Patrick's Destiny

“It’s not going to work, you know,” Alice warned him.

“What’s not going to work?”

“I’m not going to become so overwhelmed by my hormones that I can’t concentrate on the cards,” she said, setting the soup down in front of him.

Patrick’s lips twitched slightly. “You think not?”

“I know not,” she said emphatically.

“You’re turning it into a challenge,” he warned. “Men love challenges.”

Uh-oh, she thought, recognizing the truth in that statement. Men were disgustingly predictable when it came to challenges, especially ones uttered by a woman. She tried to regroup. “It wasn’t a challenge, just a warning.”

“Nice try, but I know a challenge when I hear one.” He grinned as he cupped the back of her neck and held her mere inches away from his face. “And when I decide to take you up on it, you won’t even see it coming.”

Patrick’s Destiny

Sherryl Woods

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SHERRYL WOODS

has written more than seventy-five novels. She also operates her own bookstore, Potomac Sunrise, in Colonial Beach, Virginia. If you can’t visit Sherryl at her store, then be sure to drop her a note at P.O. Box 490326, Key Biscayne, FL 33149 or check out her Web site at www.sherrylwoods.com.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Spring came late to Widow’s Cove, Maine, which suited Alice Newberry just fine. Winter, with its dormant plants, icy winds off the Atlantic and stark, frozen landscape, had been more appropriate for her brooding sense of guilt. The setting had been just as cold and unforgiving as her heart.

But she was working on that. In fact, that was the whole reason she’d come home to the quaint Victorian fishing village where many of her female ancestors had lost husbands to the sea. Eight years ago she’d had a bitter disagreement with her parents and left, determined to prove to them that she could make it on her own without any help from them.

She’d done it, too. She’d worked her way through college, gotten her degree in early childhood education and spent several years now teaching kindergarten, happily nurturing other women’s children. She’d assumed there would be ample time ahead to make peace with her parents, many more years in which to have a family of her own.

Then, less than a year ago, on a stormy summer night, John and Diana Newberry had died when their car had skidded off a slick road and crashed into the sea. The call from the police had shaken Alice as nothing else in her life ever had, not even that long-ago rift when she’d been little more than a girl. Not only were her parents dead, the chance for reconciliation had been lost forever. So many things between them had been left unspoken.

From that instant, a thousand if onlys had plagued her. It tormented her that they’d died with only the memory of her hateful words echoing in their minds…if they’d thought of her at all.

Alice had wondered about that. She’d been haunted by the possibility that they’d pushed all thoughts of her completely out of their heads on the day she’d climbed onto the bus leaving Widow’s Cove for Boston. While she had lived with a million and one regrets and too much pride to ask for forgiveness, had they simply moved on, pretended that they’d never had a daughter? The possibility had made her heart ache.

When their will had been read, she’d had her answer. John and Diana Newberry had left everything to her—“their beloved daughter”—and that had only deepened the wound. For eighteen years she’d been their pride and joy, a dutiful daughter who never gave them a moment’s trouble. And then she’d gone and they’d had no one left, at least no one important enough to bequeath their home and belongings to. She’d had to face the likelihood that they’d been not just alone, but lonely, in her absence.

Coming home after the school year to settle their affairs, Alice had spent a lot of time in the cozy little house on the cliff overlooking the rolling waves of the Atlantic and tried to make peace with her memories…of the good times and the bitter parting. She’d realized by July it was something that couldn’t be accomplished in a few weeks or even a few months. So she’d applied for a teaching position in Widow’s Cove and come home for good in August.

This first school year in Widow’s Cove was passing in a blur, the seasons marked only by the falling of the leaves in autumn, winter’s frozen landscape and her own unrelenting dark thoughts.

Now, finally, in mid-April, spring was creeping in. There were buds on the trees, lawns were turning green and daffodils were swaying in a balmy breeze. She hated the fact that the world was having its annual rebirth, while she was as lonely and as tormented by guilt as ever.

Worse, as if to emphasize how out-of-step she was with the prevailing spring fever, her kindergarten students were as restless as she’d ever seen them. She’d broken up two fights, read them a story, tried vainly to get them settled down before lunch, then given up in defeat. The noise level in the classroom was deafening, an amazing accomplishment for barely a dozen kids. Her head was pounding.

Desperate for relief, she clapped her hands, then shouted for attention. When that didn’t work, she walked over to the usual ringleader—Ricky Foster—and pointedly scowled until he finally turned to her with a suitably guilty expression.

“Sorry, Ms. Newberry,” he said, eyes downcast as the other students promptly followed his lead and settled down.

That was the wonder of Ricky. He could stir up mischief in the blink of an eye and just as quickly dispel it. He could charm with a smile, apologize with utter sincerity or assume the innocent face of an angel. A child with that kind of talent for leadership and spin control at five was destined for great things, assuming some adult didn’t strangle him in the meantime.

“Thank you, Ricky,” she said. “Since it’s such a lovely day outside, it occurred to me that perhaps we should take our lunches and go for a walk.” Maybe the fresh air and exercise would work off some of this pre-spring-break restlessness and she could actually teach something this afternoon. Maybe it would cut through her own malaise as well.

“All right!” Ricky enthused, pumping his fist in the air.

A chorus of cheers echoed his enthusiasm, which only made Alice’s head throb even more. Even so, she couldn’t help smiling at the children’s eagerness. This unchecked excitement and wonder at the world around them was exactly what had drawn her to teaching kindergarten in the first place.

“Okay, then, here are the rules,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers. “We form a nice, straight line. We stay together at all times. When we get to the park, we’ll eat our lunches, then come back here. No running. No roughhousing. If anyone breaks the rules, we come back immediately. Is that understood?”

They listened to every word, expressions dutifully serious as they nodded their understanding. “Yes, ma’am,” they said in a reassuring chorus.

Alice figured they would forget everything she’d said the minute they got outdoors, but she refused to let the prospect daunt her. She’d been teaching for several years now. No five-year-old had gotten the better of her yet, not for long, anyway.

“Do all of you have your lunches?” she asked.

Brown bags and lunch boxes were held in the air.

“Then line up, two-by-two. Ricky, I want you in front with Francesca.”

Ricky immediately made a face. Francesca was a shy girl who never broke the rules. Maybe she’d be a good influence, Alice thought optimistically.

With Ricky right where Alice could keep a watchful eye on him, they made their way without incident to the nearby park, which the school used as a playground. As the kids sat at picnic tables and ate their lunches, Alice turned her face up to the sun and let the warmth ease her pounding headache.

She’d barely closed her eyes when she felt a frantic tug on her arm and heard Francesca’s panicked whisper.

“Ms. Newberry, Ricky’s gone.”

Alice’s eyes snapped open and she scanned the park. She caught a glimpse of the errant boy heading straight for the waterfront, which every child knew was off-limits.

“Ricky Foster, get back here right this second!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. She saw his steps falter and shouted again. “This second!”

His shoulders visibly heaved with a sigh and he reluctantly came trotting back. She was there to greet him, hands on hips. “Young man, you know the rules. What were you thinking?”

“The fishing boats just came in. I was going to see if they brought back any fish,” he said reasonably. “I told Francesca not to tell, ’cause I was coming right back.” He scowled at the tattler. “How come you had to go and blab?”

“Francesca is not the one who made a mistake,” Alice informed him as predictable tears welled up in Francesca’s eyes. “You know that.”

“But it’s really cool when the boats come in.” He gave her a pleading look. “I think we should all go. We could have a lesson on fishing.”

Alice considered the request. Five minutes each way and they would still be back in the classroom in time for one last lesson.

And truthfully, it was hard to resist Ricky. If she had trouble ignoring that sweet face and coaxing tone, it was little wonder that the other kids were putty in his hands. Besides, she could remember what it was like when the air finally warmed and spring fever set in. There were too many tempting possibilities around the sea to sit still for long. At their age, she’d been just as bad, always eager to run off to the beach, to feel the sand between her toes and the splash of waves, no matter how cold.

“Why should I reward you for misbehaving?” she asked Ricky, trying to hold out as a matter of principle.

“It’s not a reward for me,” he said piously. “It would be punishing everybody else if you didn’t let us go.” He regarded her earnestly. “They don’t deserve to be punished.”

Alice sighed. “No, they don’t. Okay, then, I suppose we can go for a walk to see the boats,” she agreed at last. “The key word is walk. No running. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ricky said, his head bobbing.

“Class?”

“No running,” they echoed dutifully.

Satisfied that she at least had a shot at keeping them under control, she had the children throw away their trash, then line up. They looked like obedient little angels as they waited for permission to start. She knew in her gut what an illusion that was, but she wasn’t quite prepared for chaos to erupt so quickly.

Ricky spotted something—Alice had no idea what—and took off with a shout, his promise to remain with the group forgotten. Three others followed. Francesca immediately burst into tears, while Alice shouted ineffectively at Ricky, then set off in hot pursuit. The remaining kids galloped in her wake, obviously thrilled to have the chance to run at full throttle without fear of disapproval.

As she tried to catch the errant children and their sneaky little leader, Alice wondered where in her life she’d gone so wrong. Was it when she’d decided on this outing? Was it when she’d come back to Widow’s Cove? Or had it been years before, when she’d defied her parents just as rebelliously as Ricky had just defied her?

Whenever the beginning, her life was definitely on a downward spiral right this second, and something told her it was about to get a whole lot worse.

A dozen pint-sized kids thundered across the rickety, narrow dock straight toward certain disaster. Patrick Devaney heard their exuberant shouts and looked up just in time to see the leader trip over a loose board and nosedive straight into the freezing, churning water.

Muttering a heartfelt oath, Patrick instinctively dove into the Atlantic after the boy, scooped him up and had him sitting on the edge of the dock before the kid was fully aware of just how close he’d come to drowning. No matter how good a swimmer the kid was, the icy waters could have numbed him in no time, and his skill would have been useless.

Patrick automatically whirled on the woman accompanying the children. “What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded heatedly.

Clearly frozen with shock, cheeks flushed, she stared at him, her mouth working. Then, to his complete dismay, she burst into tears. Patrick barely contained a harsh expletive. A near drowning and a blubbering female. The day just got better and better.

Sighing, he jumped onto the deck of his fishing boat—which also happened to be his home at the moment—grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around the shivering boy. He shrugged out of his own soaked flannel shirt and into a dry wool jacket, keeping his gaze steady on the kid and ignoring the ditzy woman responsible for this near disaster.

“You okay, pal?” he asked after a while.

Eyes wide, the boy nodded. “Just cold,” he said, his teeth chattering.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly a perfect day for a swim,” Patrick agreed. The temperature was mild for a midafternoon in April on the coast of Maine, but the ocean was cold enough to chill a beer in a couple of minutes. He knew, because he’d done it more than once lately. The sea was more efficient than a refrigerator. And if the water was that effective on a beer, it wouldn’t take much longer than that to disable a boy this kid’s size and have him sinking like a rock straight to the bottom. He shuddered just thinking about the tragedy this accident could have become.

The kid watched him warily. “Don’t blame Ms. Newberry,” he pleaded. “I tripped. It wasn’t her fault.”

Patrick could have debated the point. Who in their right mind brought a bunch of rambunctious children onto a dock—a clearly marked private dock—without sufficient supervision? He scowled once more in the woman’s direction, noting that she’d apparently recovered from her bout of tears and was carefully herding the rest of the children back onto dry land. Her soft voice carried out to him as she instructed them firmly to stay put. He could have told her it was a futile command. Children as young as these were inevitably more adventurous than either sensible or obedient. Besides, they outnumbered her, always a risky business when dealing with kids.

“Ms. Newberry’s going to be real mad at me,” the boy beside him confided gloomily. “She told us not to run. We were supposed to stay together.”

Patrick bit back a smile at the futility of that order. “How come you didn’t listen?”

“’Cause I was in a hurry,” he replied impatiently.

Patrick understood the logic of that. He also thought he recognized the kid. It was Matt Foster’s boy. Matt rushed through life the same way, always at full tilt and without a lick of common sense. “You’re Ricky Foster, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, head bobbing. “How come you know that?”

“Your dad and I went to school together. I’d better call him and tell him what’s happened,” Patrick said. “You need to get home and into some dry clothes.”

“I’ll see that he gets home,” the woman in charge of the group informed him stiffly.

“You sure you can handle that and keep an eye on the others, too?” Patrick inquired, nodding toward the brood that was already racing off in a dozen different directions.

Muttering a very unladylike oath under her breath, she charged back to shore and rounded up the children for a second time. She looked as if she’d like nothing better than to tie each and every one of them to a hitching post.

Patrick took pity on her and carried the still-shivering Ricky back to join the others. With two adults presenting a united front, maybe they’d have a shot at averting any more disasters.

“Let’s take ’em all over to Jess’s where they can warm up while you call Matt Foster and get him down here,” Patrick suggested. He headed off in that direction without waiting for a reply. A firm grip on his arm jerked him to a stop.

“I don’t think a bar is an appropriate place for a group of five-year-olds,” she told him.

He frowned down at her. “You have a better suggestion?”

“We could take them back to the school. That’s what we should do,” she said, though without much enthusiasm.

Patrick understood her reluctance. The school’s principal, Loretta Dowd, had to be a hundred years old by now, and she wasn’t known for her leniency. Patrick knew that from his own bitter experience. He’d been every bit as rambunctious as Ricky at his age. There would be hell to pay for this little incident.

“Miss Dowd knows about this outing, then?” he asked, guessing that it had been an impromptu and ill-advised decision. “Permission slips to leave the school grounds are all on file?”

She faltered at that, then sighed. “No,” she admitted. “I suppose the bar is a better choice, at least for a few minutes.”

“It won’t be busy at this time of day,” he consoled her. “Most of the fishermen came in hours ago. And you know how Molly likes to cluck over kids.”

Jess’s had been catering to Widow’s Cove fishermen for three generations. Jess had long since passed on, but his granddaughter ran the place with the same disdain for frills. Molly served cold beer and steaming hot chowder, which was all that mattered to her regulars.

When Patrick and Ms. Newberry trooped inside with the children, Molly came out from behind the bar, took one look at the dripping wet Ricky and began clucking over him as predicted.

“What on earth?” Molly asked, then waved off the question. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll have hot chocolate ready in no time.” She looked at the teacher and frowned. “Alice, you look terrible. Sit down before you faint on me. Patrick, get the children settled, then for heaven’s sakes go and put on some dry pants and a warm shirt under that jacket. I have some of granddad’s I can lend you. They’re hanging in the pantry on the way to the kitchen. Help yourself. I’ll be back in a minute. While I’m in the kitchen, I’ll give Matt a call and tell him to get over here to pick up Ricky.”

Patrick knew better than to balk openly at one of Molly’s orders. She might be his age, but she’d had Jess as an example. She could boss around a fleet of marines without anyone questioning her authority. Besides, one glance at Alice Newberry told him that she was in no condition to take charge. He’d never seen a grown woman look quite so defeated. He had a hunch that today’s misadventure was the last straw in a long string of defeats.

He studied her with a bit more sympathy. Every last bit of color had drained out of her delicate, heart-shaped face, and her brown hair had been whipped into a tangle of curls by the wind. The fact that she was making no attempt at all to tame them spoke volumes. Her hands were visibly trembling, as well. If she wasn’t in shock, she was darn close to it. He tried not to feel too sorry for her, since she’d brought this mess on herself, but a vulnerable woman could cut through his defenses in a heartbeat. Usually he knew enough to avoid them like the plague. This one had reached out and grabbed him when his defenses were down.

“Sit,” he ordered her as he passed by on his way to the bar. Hot chocolate might be great for the kids, but she clearly needed something a lot stronger. He could use the heat from a glass of whiskey himself. He poured two shots and took them back to the table where she was sitting, then slid in opposite her. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when she reacted with dismay.

“I can’t drink that,” she said. “It’s the middle of the day and I’m working.”

Patrick shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He tossed back his own drink, grateful for the fire that shot through his veins. It was only a temporary flash of heat, but it was welcome and would do until he could get home and into his own dry pants.

When he glanced across the table, he found Alice Newberry’s solemn gaze locked on him. He had a feeling a man could drown in those golden eyes if he let himself.

“I never thanked you,” she said. “You saved Ricky’s life. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

“You would have jumped in after him,” he said, giving her the benefit of the doubt.

She shook her head. “I couldn’t,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I froze. It’s like it happened in slow motion and I couldn’t move.”

“You only froze for a second,” he said, surprised by his reluctance to add to her obvious self-derision. “It all happened very quickly.”

“That’s all it takes. In a second, everything can change. One minute someone’s there and alive and healthy…the next, they’re gone.”

Something told him she was no longer talking about Ricky Foster’s misadventure. Something also told him he didn’t want to know what demons she was wrestling with. He had more than enough of his own.

Now that he knew who she was, he had a dim recollection of hearing the gossip that the new kindergarten teacher in Widow’s Cove was returning home after some personal tragedy. Everyone spoke of it in whispers. Patrick hadn’t listened to the details. They hadn’t mattered to him. He made it a practice to keep everyone at a distance, to remain completely uninvolved in their lives. It was the one sure way to avoid being betrayed. He had no family in Widow’s Cove and few friends. And he liked it that way.

“Yeah, bad stuff happens like that,” he said neutrally, in response to Alice’s lament. “But all’s well that ends well. Ricky will be fine once he gets into some dry clothes. You’ll be fine once the shock wears off.”

She studied him with surprise. “You didn’t sound so philosophical down on the dock. I believe you asked me what the hell I was thinking.”

He shrugged. “It seemed like a valid question at the time.” Now that the crisis was over, his temper had cooled and his own share in the guilt had crept in.

“It was a perfectly reasonable question,” she agreed, surprising him.

“I don’t suppose you have a perfectly reasonable answer, do you?”

She nodded. “Actually, I do. The children were getting restless at school. Spring break starts tomorrow. I thought a walk would do them good. The next thing I knew, Ricky spied the last of the fishing boats coming in. He begged to come and see what kind of catch everyone had. He swore to me that he’d stay with the group. Everyone agreed not to run. I took them at their word.”

She shrugged and gave Patrick a wry look. “Obviously, I should have known better. Five seconds later, Ricky spied something, who knows what, and forgot all about his promise. He took off, and the next thing I knew they were all off and running. I’ve been teaching five-year-olds long enough now to have anticipated something like that.”

“Maybe so, but you couldn’t anticipate Ricky tripping,” Patrick replied, then conceded with reluctance, “Besides, the fault’s as much mine as yours. I’ve known that board was loose since I bought the dock, but I keep forgetting to pick up some nails when I’m at the hardware store. I’ve gotten so used to it, I just walk around it. Nobody else comes down that way. That dock’s supposed to be private.”

She regarded him with surprise. “In Widow’s Cove?”

Patrick chafed under the hint of disapproval he thought he heard. “I bought and paid for it. Why shouldn’t I put up No Trespassing signs?”