Chapter Twenty-Four

The two body guards maneuvered Hare’s pushchair onto the wharf before they turned back for the packet boat. They would return to Bar Harbor when the boat did, and thence to Boston, which now seemed so very far away.

Dorothea looked at her father approaching along the wharf, hitched up her skirts, and ran. Laughing and crying, she threw herself into his arms.

“Pa! Oh, Pa.”

“Dora, wee angel.” Scotland still rode her father’s voice in a deep burr even after so many years in Maine. Dora wouldn’t have it any other way. She loved his rumble and the scent of him, like singed metal, leather, and home. The whole wharf smelled like home, as a matter of fact—salt fish and seaweed mingled with wood smoke.

And her father’s arms, wrapped around her, felt like heaven. She had to force herself to pull away far enough to look into his eyes.

“I’ve brought someone.”

He searched her face, his deep blue gaze questioning and concerned. “So your message said. I don’t doubt there’s a story in it.”

She laughed unsteadily. “With me, there always is. Jo!” She turned from her father to embrace her friend, who clutched her so tight it hurt wonderfully.

“How I’ve missed you.” Jo, too, wept happy tears, her beautiful, dark eyes awash and brilliant. “What you been up to? Making waves in Boston?”

“You have no idea. Douglas!” She embraced Jo’s husband in turn before waving wildly at the pushchair and the man covered to his chin. “I’m so glad you’re here. If you and Pa could just help me get my friend, Hare, out to the house—we’ve had ever so terrible a time.”

“’Course I will,” Douglas answered with one of his rare smiles. “We came prepared, even brought a wagon.”

“Then let me introduce you.” She seized her father’s hand and drew him to the pushchair. “Not that he’ll be able to acknowledge you. He was severely beaten, as you can see, and hasn’t spoken or even reacted to much. But I know he hears what you say. Why, only moments ago he squeezed my hand…”

“Breathe, Dora,” Jo urged. “It will be all right, lamb.”

“I know. I know it will.”

Or perhaps not. For upon catching sight of Hare O’Hare on the wharf, her father froze like a man hit between the eyes by a hammer, staring.

“Sweet heaven!” he exclaimed. “What did you say his name is?”

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“His name, lass.”

“Hare O’Hare. Only that’s not his real name. Pa?” For her father had gone white and looked more upset than she’d ever seen him, even that time Archie broke his leg so badly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“That’s because I have. Holy Jesus.” Her father turned to Douglas. “Here, lad—do you know who that is?”

Douglas narrowed his dark eyes and shook his head. Then he shot Pa a close look and drew a breath. “You don’t mean—? It can’t be…”

“What?” Dorothea nearly jumped up and down with frustration.

“Aye. I know his name,” Pa said. “That’s Timothy O’Shea. He was born here in Lobster Cove.”

****

From that moment, when Dorothea’s father spoke the words “Timothy O’Shea,” her life became all madness and argument. And to think she’d spent days longing to return to the bosom of her family, hoping she might find a measure of peace.

None here, it seemed. They began arguing there on the wharf and didn’t quit.

“Not Timothy O’Shea.” Douglas took it on, he who so rarely disagreed with Pa. “If he’s who I think you mean, it was never ‘O’Shea.’ That’s Timothy Grier.”

Grier? But that was Douglas’s last name.

Dorothea’s eyes narrowed. She knew the name O’Shea, of course, though tied with the appellation “Declan.” People in Lobster Cove still talked about Declan O’Shea—a now-deceased sailor and lobster fisherman far too charming for his or anyone else’s good. Declan O’Shea had been her mother’s first husband, back before she’d ever imagined marrying Pa, and there’d been some terrible scandal. But how could Hare—her Hare—be part of all that?

“Listen to me.” She waved her arms wildly. “We can’t let him sit here on the dock. Pa, what makes you think he’s…”

Her father’s eyes rolled like those of a spooked horse. “I’ve only to look at him. Even with all the bruises he’s—he’s the spit.”

“But—”

“Lass, how can I take him home to your mother? The very sight of him will shatter her.”

“His name’s not O’Shea, though.” Douglas stepped forward and peered at Hare. “His name would be Grier, Timothy Grier, and he’s my half-brother.”

Jo stared at her husband. “You saying that man there’s your brother? The one you told me about?”

“Half-brother,” Douglas repeated carefully. He glanced at his own children, who stared. “We had different fathers.”

“This the one you told me your ma took away with her when he was little? Well, then.” Jo’s eyes widened. “If he’s your brother, I reckon he’s coming home with us.”

“Oh, Jo.” Dorothea felt limp with relief. “Thank you.”

“Never mind, honey. You just bring him along, understand?”

Jo went ahead with the children, and Douglas brought the cart around. While he maneuvered it, Dorothea said to her father, “I can’t believe this is true. But even if it is, I can’t imagine Ma would shut her door to him. She’s the kindest, most generous woman I know.”

“Better he goes to Dougie’s,” was all her father replied.

“What happened to him?” Douglas asked, once he and Dorothea’s father had Hare loaded in the cart.

“There was an assassination attempt—he was beaten senseless because he stood up for his rights and those of others. He’s a hero in much of Boston.”

“You don’t say.”

“I appreciate you opening your door to us, but this doesn’t really help the situation much,” Dorothea told Douglas on the ride to his place. “Not if Ma means to avoid him.” The house Douglas had built for his family lay less than a half mile up the coast road from the Sinclair family home. It lay, in fact, part way to the old O’Shea cottage, now long abandoned. “And I don’t understand my father reacting this way.”

“Don’t you?” Douglas returned.

“No.”

“Dora, sometimes when things come out of the past, they look even bigger and more awful than they really are. You know how it was for Josie when her past caught up with her.”

“That was different.”

“Was it? I’m not so sure. Some terrible things happened back before your parents got married. I don’t know all of it, except that Declan O’Shea was involved.”

At the Griers’ house, Douglas and his son Daniel—the Griers’ oldest child—helped Dorothea get Hare inside, while Josie changed the sheets in Daniel’s room, which she said the boy would not mind vacating.

“He’ll enjoy camping out,” Jo assured Dorothea when she protested. “That boy will use any excuse to sleep outside. Sometimes I swear he’s all Penobscot.”

She took a good look at Dorothea, set down the sheet, and held out her arms. “Come here, girl.”

“Oh, Jo!” Dorothea wept. “All the way here I could only think about how I much wanted to be home and how desperately we need a safe place for Hare to heal. He has to get stronger, to come back to himself. Otherwise I don’t think I’ll be able to go on.”

Josie mopped Dorothea’s cheeks with the hem of her apron. “You love him?”

“You can’t imagine how much. But everything’s such a muddle. If Ma…”

“You listen to me. You love him, and your ma will just have to come round. Because you, I, and she all know very well—there’s just nothing more powerful than love.”