By Virtue Fall (The Shakespeare Sisters 4)

How long had he been there? Probably enough to see her exchange with Thomas. The thought made her skin flush up.

Ryan smiled at her, his eyes crinkling, and her cheeks got even warmer. There was something about him that made her feel more nervous than she’d ever felt.

More alive, too.

It was uncomfortable, it was invigorating, but more than anything it was dangerous. She’d followed that feeling before, and look where it had landed her.

In a tangled web with no possible way of escape.

There weren’t many things in life that ruffled Ryan’s calm exterior, but seeing a man treating a woman badly was one of them. Growing up, it had been his maternal grandfather who’d taught him what a man should be; loyal, protective, and always a gentleman. Such a stark difference to Ryan’s father, who regularly criticised his mom when he was a kid. Seeing Thomas Marshall stirred up all those memories.

Ryan had been on the deck when Thomas arrived, replacing a plank that had split in the sun. Looking up, he’d seen that familiar strut, the one he’d seen when they were both in high school. It reminded Ryan of a stalking animal, one that pushed everything out of its way to get to its prey. Ryan had stilled his movements, balancing his hammer in his hand, as he strained to hear the conversation between Thomas and his soon-to-be ex-wife.

But it wasn’t Thomas’s words that had reminded Ryan of his father, it was the way he’d stood in front of her, his shoulders back, his chest puffed out. As though he was trying to show his dominance through body language alone.

Juliet had turned around from where she was talking to her husband, catching Ryan’s eye. He’d smiled at her, trying to show her some support if nothing else. Her eyes widened, but the next moment she’d looked away.

Ryan had looked down to see his own knuckles bleached white, where he was still holding tightly to the hammer. He really didn’t want to watch them over there on the porch any more.

‘Charlie,’ he called out.

His son looked up from the swing chair where he’d been sitting and watching Ryan. ‘Yes?’

‘Get your shoes on. We’re going down to the wharf.’ The need to get away from this place nagged at him.

‘Where?’ Charlie hopped off the bench, leaving it swinging behind him. ‘What’s a wharf?’

‘It’s like a boatyard. On the riverbank.’ Ryan ruffled his son’s hair as he ran past him and into the house, heading for the closet to grab his sneakers.

Fifteen minutes later, Ryan parked his black truck in the gravelled lot next to the wharf. As soon as he stepped out onto the worn wooden boardwalk, it felt as though he was finally home. The autumn sun was beating down, its rays reflected in the water lapping against the wooden poles. The familiar aroma of freshly caught flounder and crabs wafted up from the boats moored up on the edge. In the middle of the boardwalk – as weathered as the wooden deck that surrounded it – was an old hut. Stan’s Shed was painted in thick brushstrokes across the front, the white letters peeling away from the wood.

‘What do you think of this place?’ Ryan asked Charlie. His son was looking around, his brows pulled down low as he took everything in. He’d visited fishing villages all over the world, but this was Charlie’s first view of the one Ryan had grown up in. For some reason, he found himself hoping his son would love it as much as he had.

‘Can we go out on a boat?’ Charlie asked, his face bright with hope.

Ryan was about to answer him when a familiar figure shuffled out of the shed.

‘Who’s that?’ Stan was frowning. ‘Do ya know this is private property?’

Ryan felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Stan was as brash as ever, and for some reason he found that reassuring. ‘I heard there was some good fishing in these parts,’ he replied, smiling.

‘Yeah, well, that may be true, but these are private boats. We don’t hire none of them out.’ Stan shuffled a little closer. ‘You’ll need to drive over to Hyattsville if you want a tourist ride.’

‘What about that boat?’ Ryan asked, inclining his head toward a forty-footer in the corner. It was an old one, but beautifully maintained. The exterior was painted white, with Miss Maisie printed across it in blue script. At the front of the boat was a small covered cabin, with windows looking out from three sides.

‘No, sir, that one’s definitely not for rent. The owner wouldn’t like that, not at all.’

Beside him, Charlie started to shuffle, as if he was getting nervous. Ryan reached out and placed his hand on his shoulder. Charlie immediately relaxed. ‘Who’s the owner, maybe I know him?’

‘He doesn’t live around these parts.’

‘What kind of guy owns a boat like that and doesn’t live near it?’ Ryan asked. ‘Sounds like an asshole if you ask me.’

Stan started to frown. ‘I don’t like the way you—’ He stopped suddenly, finally looking Ryan dead in the eye. ‘Ryan Sutherland? Is that you, boy?’

‘Last time I looked.’

‘Jesus, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I should have known it was you, the moment I walked out of the hut I thought you looked just like your grandfather.’