Mercy listened without speaking as he shared the devastating event, the guilt he still carried that he hadn’t been with them in their last hours, that he’d been spared when they hadn’t. In the span of one week, he’d lost everyone he loved and was left behind, alone in the world.

She didn’t offer him an apology or say anything to try to ease his pain and loss. Instead, she hugged him tighter, suddenly understanding there were different kinds of desperation that drove men and women from their homes out into the deep unknown.

A strange quiet awoke Joseph. After hours of the storm waging battle against the ship, battering her and beating her nearly into flotsam, Joseph was afraid of what would be left of the vessel if she survived.

Truthfully, he hadn’t expected they’d live through the night. With the storm having turned into hurricane intensity, and with the ship plunging from fifty-foot waves, he’d waited for the swell that would finally grip the Tynemouth and not let go.

There had been one point in the night when a wave had crashed against starboard and rolled the ship broadside so dangerously that he whispered what he thought to be his last prayer. Somehow the ship had slowly righted itself and had endured many more hours of abuse at the hands of the angry sea.

He’d contemplated more than once his jest to Mercy that maybe he was like Jonah. Maybe God was angry at him for walking away from the dispensary and leaving Dr. Bates to flounder and possibly even have to close its doors. Maybe the storm really was his fault, and if he gave himself up and allowed the crew to throw him overboard, God would then calm the sea.

Was he indeed running away as Bates and his aunt had insinuated? He’d thought he could ignore their questions, but last night had shown him he could sail far away, yet he couldn’t escape the mighty hand of God reaching out and beckoning him.

Joseph shifted, his muscles stiff and sore from the thrashing they had suffered. At his movement, Mercy stretched, her body still curved into his. The motion made him all too aware of her presence . . . all through the night.

When he’d climbed in next to her, he’d told himself he was sheltering her to keep her safe and to comfort her. Mostly, he’d rationalized that if the ship was sinking, then it wouldn’t matter if he lay next to her and held her in his arms for their last hours of life. So he’d given in to his desire to pull her close—closer than necessary—and had savored every luxurious inch of her nearness.

But now, in the strange stillness that told him they’d survived the storm, guilt rushed in like icy waves, lapping at him, telling him he’d overstepped the boundaries of propriety.