Chapter One

Friday, May 30, 1930, Memorial Day
Crow’s Nest, Wisconsin

The caw of a seagull yanked Adaleigh Sirland’s gaze from her worn journal. Her pulse kicked up, and she gripped her mechanical pencil as she searched for the bird. It sat atop the uppermost spire of a boat docked ten feet away. Dark and murky, the water lapped at her shoes.

Relax. No one knows you’re here.

Behind her lay Crow’s Nest. A bright, bustling place for a secluded inlet town on the western banks of Lake Michigan. Children raced. Mothers attempted to contain them. Chains clanked as boats came in and out of the harbor, creating a gentle surf. Seagulls fought with the pigeons. The evening sun dodged the clouds as it warmed her back. The summer heat soothed the ache in her soul.

Another scream tore her out of her reverie. A child’s scream this time. Not of excitement, but terror. Adaleigh stuffed her journal, pocket Bible, and pencil into her knapsack as she bounced to her feet. To the left, a young woman with pinned-up blonde hair pointed at the water as if it would jump out at her. Two school-aged boys tugged a rope closer to the edge of the boardwalk. The boy who had fallen into the water barely bobbed above the surface three feet from shore.

In an instant, Adaleigh tossed her bag on the dock that jutted out from the boardwalk, kicked out of her black Oxfords, and jumped feet first into the harbor. Her knee-length skirt flew over her face, and air leapt out of her lungs as she hit the frigid water.

Come on, Adaleigh, focus. She shoved the fabric out of her way.

The boy floated facedown, inches from a large boat’s hull. Please, God, not a child. Practiced strokes quickly brought her closer. The boy didn’t move, didn’t call for help, didn’t struggle with the water. She maneuvered around him, attempting to come up behind so she wouldn’t startle him into drowning her. That’s when she saw the blood.

She flashed to another scene. The one that haunted her nights and dogged her by day. God, not here, please. She hauled herself back to the present before panic made her useless.

Adaleigh quickened her stroke, wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, and pulled his head above water. His chest didn’t rise against the pressure of her grip.

“Take this!” someone called, and a red life preserver ring landed by her elbow.

A crowd had gathered along the edge of the water. She hesitated. Not only was she inappropriately attired to be in the water, her life depended on staying unnoticed. One look at the boy whose chin she kept above the surface pushed back her fear. He needed help. Her help. That didn’t require a second thought.

She clutched the life preserver, kicking to help the bystanders pull them in. Eager hands reached down to lift the boy onto hard ground. A man in a cowboy hat held out a hand to her, but the warning in her head, the one reminding her that her own life was at stake, had her shaking her head. Getting out of the water with a dress plastered to her body in front of a growing crowd … no.

She eased back toward where she had left her shoes, treading water and clenching her chattering teeth as Cowboy Hat performed resuscitation on the boy. He had him on his stomach, arms extended over his head, and pressed on his upper back. One … two… three … The man counted to ten before the boy choked for air. Thank God. He was alive!

Now, time to disappear. Again.

With no ladder to climb up and the water barely lifting her high enough to grasp the top of the planks she’d so quickly jumped off of to rescue the boy, she would now have to pull herself up without leverage—and without help since she didn’t want to attract any undo notice. No easy feat, but she could do it. She had to.

She grabbed the edge and kicked at the water for momentum. Almost. The fabric stuck to her stomach and caught the rough boards as she fell back into the water. A shiver skittered over her body. Maybe she should have taken the help when it was offered, even if it led to embarrassment. But discovery …?

The county ambulance’s horn stopped the crowd’s commotion for a moment, then the onlookers redoubled their interest as two men in white coats pushed their way to the boy. No one seemed to notice her in the water. That’s what she wanted, right? To stay hidden? To stay … alive?

Cold wrapped its icy fingers around her chest. Or was it fear? Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Again she reached for the dock, gave a kick. And lost her grip.

David Martins left the pullover and flat cap he’d shed while setting up for tonight’s Memorial Day festivities on board the deck of his boss’s lead fishing boat, the Tuna Mann. Nor did he bother with the suspenders that hung at his hips as he leapt to the dock. With a single ambulance to cover the county, seeing it head for the boardwalk never meant anything good.

Pausing at the edge of the crowd, he squinted against the sunlight, trying to make out the scene. Couldn’t from this far away. His instinct to help someone in need launched him forward. He easily maneuvered through the crowd in time to see a woman treading water as she handed off a boy to the waiting arms of his friend Silas Ward—easily recognizable by that ridiculous cowboy hat he insisted on wearing since his return from a ranch out west. David didn’t recognize the woman, but the boy was Matthew Hitchens, and his nanny, Amy Littleburg, stood nearby, furiously wringing her hands.

David’s adrenaline eased as the ambulance personnel took over the scene. The relaxed expressions suggested Matthew would be all right, despite the blood matting his hair. As a fisherman, David knew all too well that a day on the lake could quickly turn to tragedy. Several of the younger fishermen were trained in basic water rescue, thanks to the local Red Cross Life Saving Corps, but not being able to save a life when one had the power to do so made it all the more difficult.

Thankfully, the woman had acted so promptly. He scanned the water for her. Had she gotten out already? Not if the shoes and knapsack on the dock were hers. He jogged over to them. Two decades on the water warned him she needed help.

He dropped to his knees beside her belongings. Just below the surface, the woman’s brown hair swirled. His heart pounded. God wouldn’t take the life of someone who’d just saved a child, right? He leaned over the edge and plunged his hand into the frigid water, hoping he wasn’t too late to pull her out.

Adaleigh forced her cold limbs to cooperate. Powerful kicks propelled her to the surface. This time, a hand grabbed the back of her dress and hauled her onto the dock. She lay still for a second, teeth freely chattering, before she opened her eyes.

Above her appeared a clean-shaven face topped by wavy brown hair. She scrambled back, pulling her sopping-wet dress over her knees and putting distance between them.

“Thank you for assisting me,” she said, forcing the polite, yet casual words past stiff lips.

The man rocked back on his heels. His mouth firmed, but before he could speak, an older gentleman, probably close to seventy, with a large-brimmed hat, stark blue eyes, and a gray mustache, pressed a hand on his shoulder.

The narrow dock left Adaleigh with no escape except back into the water. She’d have to let bravado be her shield. She clamped her teeth to manage an easy smile. On the boardwalk, the boy had been placed in the ambulance, and the crowd parted in anticipation of its leaving. Time to get out of there. If these two men would let her.

She tugged her Oxfords onto wet, stockinged feet. Mustache stuck out a bony hand to help her up as Handsome leapt to his feet in one lithe movement.

“You saved that kid,” said Mustache, the gravel in his voice further showing his age.

“Someone had to.” Adaleigh ignored his offer and stood unassisted after gathering her belongings. She smoothed her dress, well aware the wet fabric clung to every curve and Handsome studied her from beyond Mustache’s thin shoulders. She raised her chin. Saving a life trumped propriety in most anyone’s book, yet her cheeks warmed nonetheless.

“You’re not from around here.” The older man’s appraising eyes ran over her from under bushy eyebrows. Then he removed his coat and held it out to her. “Let me buy you coffee while you dry out.”

“No need.” Adaleigh gave a practiced smile and pushed past the older man, only to find herself sandwiched between the two. Her ears pounded. Handsome’s eyes darkened in concern as he shifted to the edge of the dock, giving her space to escape.

“I insist.” The authority in Mustache’s voice pinned her feet. She looked over her shoulder, and he pulled a police detective’s badge from his pocket.

Fear squeezed her throat. Her sister wouldn’t have contacted the police, would she? No way. Not with how they left things.

Mustache set the jacket over her shoulders, eyebrow raised. Fine. She would go along with him. A police detective was supposed to be safe. Right?

Intrigued, David considered the woman he’d pulled from the water. She was definitely scared of something, even if she seemed determined to hide it. Tempted as he was to join them for that cup of coffee, to satiate his curiosity and see what else he could learn about her, as Captain Mann’s first mate and fleet manager, duty pulled him in other directions. He loved the work, but the hours were long during fishing season, especially since the economic crash last fall.

He parted with the lovely stranger and her detective escort at the edge of the dissipating crowd, snapping up his suspenders, then turning his steps toward Mann’s fish shanty set up beside The Wharfside Café, the hub for all of Crow’s Nest’s independent fishermen and direct competition for Buck Wilson’s Crow’s Nest Conglomerate. He needed to speak with his boss before he finished preparing the boat. The holiday meant he could be home for a late supper with his grandmother, brother, and sister before daylight slipped away. However, a glance at the sun told him he’d have to finish up quickly if he wanted to make it tonight.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust as he stepped into the dim interior of the wooden structure. Empty. He could have sworn his boss planned to come straight here after leaving the boat. Captain Mann was a cantankerous enigma. Rotund and jolly, often jawing the day away, yet a stubborn old man who’d built his own business out of nothing but fish. He’d given David his first and only job back when David was just a teen. Now David basically ran the company, even if Captain Mann wouldn’t admit it. The man usually returned to the shop like a homing pigeon, but today, perhaps the excitement outside had distracted him.

Before David could turn around and head out the front door, Captain Mann’s raised voice came from the back room. “I will not—”

David paused, his hand pressed to the closed door. He barely made out the rumble of a second voice.

“You city boys are all the same,” Captain Mann said, launching into his typical tirade about the wealthy businessmen who sought to regulate the fishing waters and those who wished to claim the same waters for sport. The Great Lakes fish population seemed to be declining, and no one could agree on fixing the problem. Something would need to give soon, whether his boss liked it or not.

Ever since the financial crash, bitterness crept into his boss’s voice more often than not. His mentor’s succumbing to the growing divide among the fisherman weighed on David. Buck Wilson’s conglomerate was supposed to bring the small businesses of Crow’s Nest together, give them a voice in the national and international—Canada bordered the Great Lakes, too—fishing conversation. It did the opposite.

“I’d take my business elsewhere, but yours is the boat I need.” A man in a dark suit and red tie emerged from the back room ahead of Captain Mann, who wore his usual overalls. “Though this place is as old and dusty as I expected.”

David bristled. He swept the wooden floor every night before he closed up and dusted the shelves whenever he restocked the various goods they kept on hand for fishermen to purchase.

“I assure you …” Mann stopped beside the counter, not making eye contact with David and cracking his knuckles. “Our boats are kept to the highest standards.”

“Humph. I need the boat every afternoon next week.”

How were they supposed to fish if this man commandeered their boat?

“Put it under Joe Spelding.“ He pulled out more money than David had seen in the past six months combined. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Make it happen, Martins.” Mann gave a definitive nod.

David reluctantly slipped behind the counter. Mr. Spelding glanced over at a red-faced Mann with an air of derision. Or was it conquest? David swallowed down his protest. He loved the lake, loved fishing, loved being a first mate, and hated the injustice of pretentious snobs thinking their money made them better than everyone else. Even if money was getting hard to come by these days.

Adaleigh and her detective companion stayed silent as they approached The Wharfside Café, an old weather-beaten building with seven outdoor tables. It made Adaleigh think Ishmael could have eaten here before sailing off on the Pequod, like in Mr. Melville’s tale. A large mastiff got to its feet, its hind quarters wagging in an undignified fashion.

“Have you been a good boy?” The detective rubbed the dog’s massive head and untied the leash, which was wrapped around one of the fence posts that sectioned off the outdoor tables, with ropes slung between them and the public area.

The dog barked—a sound that shook the beams of the boardwalk—and pressed close against the detective’s legs.

“Easy. I’ll get something for you.”

The dog whined but plopped down under the table they neared. The detective suggested she use the water closet inside to change out of her wet clothing. For a moment, she considered slipping out the back. But she was chilled and had nowhere warm to go. When she returned outside, the detective held out a chair on the far side for her to sit in. He took the one next to the dog.

Adaleigh leaned against the chair back, the warmth of its wooden surface seeping into her skin, then slipped off her shoes, letting the wood beams of the boardwalk heat her stockinged feet. As her shivering stopped, Adaleigh’s hypervigilance began to relax, and curiosity popped out its head. Why had this detective invited her for coffee?

Before she could ask, a young waitress with a catching smile appeared, carrying a notepad. “Coffee, Mr. O’Connor?”

“Please, Mindy.” The detective’s voice was deep and calm, like a tidal pool.

“The usual?” Mindy asked. “And water for Samson?”

“It’s my day off, so let’s shake it up.” Dozens of tiny lines broke out over Detective O’Connor’s face.

Mindy smiled. “We have all but the cranberry muffins left. How about a cinnamon roll?”

“That’ll do. Warmed up, too, if you would.”

“And for you, miss?” the waitress asked. Adaleigh guessed her to be about her same age, early twenties. It appeared Mindy lacked the ostentatiousness of most of the girls Adaleigh knew; perhaps they’d even be friends in another life.

“The same for my guest.” The detective tossed his hat on the chair between them.

Adaleigh rubbed her bare arms. “A muffin please, any flavor.” While she occasionally enjoyed a gentleman ordering for her, she couldn’t let the detective get the upper hand. Who was she kidding? One of the highlights of growing up as she did was being treated like a lady, and the detective had just won major brownie points.

Before Adaleigh could launch into a full internal debate on the subject of male chivalry, out of the building next to the café, the one with the hanging sign that read Captain Mann’s Fishing Shanty, stepped a man dressed too well for the setting.

Of medium height, with an impeccably tailored suit, he had jet-black hair, a closely trimmed beard, and sculpted facial features. He reminded Adaleigh so much of her next-door neighbor that she not-so-surreptitiously watched him round the old fence to enter the café seating.

He took a table two over from where they sat, unbuttoning his suit and letting the red tie swing loose.

A throat clearing brought Adaleigh back to her own table. “Sorry.” She rested folded hands in her lap and zeroed her attention on the man across from her.

Detective O’Connor’s blue eyes felt like light beams, reading every message she intentionally, or unintentionally, sent him. His gray hair was matted, and he wore a blue-and-gray-plaid dress shirt under a navy vest—a conventional appearance, neither striking nor haphazard.

“Your name?”

Adaleigh blinked. “Pardon?”

“We have not had the pleasure of exchanging names.” He smirked.

Adaleigh straightened her shoulders. She couldn’t tell him, so how could she redirect?

The muscle below his left eye twitched.

“Here is your coffee.” Mindy set a cup of the steaming liquid on the table in front of each of them. Then she placed a bowl on the ground for Samson. He lapped at it lazily, spreading more slobber than water.

Mindy moved to the table where the smartly dressed gentleman sat.

“Got a little sugar for my coffee?” The man’s sultry baritone drifted over. He intrigued Adaleigh more than she cared to admit. Could her sister have sent him?

“I’m working, Joe.” Mindy swatted his hand away, but he slapped her backside. Not everything is about you, Adaleigh. Those two had history. Not the good kind.

“Your turn.” Detective O’Connor’s voice pulled her back.

Goodness gracious. Adaleigh had never been this distracted by a good-looking man before. But she’d been off ever since—

“You have not told me your name.” Detective O’Connor looked at her from under those bushy eyebrows, making her squirm.

“It’s Leigh,” she lied. Well, partially.

That muscle under his eye twitched again.

Regret stung. She loved her name, her full name. Adaleigh Grace Sirland. With her two newly minted college degrees in psychology and rhetoric from the University of Illinois.

Adaleigh switched gears. “You’re with the police here?”

“Special investigations.”

“Special?” Mercy. Once he returned to his station, he would no doubt track down her whole history. Family drama, educational independence, general philosophical leanings, and spiritual practices. So much for the anonymity she craved.

A smile lurked under the detective’s mustache.

“Mr. O’Connor.” Mindy appeared, placed the pastries on the table. “Anything else?”

“Thank you, Mindy.” Detective O’Connor smiled at her, bringing out all his wrinkles again. “A little trouble with the customers today?”

Adaleigh used her fork to break up the blueberry muffin, letting the air cool it.

Mindy fumbled for her notepad. “It’s nothing.”

Detective O’Connor touched her arm and gave her a look of fatherly concern. She gave a faltering smile and turned away. Emotion clutched Adaleigh’s throat. Why in all creation did she have to lose everyone who cared for her like that? She was on her own. But she was a fighter, a survivor, and she believed in God, even if He seemed rather silent when she needed Him most.

“Okay, time to tell me everything,” Detective O’Connor said before tossing Samson a bite of cinnamon roll. “I’ve seen people like you before. You didn’t give me your real name because you don’t want anyone to know you’re here. Beau trouble?”

“No.”

“Family trouble.” It wasn’t a question.

Adaleigh folded her arms. “What do you want from me?”

He laughed. A jolly, good-natured, crazy uncle laugh. The kind that clears a person’s head and makes them feel good inside. “I want you to finish eating.”

Adaleigh stared at her plate. Her recent lack of sleep left her helpless to sort out the concoction of emotions bubbling in her stomach.

“You can be safe with me.” He reached a weathered hand across the table. “It’s not about how far away you go, it’s how little a trail you leave behind.”