Chapter 4
Four
To me, the sea is a continual miracle; the fishes that swim, the rocks, the motion of the waves, the ships with men in them. What stranger miracles are there?
—Walt Whitman, poet
Scout strode purposefully toward the dock, her ranger hat angled just right to keep the bright morning sun out of her eyes, her mind already running through her Baker Island script.
Even though she had it thoroughly memorized, it didn’t hurt to run through it each morning on the way to Bar Harbor Town Pier to meet the tour boat.
Frankie trailed behind her, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else—eyes half closed, stifling a yawn after her barrage of early morning texts that had finally dragged him out of bed.
“You really think I need seven text messages to get out of bed on time, Scout?” he said in a mumble, barely keeping up.
“I do,” she said, not breaking her stride. “Less doesn’t cut it, I’ve learned.”
“I’m not really a crack-of-dawn person. More like . . . a crack-of-noon.”
“I need you sharp and alert. Your job is to make sure no one goes overboard.” She lifted a finger in the air. “And to not leave anyone behind on the island. Especially me.”
“You should thank me for that. We’re going to be rich and famous because I had the good sense to forget you on the island.”
“Not rich. Not famous. That gold, if there is any, belongs to the NPS.”
Frankie let out a big yawn. “And if it’s NPS property, that means it belongs to the American people. And I’m one of them.”
Before she could correct his flawed thinking, her steps faltered, then stopped. Standing right by the gangplank that led to the tourist boat was Wabanaki Dana.
Naki.
Scout momentarily lost her bearings. Why was he here? He wasn’t supposed to be at the park until they returned. Yet there he was, staring out over the harbor.
“Whoa,” Frankie whispered, snapping out of his usual half-asleep haze. “That’s . . . that’s him.”
“That’s him.” Scout’s heart was pounding a bit too fast. She felt a blush creep up her neck as she adjusted her hat.
“Aww, man!” Frankie’s starstruck awe was far less subtle. “He’s so dope.”
Too loud.
Naki must have heard him, because he swung around. His gaze swept from Frankie to Scout, his dark eyes so focused and piercing she could’ve sworn he could read her mind. If so, it would’ve been blank as a new canvas. All words had left her brain.
Scout cleared her throat, desperately trying to regain her composure. “Good morning, sir. Um, Mr., uh, Mr. Dana—”
“Call me Naki.”
“Right. Yes, of course.” Scout felt completely off-kilter. Tighten up, girl! “Sir, I’m sorry if there’s a little confusion. The boy and I—”
“Excuuuuse me.” Frankie scoffed. “I’m hardly a boy.”
Scout cut him a look. “We’re heading out now to Baker Island. We won’t be back for four or five hours.”
“No confusion,” Naki said. “I’m coming too.”
What? He’d be with them all day? He’d be listening to her ranger talk?
The one she had memorized backward and forward and upside down but right now she couldn’t recall a single sentence of it?
She stared at him dumbly. His fierce, angled face, sharp like granite, made her think of a warrior carved from the cliffs themselves.
Lord help me, this man’s got me spun sideways.
“Should we go?” he said.
Scout blinked. “Right! Yes, sir. Absolutely.” She went up the gangplank, giving herself a talking-to. Come on, girl!
As the tourists came up on the boat, she and Frankie took turns greeting them, chatting a bit about where they’d come from.
The Graysons from nearby Three Sisters Island owned Camp Kicking Moose and were taking a day with visiting friends—a family that had an ice cream shop on Cape Cod.
Scout loved this part of her work. So many interesting people!
As long as she didn’t look into Naki’s eyes, she found she could think and act like a normal human being again. She could be Scout Johnson, interpretive ranger.
Do not look at him. Do not look at him.
It was working. Her heart was settling. Words started floating back into place.
As soon as the skipper got them out of the harbor, she started her spiel.
As the boat’s speed increased, Scout clutched her mental script like a lifeline.
She knew every fact, every detail about life on Baker Island and the large and extended Gilley family, who lived there the longest. Yet knowing that Naki was listening made her hyperaware of every line she recited about the island’s history. Hyperaware of him.
Then came a pause, as the boat was out of the harbor and into the open sea, and the engine was too loud to talk over.
So far, so good. Scout hadn’t messed up her spiel.
Avoiding eye contact with Naki was a brilliant strategy.
Ignoring him, that’s what she needed to do.
She made her way around the boat with a live lobster, its claws bound with a rubber band—courtesy of the tourist boat operator—and answered questions from the tourists.
Soon, she felt herself slip fully into her ranger groove, naming the different islands as they passed them.
Bear Island and Sutton Island were neighbors, both part of the Cranberry Isles, separated by the waters of Frenchman Bay.
Baker Island was located at the southwestern entrance to the bay, one of the outermost of the Cranberry Isles.
By the time the boat was passing Sutton Island, she was in full ranger mode, especially so as she pointed out the one-hundred-year-old osprey nest.
Seriously, how awesome was that?
At this point, she was hardly aware of Naki, had almost forgotten this intriguing, unsettling man was on the boat . . . until she felt a hand on her elbow that gave her a little shock of electricity. Instinctively, she knew it belonged to him.
“Come to the port side.” He spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper, that made her want to swoon. She didn’t, of course, but she wanted to. She followed him to where he leaned slightly over the side of the boat, his intense gaze scanning the water. “Here.”
“Here? Baker Island Ledge?” The ledge was just off Baker Island’s shoreline and within clear view of the lighthouse itself.
She peered over the edge of the boat into the dark sea.
She knew that this was an area riddled with unseen hazards—submerged ledges and rocky shoals and shallow water—the very reason that John Quincy Adams ordered the Baker Island Lighthouse to be built in 1828.
Shipping traffic had increased around the coast of Maine, and this area around the island was particularly treacherous, especially during storms, dense fog, or at night.
Without that lighthouse, navigation would have been extremely dangerous. “So what about it?”
His eyes were fixed on the surface of the water. “This is where the USS North Atlantic lies.”
What? “How in the world do you know that?”
He shrugged. “Researched the coordinates.”
Scout’s breath caught as she looked down into the deep, murky water below.
All those times she’d sailed over this very spot, right over the wreckage, talking about history as if it were something neat and contained, without truly feeling the weight of what lay beneath.
Now, she felt it. She swallowed hard. An eeriness crept over her, settling like a mist around her shoulders.
She blew out a puff of air. Shake it off, girl. Get back to ranger mode.
It was time to get the tourists organized in groups for the skiff trip over to Baker Island. Still reeling, she turned around—only to collide with a man who was standing right behind her.
“Sorry!” she said, then froze. “Chase? I didn’t even realize you were on the tour.” Seriously? How did she miss Chase Fletcher? The tour was full capacity today, but still, it wasn’t that big of a boat.
“I stayed off your radar. I know you’re working.” He smiled at her, that same sweet, charming smile she’d noticed on that first Sunday she’d spent in Acadia. The one that swayed her to accept his invitation to have coffee after church.
Great, just great. As if she needed one more distraction on this tour.
As soon as Chase Fletcher saw that Wabanaki Dana was also on the tour boat, he did his best to remain unnoticed on the ride to Baker Island.
Scout was fully absorbed with managing the tourists, answering their questions, showing off a live lobster to the children .
. . and he just kept moving through the group to stay on the other side of the boat from her.
Watching her, watching Wabanaki Dana, watching Frankie.
Gathering insights about them as he watched from a distance.
Chase liked to think he’d inherited a reporter’s knack for reading people from his dad, who’d inherited it from his dad, and so on and so on.
He tried to set aside any bias he had about Scout and pretend he was meeting her for the first time.
Here’s what he noticed about her on this boat ride: Scout’s park uniform conveyed authority, but he sensed she was hardly that.
More of a pleaser. Super crazy about her work.
Super sweet.
Super cute.
Adorable. No other word for it. Big blue eyes that sparkled when she answered questions about the park.
Incredibly patient with Frankie’s nonstop interruptions.
Every time the kid tried to finish her sentences or insert himself into her explanations, she handled it with a mix of humor and grace that was downright impressive.
Then there was Wabanaki Dana. Chase wouldn’t want to play poker with that guy.
He had that kind of face that gave nothing away—calm, controlled, like he was always two steps ahead.
But one thing did catch Chase’s attention: Wabanaki watched Scout.
A lot. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that said he was . . . what? Protective? Suspicious?
Or could he be interested in her? Chase made a mental note to keep an eye on that.