Free Saint's Gate by Carla Neggers

the window. “You used to spend a lot of time down on the rocks, by the water. I should have realized you were questioning your call.”
    Emma smiled, even as she kept an eye on the Julianne. “Or just enjoying the view.”
    “It is a beautiful spot. You’re more centered than you were four years ago.”
    “Maybe so.”
    “Harder, too, I think.”
    “I want to know what happened yesterday. That’s all.”
    Emma frowned as the lobster boat banged against exposed rocks, a hazard even an inexperienced boatman would know to avoid. Was he just being nosy—or creating a diversion?
    Who owned the Julianne?
    Mother Natalie took a sharp breath. “What’s he doing?”
    The boat had hung up on the rocks, at a halt. The Julianne wouldn’t be going anywhere until the tide was in.
    Emma placed a hand on Mother Natalie’s upper arm. “Keep everyone here. I need to see what’s going on with this lobster boat.”
    “All right. The police are returning any moment. I’ll let them know.”
    “Good,” Emma said, already at the door.
    She charged down the hall, a hand-hooked runner thick under her feet. She passed the chapel, where the sisters were still singing, and headed out a side door into the flower garden.
    Five years ago, here in this spot among the coneflowers and evergreens, the bite of the ocean in the air, had she ever even dreamed of becoming an FBI agent?
    Never, she thought, her right hand on her Sig Sauer in its holster on her hip as she ran toward the water.

8
    EMMA CROSSED A WIDE LAWN TO THE TUMBLE of large boulders that led straight down to the water. A man waved up at her from the stranded lobster boat. She recognized the broad shoulders, the wavy brown hair and the stubble of beard of the lobsterman she’d seen with Yank on the docks last night.
    “Good morning, Sister,” he called up to her.
    She still had her hand on her weapon under her leather jacket. “I’m a federal agent. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
    “No problem.” He put up both hands at chest height. “Thought you were one of the nuns.”
    “FBI.”
    “Ah.” He grinned up at her. “Well, don’t shoot.”
    Emma had a feeling he knew exactly who she was. “What are you doing here?”
    “Having a look for myself. I got hung up on the rocks.” He jumped lightly out of the boat onto a flat boulder covered in seaweed and barnacles. He had on jeans, trail shoes and a plain black sweatshirt that had seen a lot of wear. “Dumb.”
    “Your boat’s not going anywhere until the tide comes up.”
    “You got that right.”
    “Walk up here.” Emma nodded to her right, where the drop down to the tide line wasn’t as steep. “Go that way. Just keep your hands where I can see them.”
    “What if I trip?”
    He didn’t look worried about tripping. “Take your time,” she said.
    Obviously accustomed to the Maine coast terrain, he hopped onto another boulder, then another, heading up to the lawn in a few long strides.
    “Hold on,” Emma said. “That’s close enough. No sudden moves, okay?”
    He stopped next to a spreading, prickly juniper. “Understood.”
    Up close, he was just as rugged and muscular as she’d expected looking at him from the porch and kitchen window. He moved with a casualness that she immediately suspected was deceptive, if not deliberately misleading. He struck her as a man who missed nothing—including the hazards of Maine’s rocky coastline.
    “What’s your name?” she asked him.
    “Donovan. Colin Donovan.”
    “Convenient to shipwreck on a rising tide, isn’t it, Mr. Donovan?”
    “It is.” He swept his gaze over her. His eyes were as gray as yesterday’s fog. “An FBI agent who knows tides. Imagine that.”
    “Where are you from?”
    “Rock Point.”
    Not far, then. “What are you doing here?”
    “Right now I’m trying to figure out how to tell my brother I ran aground. It’s his boat. It’s trickier to maneuver than I thought it’d be. I’ll never live this one