CHAPTER 1
GRAYSON
Village of Stormhaven, Isle of Skara
Off the Coast of Scotland
Present Day
The woman on my dock doesn't belong here.
She stands at the edge of the weathered planks, one hand shading her eyes against the morning sun, watching my boat cut through the Sound. Tourist, probably. Another mainlander come to gawk at quaint island life before fleeing back to civilization. They always leave eventually, unable to handle the isolation or the storms or the way the Isle of Skara demands everything from those who stay.
I guide the trawler into its slip, already planning how to get rid of her quickly. The nets are heavy with the morning's catch, and there's work waiting at the Warden's Tower that won't do itself. The ancient watchtower has stood sentinel over these waters for centuries, its stone walls weathered by countless Atlantic storms, and every Hale who's called it home has understood that duty comes before comfort. My grandfather taught me that lesson before I was old enough to understandwhat I was protecting, and his father taught him the same. No time for interruptions, especially not ones that arrive uninvited on private property.
She doesn't move as I secure the lines. Doesn't flinch when I adjust my weight and the boat rocks beneath me. Most people step back when they see me up close because I'm not small and I'm not soft. Years of hauling nets and weathering storms have carved me into something hard and uncompromising, the kind of man sensible folk give a wide berth.
But she just stands there, waiting with a patience that suggests she's used to difficult subjects.
"Private dock," I say without looking at her. The words come out as a growl, roughened by salt air and too many years of talking more to the sea than to people. "You're trespassing."
"Grayson Hale?" Her voice carries the crisp precision of education, the kind that comes from universities on the mainland where people study things instead of living them. "I'm Dr. Isla Calder. Marine biologist. I sent you an email last week about your fishing routes."
I haul myself onto the dock, and the old wood groans under my weight. "I don't read emails from people I don't know."
"I gathered that when you didn't respond." She doesn't back down, doesn't give ground even as I tower over her by nearly a foot. Most people would have retreated by now, but she holds her position like the planks beneath her feet are rightfully hers. "I'm researching unusual whale migration patterns in the North Atlantic. Your waters specifically. I need access to you and your boat and your knowledge of the local channels."
"No."
"Mr. Hale, if you'd just let me explain?—"
"I don't need explanations. I need you off my property."
She doesn't retreat, doesn't show any of the intimidation that usually sends unwanted visitors scurrying back to the mainharbor. Instead, she tucks the tablet she’s been holding back into her messenger bag and rummages around for a moment before pulling out a small notebook, flipping it open to scan handwritten notes. "The locals say you know channels that don't appear on any official charts. That you can read storms before they show on radar. That the fish practically swim into your nets because you understand the water better than anyone alive."
"Locals talk too much."
"They also say you're the most stubborn man on the island, so I came prepared for resistance." A ghost of a smile crosses her face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "I'm not asking you to like me, Mr. Hale. I'm asking you to help me understand what's happening to the whales."
"The answer is no. Get off my dock."
She tilts her head and studies me like I'm a specimen under glass, a problem to be analyzed and solved rather than a man who just told her to leave. There's something unsettling about the directness of her gaze, about the way her eyes seem to change color depending on how the light catches them. She's not conventionally beautiful, not in the polished way of the tourist women who sometimes wander down from the resort on the north end of the island. Her features are sharper than that, more interesting, with high cheekbones and a stubborn set to her jaw that suggests she's heard the word "no" before and found ways around it.
She's dressed practically, at least. Sturdy boots, weatherproof jacket, hair pulled back in a braid that keeps it out of her face. Someone told her what to expect from the Isle of Skara's climate, even if they failed to mention that showing up unannounced on a stranger's private property rarely leads to productive conversations.
"I'm willing to pay for your time," she continues, undeterred. "The university is funding this research, and we can negotiate a fair rate for charter services. I'm not asking for charity."
"Not interested in your money." I move past her toward the storage shed where the morning's catch needs processing. The shed sits at the landward end of the dock, weathered to silver-gray by decades of salt spray, its doors hanging slightly crooked on hinges that have survived more storms than I can count. Fish won't keep forever, especially not in this weather, and the gulls are already circling overhead with predatory interest. "Go back to wherever you came from. The waters around Skara aren't for study."
"Why not?"
The question stops me mid-stride because it carries genuine confusion rather than challenge. She's followed me, her footsteps light but determined on the weathered boards, and she's close enough now that her scent reaches me properly for the first time. Salt and clean skin and lavender soap on the surface, but underneath there's a deeper note, older and wilder. My bear lifts his head from the drowsy place where he usually rests during daylight hours.
"Because I said so." The words come out rougher than I intend.
"That's not a scientific answer."
"I'm not a scientist. I'm a fisherman, and you're wasting my time."
