion and brewed coffee, letting the scent fill the galley, grounding her. She poured two mugs and set one across the table, just in case. She wanted the man who had known her father to come back and tell her more. Tell her everything. The act felt foolishly hopeful, but hope was better than fear any day.
Footsteps echoed on the dock outside, firm and familiar. Echo barked once, sharp and happy. Then the soft thud of feet on the deck.
Rone knocked, then opened the door with a growl, eyeing the key.
“I left it unlocked because I figured Echo went to get you.”
“Lock it every time.” He took the old metal key, slid it into the lock and turned it with a click, then dropped the key on the shelf next to the door. “Smells like salvation in a cup. Thought I was supposed to get you coffee this morning. Wasn’t that your order?”
“As if you’d listen to me ordering you to do anything.” She turned, smiling despite herself. “You earned it.”
Sunlight caught his sandy blonde hair through the window. The bandage on his hand was fresh. He’d rewrapped it, probably himself—typical. “You sleep?”
“A little. You?”
“Enough to dream.” He took the mug she offered and blew across the surface. “You shouldn’t have to wake up to this kind of mess. Called the sheriff this morning.”
“I’ve woken to worse.” She leaned against the counter, studying him. “Did the sheriff give you any more trouble?”
He huffed, the sound closer to amusement than irritation. “Depends how you define trouble. He likes to hear himself talk.”
She grinned. “So he’s still breathing?”
“Barely.” Rone sipped. “He’s posting a patrol for a fewnights after I reminded him it was an election year. But I doubt whoever started that fire will show his face again.”
