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      Here’s to you, Dad.

       A “down-easterner” in spirit if not by birth.

       And to Mom, who probably rejoiced as much as I

       did when I got “the Call.”

      Contents

      Prologue

      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

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      Haven’s End, Maine, August 1872

      Geneva felt the push from behind, a blow between the shoulder blades. The next instant she lay flat on her face against the rough, gray wharf, her toes caught in the spaces between the worn wood slats, her brimming baskets wrenched sideways. Helpless, she watched their contents scatter. The fruits and vegetables she’d taken such pains to arrange that morning in neat, concentric circles tumbled across the sun-bleached planks.

      Heads of cabbage rolled like croquet balls off the edge of the wharf to land with a plop into the awaiting tide. The smaller items—the precious raspberries she’d handled so gently to prevent bruising and the bright green string beans—disappeared down the cracks to join the bobbing cabbages below. The shriek of gulls mingled with the cackle of laughter around her, as the birds were alerted to the treasures floating on the sea.

      “Salt Fish Ginny! Salt Fish Ginny! How come you’re so skinny?” The teasing chant resonated above the laughter. “Salt Fish Ginny! Dirty as a hog, mean as her dog!”

      Geneva glared at the trio of village boys stampeding by her, shouting the hated words that described her occupation, fishing for cod.

      She forgot the boys as the thump of footfalls farther down the wharf reached her ears. Her glance passed the pranksters to the group turning down the wharf from the street. Rusticators! Her face flamed in humiliation as she watched the smartly dressed ladies and gentlemen on holiday, the very ones who bought her produce, stroll down the pier from the quaint, white clapboard village.

      Before she could do more than pull herself to her knees, they had reached her, and stood hesitating as if looking for a way to pass through the mess. Wrinkling their noses, the ladies lifted their skirts to avoid soiling them.

      Only one gentleman moved. His boots resonated against the wood, but as soon as Geneva saw who it was, her heartbeat muted the sound. She stared openmouthed as Captain Caleb Phelps came and knelt beside her. She had never been in such close proximity to him before.

      Geneva found herself looking straight into the bluest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. They were the blue of the open ocean off Ferguson Point after the morning fog burned off and when the noon sun hung high overhead. Not a cloud diminished the hue of the vast, flat expanse of sea then, but its inky blue depths sparkled with a thousand lights and depths from the reflecting sun.

      Captain Caleb’s eyes danced with a mixture of concern and amusement. It wasn’t the sly amusement of the onlookers, she realized, but a companionable sort, as if he and she were sharing some private joke. His eyes’ wry twinkle was telling her that he had been in a similar predicament in another time and place, long ago enough to look back with humor.

      Geneva blinked to break the spell. Don’t be a fool. Captain Caleb didn’t care what she was thinking. His world was so far removed from hers, it might as well be across the sea. She needed to get back on her feet and quick. There’d been enough damage done already, and she had to see what she could salvage.

      But her commands didn’t reach her legs. Geneva caught sight of the untidy patchwork on one threadbare knee of her overalls and suddenly became conscious of her appearance. She cringed in shame at the contrast between the man’s easy elegance and her own homespun looks. The seams of her pa’s old flannel shirt were visibly frayed, the color faded from numerous washings.

      Geneva glanced down at the hand the captain placed on her forearm. Despite the tanned skin, it was the hand of a gentleman. His fingernails were clean and neatly trimmed. She curled her own hands into fists to hide the broken nails, traces of garden dirt still clinging to them.

      “Are you all right, miss?” After a cursory glance over her as he asked the question, his gaze returned to her face.

      Miss. It sounded so respectful. He might be talking to a fragile, young lady.

      Geneva nodded

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