When the trawler White Gull was lost in a storm off the coast of Lobster Cove, Lisbeth O'Shea's husband, Declan, was lost along with it. At least that’s what Lisbeth believes until, a year later, she hears Declan’s voice in the night and sees him haunting the shore near their tiny cottage. Then she wonders… Has grief affected her mind? Or is someone playing a cruel trick?
Town blacksmith Rab Sinclair has loved Lisbeth ever since he arrived in Lobster Cove. Lisbeth has never had eyes for anyone other than the charming, feckless Declan O’Shea, but Rab knows Declan was not faithful to Lisbeth. How can he convince the grieving widow she’s pinned her heart on the wrong man? And when dangerous secrets come to light, how can Rab protect the woman who means more to him than his own life?
Lightning flashed once more, flooding her eyes with brightness. In the doorway of the bedroom stood a figure wearing dripping oilskins, only the matching sou’wester missing from his bare head.
In the sudden darkness that followed the lightning, she moaned his name and then shouted it.
“Declan? Declan, Declan!”
She heard movement, the scrape of a boot on the floorboards, the flap of his coat as he turned and left the doorway.
With a sob, she followed. Hands stretched before her like a blind woman, she felt for him, stubbed her bare toe on the leg of the bedstead, and faltered. She blundered from the room in his wake.
The cottage boasted but three rooms: this bedroom they had shared, another smaller bedroom she’d dreamed of someday using as a nursery for her children, and the main room which combined parlor and kitchen. The darkness of the main room enfolded Lisbeth like black velvet. She had but a glimpse of paler darkness as the front door opened and closed again.
She followed after him, her heart torn between gladness and pain. He was here! But if he truly were here, returned by some miracle from the same sea that had stolen him, why would he go from her?
She reached the door, tore it open, and stared out into the storm. Waves and salt spray poured over the stones in front of the cottage. Static filled the air, and lightning arced overhead, the thunder competing for dominance with the crash of the rain.
Wearing only her nightgown, Lisbeth was immediately soaked to the skin. The wind tore at her hair, and she strained to catch sight of the figure she had glimpsed in the doorway.
From the cottage, as well she knew, a path led either north to a narrow strip of shingle or south toward Lobster Cove. Which way might he have gone? She could see nothing but storm, the raging elements that matched the furor now in her heart. Would he head down to the sea? Most of this coast consisted of sheer rock, but the O’Sheas possessed that stony beach where they had hauled up their boats and readied their lobster traps.
The boats were all gone; the White Gull lay in pieces. Why would Declan go there? Having come home to her, why would he leave at all?