The Echo of Your Heart (Welcome to Redemption, Alaska #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Tate McGuire lived to keep people safe.

Some might call him hypervigilant. But what was so wrong with being aware of his surroundings?

He relished peering around corners and developing backup contingency plans.

Besides, today had reconfirmed what he’d always believed—if everyone followed the rules and obeyed regulations, fewer people got hurt.

Too bad not every captain embraced his perspective.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and climbed down the fiberglass-and-rope ladder draped over the side of the cruise ship.

Rain sprayed his face and wind buffeted his back, flipping the hood on his GORE-TEX jacket up around his ears.

He gripped the bright-orange ladder rails, gritting his teeth as it swayed from side to side.

One step at a time.

Had the ship sped up? He’d instructed the captain and the officer on duty to hold at twelve knots until he’d fully disembarked.

But given the attitude he’d encountered on the bridge from the older captain with the thin smile and territorial approach, it wouldn’t surprise him if they’d ignored his guidance.

He descended the last few rungs, then hopped onto the wet deck of the Silver Bullet, the water taxi that ferried maritime pilots to and from the vessels they guided in and out of Prince William Sound.

If they remained on call, they went back to their home base—a houseboat anchored in Shelter Cove.

But when their shift ended, they caught a ride back to Redemption.

“Hey, thanks for the lift.” Tate greeted Anthony, a lifelong Redemption resident and today’s driver on the Silver Bullet.

“Not a problem.” Anthony shook Tate’s outstretched hand. “It’s gnarly out here today.”

“Sure is.” Tate double-checked the buckles on his life jacket, then followed Anthony toward the cabin’s door on the starboard side. The boat dipped and swayed on the waves as it rode its own wake alongside the massive cruise ship.

“There’s hot coffee in the thermos.” Anthony pointed to the moss-green canister on the ledge under the window. “We’ll be back in Redemption ASAP. I’ve got to pick up the new pilot.”

“Looking forward to meeting him.” Tate tugged the cabin door shut. “We could certainly use the extra help.”

Anthony raked a hand through his tousled silver hair, then resumed control of the vessel. Faint lines pleated from the corners of his blue eyes as he looked at Tate. “You’re going to be a busy guy if you decide to fill that empty seat on the town council.”

Steam curled from the thermos as Tate poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup. “I suppose so.”

He hadn’t definitively accepted the nomination yet. Word must’ve spread anyway.

Anthony pushed the throttle forward and then peeled away from the Norwegian cruise ship. Picking up speed, they cut across the choppy blue-gray water of Prince William Sound, leaving the departing ship behind. Wispy fingers of fog hugged the dense green hillsides along the bay.

Anthony adjusted the volume on his Bluetooth speaker, and the guitar solo from “Free Bird” filtered into the cabin. Tate settled into the bench seat on the port side and tried not to spill his coffee on his gray cargo pants.

“Nothing against politicians, but are you sure that’s the role for you?”

“Not exactly.” Tate stared through the rain-speckled windshield. “But now that Jason Walters moved away and Sarah Goldsmith declined the nomination, someone needs to step up. We need stronger safety protocols. Better emergency planning. Redemption could be a lot…safer.”

“Protecting people and looking out for your community are excellent reasons to serve.” Anthony paused, letting the boat ride over a swell. “Keep in mind it’s not always your responsibility to worry about safety.”

Tate’s fingers tightened around the cup.

But if he didn’t, who would? Because he’d lost way too much sleep over the years, slogging through his guilt from his own missteps.

His failure had nearly cost his father everything.

Tate had had one job—to change the batteries in the smoke detector—and he hadn’t done it. Now Dad paid the price.

“Tate?” Anthony’s voice tugged him back before he relived the gut-wrenching panic of that horrible night. Again.

Tate swiveled in the chair and met Anthony’s steady gaze. “I heard what you said and I appreciate your advice. But I can’t sit back and let this town coast without trustworthy leadership.”

“That’s fair.” Anthony nodded. “Especially after what happened with the reality TV folks.”

“Oh no, what happened?”

“A guy broke his femur. Had to call on your brothers to help get him out.”

Tate shook his head. “That’s why those people shouldn’t be here.”

“What people?”

“The Hollywood crowd. It’s time to stop giving those folks opportunities to film here.”

“It’s income. Maybe even some tax revenue?

Perhaps our town council could look into that.

Or you could campaign on that very issue.

Make it part of your platform—no more TV shows and movies made near Redemption.

” Anthony grinned. “You know I’m just messing with you.

We’ve been friends a long time. Happy to hear your opinions. ”

“Glad somebody is,” Tate said. “Will the guy with the broken leg be okay?”

“Hope so. I heard he was transferred out of state though. Wanted to be closer to family.”

“Makes sense.”

Twenty minutes later, Tate spotted the pastel clapboard houses built on the hilly streets of Redemption, his hometown.

He’d grown up fishing, hunting, living here, and only left for a few short years to attend the Merchant Marine Academy.

And now, every time he went to work, he vowed he’d do his job to the best of his ability.

He’d made it his mission to protect the water, the people, and the livelihoods of the men and women who were counting on him to escort ships safely in and out of Redemption.

Anthony slowed down when he hit the no-wake zone at the harbor’s entrance.

Tate grabbed his backpack, drained the rest of his coffee, and tossed the cup in the trash.

He stepped outside. As the bow of the boat glided up along the dock, Tate hopped off and tied the lines to the cleat.

There was no one else around, and a steady drizzle fell from the thick white clouds draped low.

“I don’t see anybody here. I’m a little early though,” Anthony said. “Pilot’s not due for another hour.”

“Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

“Nope.” Anthony smiled, a dimple forming in his ruddy cheek. “I’m good. Gonna gas this baby up, then kick back and relax for a bit.”

“All right. Thanks again for the ride.”

“You bet. See you next time.”

Tate fished his keys from the pocket of his backpack and headed for the ramp. It was steep due to low tide, and his shoes squeaked on the metal grates. The briny scent of the water lapping against the wood pilings under his feet brought him comfort. Smelled like home.

The truck sat where he’d left it across the street from Dockside Pizza Company.

A low rumble in his stomach reminded him that breakfast had been a banana, an energy bar, and scrambled eggs several hours ago.

The aroma of yeasty dough baking tempted him to pop in and order a pizza, but Gary Sheridan came first. Tate wanted to stop by his place and check on him.

Make sure he had his meds and his oxygen.

Lainey wouldn’t appreciate him feeding Gary junk, anyway.

And he had promised her that he’d look after her stepfather while she was out of town for a couple of days.

The rain pattered against his windshield as he drove through the main intersection, his wipers thump-thumping the moisture away.

An RV cruised down Main Street, slower than molasses, so he cut through on a side street in front of the café, then drove one block over and parked in front of Redemption Outfitters.

He waited for two kids on scooters to ride past, then he jogged across the street to the Copper Kettle.

The place hummed with activity and conversation.

Shiny green plants drooped from macramé hangers, their trailing vines curling along the shiplap walls.

An older couple had claimed the deep upholstered armchairs in the far corner.

A family he recognized from church had crowded around the big table in the center, the kids’ mouths ringed with chocolate as they hoovered down their donuts.

A long line snaked back from the counter and bakery case.

He breathed in the buttery sweetness of pastries mixed with the sharper edge of fresh-ground espresso.

The grinder rattled like stones in a metal pail, followed by the hiss of steaming milk.

Tate shifted forward. Two chairs scraped on the laminate floor, and conversation from a table near the window filtered toward him. He cut a quick glance at the two men hunched over steaming mugs, their camo ball caps pulled low.

“You see those TV people setting up again?” one asked, his voice gravelly.

The other snorted and shook his head. “If their cameras get in the way this weekend, they’ll be fish bait. Pinks are running, and I’m not missing out because somebody wants to stage a fake TV show.”

“And they better not mess with deer season either,” the other guy grumbled. “Some things are off-limits.”

Tate looked away, pretending to study the menu. But the complaints lodged in his head, underscoring what he already feared. Not everybody in Redemption was thrilled about Ultimate Alaskan filming here.

His sister Megan had taken the day off, and he didn’t recognize the barista filling in for her. He got himself and Gary two green smoothies, yogurt with granola and fresh fruit, and a chocolate chip scone. Maybe Gary needed at least one treat.

A few minutes later, he parked in front of the Sheridans’ house, a gorgeous mint-green Craftsman-style home on a coveted plateau carved out of the hillside overlooking Redemption.