Do not look at him. Do not look at him.
It was working. Her heart was settling. Words started floating back into place. As soon as the skipper got them out of the harbor, she started her spiel. As the boat’s speed increased, Scout clutched her mental script like a lifeline. She knew every fact, every detail about life on Baker Island and the large and extended Gilley family, who lived there the longest. Yet knowing that Naki was listening made her hyperaware of every line she recited about the island’s history. Hyperaware of him.
Then came a pause, as the boat was out of the harbor and into the open sea, and the engine was too loud to talk over.So far, so good. Scout hadn’t messed up her spiel. Avoiding eye contact with Naki was a brilliant strategy. Ignoring him, that’s what she needed to do. She made her way around the boat with a live lobster, its claws bound with a rubber band—courtesy of the tourist boat operator—and answered questions from the tourists. Soon, she felt herself slip fully into her ranger groove, naming the different islands as they passed them. Bear Island and Sutton Island were neighbors, both part of the Cranberry Isles, separated by the waters of Frenchman Bay. Baker Island was located at the southwestern entrance to the bay, one of the outermost of the Cranberry Isles. By the time the boat was passing Sutton Island, she was in full ranger mode, especially so as she pointed out the one-hundred-year-old osprey nest.
Seriously, how awesome was that?
At this point, she was hardly aware of Naki, had almost forgotten this intriguing, unsettling man was on the boat ... until she felt a hand on her elbow that gave her a little shock of electricity. Instinctively, she knew it belonged to him.
“Come to the port side.” He spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper, that made her want to swoon. She didn’t, of course, but she wanted to. She followed him to where he leaned slightly over the side of the boat, his intense gaze scanning the water. “Here.”
“Here? Baker Island Ledge?” The ledge was just off Baker Island’s shoreline and within clear view of the lighthouse itself. She peered over the edge of the boat into the dark sea. She knew that this was an area riddled with unseen hazards—submerged ledges and rocky shoals and shallow water—the very reason that John Quincy Adams ordered the Baker Island Lighthouse to be built in 1828. Shipping traffic had increased around the coast of Maine, and this area around the island was particularly treacherous, especially during storms, dense fog, or at night.Without that lighthouse, navigation would have been extremely dangerous. “So what about it?”
His eyes were fixed on the surface of the water. “This is where the USSNorth Atlanticlies.”
What?“How in the world do you know that?”
He shrugged. “Researched the coordinates.”
Scout’s breath caught as she looked down into the deep, murky water below. All those times she’d sailed over this very spot, right over the wreckage, talking about history as if it were something neat and contained, without truly feeling the weight of what lay beneath. Now, she felt it. She swallowed hard. An eeriness crept over her, settling like a mist around her shoulders.
She blew out a puff of air.Shake it off, girl. Get back to ranger mode.
It was time to get the tourists organized in groups for the skiff trip over to Baker Island. Still reeling, she turned around—only to collide with a man who was standing right behind her.
“Sorry!” she said, then froze. “Chase? I didn’t even realize you were on the tour.” Seriously? How did she miss Chase Fletcher? The tour was full capacity today, but still, it wasn’t that big of a boat.
“I stayed off your radar. I know you’re working.” He smiled at her, that same sweet, charming smile she’d noticed on that first Sunday she’d spent in Acadia. The one that swayed her to accept his invitation to have coffee after church.
Great, just great.As if she needed one more distraction on this tour.
As soon as Chase Fletcher saw that Wabanaki Dana was also on the tour boat, he did his best to remain unnoticed on the ride to Baker Island. Scout was fully absorbed with managing the tourists, answering their questions, showing off a livelobster to the children ... and he just kept moving through the group to stay on the other side of the boat from her. Watching her, watching Wabanaki Dana, watching Frankie. Gathering insights about them as he watched from a distance.
Chase liked to think he’d inherited a reporter’s knack for reading people from his dad, who’d inherited it from his dad, and so on and so on. He tried to set aside any bias he had about Scout and pretend he was meeting her for the first time. Here’s what he noticed about her on this boat ride: Scout’s park uniform conveyed authority, but he sensed she was hardly that. More of a pleaser. Super crazy about her work.
Super sweet.
Super cute.
Adorable. No other word for it. Big blue eyes that sparkled when she answered questions about the park. Incredibly patient with Frankie’s nonstop interruptions. Every time the kid tried to finish her sentences or insert himself into her explanations, she handled it with a mix of humor and grace that was downright impressive.
Then there was Wabanaki Dana. Chase wouldn’t want to play poker with that guy. He had that kind of face that gave nothing away—calm, controlled, like he was always two steps ahead. But one thing did catch Chase’s attention: Wabanaki watched Scout. A lot. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that said he was ... what? Protective? Suspicious?
Or could he be interested in her? Chase made a mental note to keep an eye on that.
And then there was Frankie. A kid like Frankie was a gold mine of information, the kind who would spill anything if it made him feel like he was in on the secret—eager to impress, constantly butting into conversations, a full-time attention seeker. All Chase had to do was get him alone and steer the conversation in the right direction.
When Chase spotted Wabanaki Dana weave through the cluster of tourists, his movements purposeful as he approached Scout, he stopped and stared. With a brief touch to her elbow and a quiet comment Chase couldn’t make out, Wabanaki gestured toward the water. Scout’s face, as expressive as ever, cycled through a range of emotions—excitement, hesitation, and maybe even a flicker of nerves. Intrigued, Chase edged closer through the crowd, angling for a better view of whatever had caught their attention over the side of the boat.
But then Scout turned abruptly, and he found himself nearly colliding with her. Chase wasn’t alarmed by that—he’d figured she’d notice him sooner or later—but the look on her face stopped him cold. No smile, none of her trademark warmth—just a sharp flash of irritation. She wasn’t happy to see him here. Not one bit.
After the skiff dropped the final batch of tourists off on the shore, Scout gathered everyone to give a short talk about Baker Island. Chase listened as she rattled off facts about the Gilley family, the original settlers. He had to admit, tough didn’t begin to describe those people. Living alone on the island in the 1800s meant they had to be completely self-reliant. Hannah Gilley, the mom, would walk her twelve kids across the tidal bar to get to church every Sunday. Impressive. His kind of gal.
Once they started the half-mile walk to the lighthouse, Chase angled himself to walk alongside Frankie. He tested the waters cautiously, his tone light. “So, you’re Frankie, right? You work for Scout?”
“Withher,” he said. “We work together. We’re a team.”
“Bet you’ve seen some pretty cool stuff in Acadia.”
