part-time crew.
Oystering on the Bay wasn't what it had been, not since parasites had
killed off so many. That made the winters hard. A few good crabbing
seasons were what he needed to dump the lion's share of the profits into
the new business--and to help pay the lawyer's fee. His mouth tightened
at that thought as he rode out the swells toward home.
They shouldn't need a damn lawyer. They shouldn't have to pay some
slick-suited talker to clear their father's good name. It wouldn't stop
the whispers around town anyway. Those would only stop when people found
something juicier to chew on than Ray Quinn's life and death.
And the boy, Ethan mused, staring out over the water that trembled under
the steady pelting of rain. There were some who liked to whisper about
the boy who looked back at them with Ray Quinn's dark-blue eyes.
He didn't mind for himself. As far as Ethan was concerned people could
wag their tongues about him until they fell out of their flapping
mouths. But he minded, deeply, that anyone would speak a dark word about
the man he'd loved with every beat of his heart.
So he would work his fingers numb to pay the lawyer. And he would do
whatever it took to guard the child.
Thunder shook the sky, booming off the water like cannon fire. The light
went dim as dusk, and those dark clouds burst wide to pour out solid
sheets of rain. Still he didn't hurry as he docked at his home pier. A
little more wet, to his mind, wouldn't kill him.
As if in agreement with the sentiment, Simon leaped out to swim to shore
while Ethan secured the lines. He gathered up his lunch pail, and with
his waterman's boots thwacking wetly against the dock, headed for home.
He removed the boots on the back porch. His mother had scalded his skin
often enough in his youth about tracking mud for the habit to stick to
the man. Still, he didn't think anything of letting the wet dog nose in
the door ahead of him.
Until he saw the gleaming floor and counters.
Shit, was all he could think as he studied the pawprints and heard
Simon's happy bark of greeting. There was a squeal, more barking, then
laughter.
"You're soaking wet!" The female voice was low and smooth and amused. It
was also very firm and made Ethan wince with guilt. "Out, Simon! Out you
go. You just dry off on the front porch."
There was another squeal, baby giggles, and the accompanying laughter of
a young boy. The gang's all here, Ethan thought, rubbing rain from his
hair. The minute he heard footsteps heading in his direction, he made a
beeline for the broom closet and a mop.
He didn't often move fast, but he could when he had to.
"Oh, Ethan." Grace Monroe stood with her hands on her narrow hips,
looking from him to the pawprints on her just-waxed floor.
"I'll get it. Sorry." He could see that the mop was still damp and
decided it was best not to look at her directly. "Wasn't thinking," he
muttered, filling a bucket at the sink. "Didn't know you were coming by
today."
"Oh, so you let wet dogs run through the house and dirty up the floors
when I'm not coming by?"