Free Heart of the Storm by Mary Burton Page A

Most of the fisherman had left at dawn, ready to make up for the days lost during the last storm. It was the middle of the week so the children had been sent to board on the mainlandfor school. None of the residents liked giving up their children, but any who wanted an education for their young ones had no choice.
    The main street was quiet, but the few women who spotted them stopped and openly stared at Rachel. No doubt, Ida and Callie had told the town about her. Most shipwreck survivors were men, sailors and fisherman and the few women generally traveled with their husbands or family. The fact that Rachel had been alone and traveling on a freighter made her an oddity.
    “Hello there, Ben,” called an older woman. Sara Crocket had just celebrated her eightieth year. She had been a young girl when the first lighthouse had been built on the island. She’d seen the tower partly destroyed in the ’49 storm and witnessed the current lighthouse’s construction ten years ago.
    “Afternoon,” he said to Mrs. Crocket.
    Rachel fussed with her hair, pulling wisps loose to cover her bruised eye.
    “It barely shows,” he said.
    Her gaze darted up to his. They were full of worry and shame.
    If he could find the person who’d given her the bruise he’d have beaten him to a pulp. “Truly, it’s almost faded.”
    Rachel stood a little straighter. “Thank you.”
    Mrs. Crocket crossed the street, hobbling. The damp weather always made her hip ache.
    Ben took Rachel’s arm. This time she didn’t flinch. Pleased, he guided her toward Mrs. Crocket to save the old woman a step. They met in the center of the quiet street. “Hear you caught yourself a mermaid,” she said, laughing. The sun had etched deep lines into her old narrow face and her thinning gray hair, always pulled back in a bun, had been silver for as long as he could remember.
    “Not a mermaid,” he said easily. “Just a woman with the bad fortune to be sailing these waters in a storm. Mrs. Crocket, meet Rachel Davis.”
    Mrs. Crocket studied Rachel, openly curious. “Davis, did you say? I don’t know any Davis in these parts but there is a Lyle Davis in Elizabeth City. Are you kin to him?”
    He sensed Rachel’s reserve. “No, ma’am.”
    “Where you hail from, girl?”
    “North.”
    “North!” Mrs. Crocket shook her head, her disgust clear. “Not too far north I hope. Folks ain’t so fond of the Yanks around here.” She winked at Ben. “Some folks still haven’t forgiven Ben for siding with the Federals, and he grew up here.”
    Ben shrugged. He’d followed his conscious. The opinions of others didn’t matter.
    Right now, Rachel held his interest.
    He noted the way her smile reached her eyes as she looked at the old woman. “No, ma’am, not too far north.” She glanced into the woman’s basket. “Is that bread I smell? It smells divine. Did you bake it?”
    The older woman grinned at the compliment. She was unaware that Rachel had changed the course of the conversation. Rachel had a knack for deflecting questions.
    North. It could mean Virginia or Canada, for all he knew. As the two women chatted about recipes, he wondered again where Rachel was from. The more she hid her past, the more compelled he was to find out more about it.
    In a few short minutes Rachel had won over the older woman, who’d promised to bake her a loaf of bread tomorrow.
    When they reached Ida’s store, he had to smile. “You’ve a way with people.”
    She looked up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
    “I’d say you were genuinely interested in Mrs. Crocket’s cooking,”
    She frowned. “I was.”
    “You’ve never seen the inside of a kitchen, I’ll wager.”
    “No, but I’ve read a few cookbooks. Some are so precise with their measurements, but she’s never measured anything in her life. Uses just her senses when she cooks. That’s very interesting to me.”
    “You read a lot.”
    “Not much lately.”
    “Why not?”
    “Lots of reasons.”
    He