Half Moon Harbor (35 page)

Read on for a peek at Delia's story, coming this September.

 

I
f you ever truly cared about her, you need to do something.

Ford Maddox stared at the message that had popped up on his laptop screen and scowled. When, exactly, had he lost command of his oh-so-carefully controlled world?

He looked away from the screen, but it wasn't so easy to look away from the request, which only served to deepen his scowl. There was no question whom the note referred to. Not because he was aware that Delia was in need of something, particularly something he might be able to provide, but because, with the lone exception of the person who'd sent the message, there simply wasn't anyone else it could be about.

He'd come to Maine to get a grip on his life and on himself. At the time, those two things had been synonymous. He'd arrived in Blueberry Cove having narrowed his life down to one person who required his care, one person whose well-being he was responsible for—himself. At the time, he hadn't been at all certain he could even pull that off.

That had been thirteen years ago.

In the intervening years, he'd done everything in his power to keep that list from growing. He'd been marginally successful where his work was concerned, given the number of flippered or feathered endangered sea creatures that relied on him for their continued existence. But where people were concerned . . . that population he'd maintained strict control over. No one got close, no one got hurt. Or dead. Simple math for the not so simple life he'd lived.

Granted, the only thing bombing him these days were bird droppings, but it had been the real deal for enough years that he could no longer be the go-to guy when things got rough. Not personal things, anyway. He had no problem being the guy in charge on Sandpiper Island. Out on his strip of rocky soil at the outer edges of Pelican Bay, the only battle he fought was the one against the relentless forces of nature.

Other than the ten weeks every summer when the annual crop of interns invaded to help with the various nesting populations, it was just him, the wind, the sea, and the tides. His troops consisted of a few thousand migratory seabirds and whatever harbor seals found their way to his rocky shores. That he could deal with. That was what he preferred to deal with. The animals he'd devoted himself to were simple creatures, relatively predictable, and, most important, minded their own business. Human animals . . . well, that was an entirely different story.

Getting involved in the personal matters of that particular breed of animal, especially in a small town like Blueberry Cove, and even more particularly in matters of any kind that involved one Delia O'Reilly? “Pass,” he muttered under his breath, steadfastly ignoring the twinge in his chest. The Cove had saved his life, no argument there, and he was giving his life back to it in the only way he knew how, the only way he could.

Of course, if he were being honest, Delia O'Reilly had played a pivotal role in his rescue. He was, to a fault, honest—most critically with himself. In this case, the truth was that he definitely wasn't the man for the job. Or any job that had Delia's name on it. He was pretty damn sure she'd be the first one to agree.

He went back to the painstaking and often frustrating task of deciphering his notes on the recently completed nesting season, reluctantly looking up again when a ping indicated another incoming message.

I've only known her a few months, Ford, but I can already state with fair certainty that she's never going to come out and ask for help. Not from me, and most definitely, not from you.

“My point exactly,” he retorted. He and Delia had a past, a distant one, some might say a complicated one. They weren't on bad terms. More like they weren't on terms of any kind. Hell, he hadn't seen or talked to her in . . . longer than he cared to figure out, much less admit. Figuring it out would mean admitting he'd been intentionally avoiding her—which meant there was something between them that needed avoiding. Except there was nothing between them. Good, bad, or otherwise. Nothing except for her brother, and Tommy had been gone a very, very long time.

That didn't stop a mental scrapbook of photos from flipping through his mind's eye. Over the past several months, memories of his friend had popped up on more than one occasion. Tommy on his first day out of boot camp being assigned to Ford's small platoon, and to Ford personally as his battle buddy. Tommy had been a few years older, but in all other ways, Ford was the mature one, the one with more experience. In battle and in life.

Despite coming from a small town in the northern coastal reaches of Maine, and being about the most unworldly person Ford had ever met, Private O'Reilly had been cocky around his fellow grunts. Around Ford, however, he'd been almost tongue-tied. Ford remembered how annoyed he'd been by that, especially since he'd done his damndest to be more—how had his C.O. put it?— accessible. Less threatening. Ford had had enough self-awareness even then to know he was intense, focused, motivated. It was why he'd been groomed almost from day one for the Army's special forces unit, the Rangers. But he'd never threatened anyone. Well, not anyone on his side of the trigger, anyway.

He forced his thoughts away from Tommy, away from the grinning kid who'd weaseled his way under Ford's skin, and even into his good graces. More shocking, Tommy O'Reilly had managed to do the impossible. He'd found a way to be a friend. Ford hadn't had many of them—a choice he'd made very early in life. Life was simpler when you didn't need people . . . or even like them all that much. Especially in his line of work. Didn't mean he wouldn't have risked his life for O'Reilly. He had. More than once. Tommy had saved his sorry ass, too, ultimately sacrificing his own while doing just that.

It was for all those reasons, as well as the ones that, to this day, he'd been careful not to examine too closely, that he'd accompanied Tommy's body home to Blueberry Cove, intent on making sure his family knew he'd not only died a hero, but a damn good soldier and an even better human being. Those last two things didn't always go hand in hand. Ford knew that to be true every time he'd looked in the mirror.

Ford? I know you're reading this because the little green dot is next to your name. If you don't want me messaging you, then make yourself invisible.

Ford tossed his pen on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing he could scrub away the message screen and the voice he heard behind it just as easily. He'd spent the past thirteen years being invisible, goddamn it. He wasn't used to anyone caring whether or not he was accessing the Internet, much less feeling compelled to communicate with him whenever the mood struck. The folks he communicated with as part of his work knew when information and data needed to be shared he did so via e-mail and responded in kind. Suited them, suited him, don't fix what's not broken.

Don't make me come out there.

“Dammit, Grace.” Even as he barked the words, he felt the corners of his mouth briefly twitch upward. She was impossible to ignore when she wanted something. Got right in his face until he responded, too. She was a lot like him . . . in more ways than he wanted to admit or even think about.

One thing was certain, that name flashing on the screen next to the message bubble was exactly the reason he'd lost control of his carefully contained world.

Grace Maddox. His baby sister. Not that there was anything baby about her. She might be thirteen years his junior, but she was thirty-two, had a law degree, and was the proud new owner of an eighteenth-century boathouse she was converting into an inn. In Blueberry Cove. Where she'd moved to—lock, stock, and stray dog—four months ago, specifically so she could be near her only family. Namely, him.

Grace was one of those things he'd carefully removed himself from. He'd told himself at the time he'd done it for her own good. He supposed even then it was something he half expected to come back and bite him on the ass. It was one thing to join the Army at age eighteen, certain he was doing what was right for himself and that his five-year-old only sibling would understand and even be better off without him.

It had been quite another to see just how wrong he might have been on his first return home . . . but he'd already re-upped for another four and was heading into the type of training that was best done solo, so there hadn't been a damn thing he could do to fix it. By the time he and the Army had parted ways . . . hell, he could barely fix himself. By then it had been too late for him to mount any kind of rescue. Even if he could have, she'd hardly needed it, not from the likes of him, anyway. She'd gotten herself through grade school and high school, four years of college, and on into law school. She'd made something quite good out of the crap deal life had handed her.

Staying away, letting her start her life on her terms, do things her way had been the right thing to do. He'd abandoned her, for God's sake. Why the hell would she want anything to do with him? He'd taken the only chance he'd had, gone down the only path he'd seen available to make a life for himself. She'd deserved no less than the chance to do the same. So, he'd kept track, but he'd stayed away. For her own good.

You're so full of shit, then and now.
He reached out to flip the screen off, but his hand paused mid-reach.

Both Maddox siblings had made their way in the world, chosen their own paths, but only Grace had had the balls to reach out for what she really wanted, for what really mattered—family.

He curled his fingers into his palm and let his hand drop to the top of the desk, her words still staring him in the face. What he saw wasn't the words, but her face, those eyes, that stubborn chin, the way she lifted one eyebrow as if to say
Seriously? You expect me to buy that?

Grace was his one weakness. When they were face-to-face, there was no way he could deny her anything she wanted. Even if what she wanted was to rebuild a relationship with him. But that didn't change the fact that he sucked at it, that he was supremely uncomfortable with it. Allowing even the tiniest chink in his damaged and beat-up armor to be revealed was the single most terrifying thing for him. Being vulnerable in any way, on any level, put his carefully constructed new self at risk. He'd survived more than most men could and still lay claim to their sanity, if not their soul. He wasn't sure he could survive letting her down. Again.

She'd given him no choice in the matter. She'd simply shown up, making it clear she wasn't going away . . . and then she'd wrapped her arms around him, hugged the life out of him, and told him she loved him. Loved him. After all he'd done. After all he hadn't done.

How was that possible?
He didn't even know what the hell love was anymore.

He only knew he couldn't tell her no.

Now she wanted to drag him into other people's lives. Namely Delia's.

Ford owed a debt he could never adequately repay to his one and only sibling, but he and Delia were square. He would figure out how to continue managing his world and have his sister be part of it, but he'd be damned if he'd open himself up to anything—or anyone—else. Delia knew better than anyone—
anyone
—even Grace, that was by far the best for everyone concerned.

He shoved his chair back and stood, too restless to simply sit there and let thoughts and memories dive-bomb him like he was a sitting duck. He strode across the corner of the open loft space he used as an office and climbed down the ladder to the open area below that comprised kitchen, dining, and living area. He crouched down to check the pellet stove that squatted, fat and happily chugging out heat in the center of the home he'd built himself, but it was going along just fine, which he'd known it would be since he'd just reloaded it that morning.

Swearing under his breath at his uncustomary restlessness, he straightened, then, skirting the corner area that was both kitchen and dining area, he gave the rough bark of the tree trunk that formed the far corner an absent rub with his palm before pushing open one of the triple-paned doors. He stepped out onto the side deck. The dense, coniferous tree canopy provided year-round shade as well as protection against the elements. The unseasonably brisk late August breeze blowing inland through the treetops didn't bring him the peace of mind it usually did.

When he'd been working toward his degree, he'd spent almost every minute of his spare time researching alternate living spaces. Initially, it had simply been a brain puzzle, a way to keep his thoughts occupied when he wasn't studying so they wouldn't veer into territory better left in the past. But that particular puzzle—off-grid living—hadn't been so easily discarded. In fact, it had captured his attention so completely that he'd eventually admitted it was more than a casual interest, more than momentary mental distraction.

The first time he'd laid eyes on a drawing of a sustainable, livable tree house, he'd known instantly that that was what he'd been searching for. In that moment he'd understood that in addition to studying environmental habitats of various endangered species, he'd also been studying his own environmental habitat. Being endangered himself, he'd needed to find the right home where he could, if not thrive, at least survive.

He'd already begun his work on Sandpiper as an intern to Dr. Pelletier, a man he'd greatly admired and whose wisdom and guidance he missed very much. It had been his first summer out on the island when he'd discovered the exact right spot deep in the white pine forest that filled the center of the heart-shaped surge of boulders, soil, and rock that comprised Sandpiper Island. The whole of it was like a kind of fortress, hugged almost entirely by a rocky, boulder-strewn shoreline. There in the tall, old forest heart of it, he'd found his home.