There was significance in a name—especially that one. Why, it wasn’t just this farm but an entire town named after Maggie’s ancestors. MacKean just didn’t hold the same weight.

Mr. Barrett’s chuckle found its way into his attention. “Woolgathering again, son? Or you’re just overly tired. You getting enough protein?”

He laughed. “You kidding me? Maggie stuffs me so full most nights, it’s ridiculous.”

“Listen, I’ll make a list of the parts we need. I’ll talk to Jake over at the implement store. You’ve got time to shop around. See ya in church?”

He nodded. “See you in church.”

As the wheels of the truck kicked up dust, he glanced to the trees again, following Maggie’s movements. Was she headed to the coast?

But anymore she only walked to the shore when . . .

Oh, Maggie, not again.

He scraped his fingers through his hair, let out a huff of air that fogged in front of him, then tromped forward. Either the grief that visited her now and then had gotten ahold of her, drawing her to that place, or she was once again soaring on wings of futile hope. And if he were a betting man, he’d guess the latter.

Blast you, Wilder Monroe.

The man was his best friend but there were times he could throttle the guy. Why could he not just gently let Maggie down, once and for all? To keep looking, investigating, after all these years . . .

Wilder was searching for a ghost, and all the waiting and wondering and wishing was only haunting Maggie. Couldn’t he see that?

Couldn’t she see it?

Captain heard Neil approaching before Maggie did, the collie’s ears perking and his bounding changing directions. Maggie turned as well, a smile spreading her cheeks. “Neil, something told me I might run into you.”

She’d reached the spot where the trees thinned, giving way to a gorgeous view of the craggy shoreline—jagged, water-scraped rocks and stretches of sand interrupted by patches of tall grass. And the sea, wild and wind-tossed, a dozen shades of blue and brushed with foam.

Maggie waited for him to reach her, offer his elbow. She took hold and let him steer her forward. “I take it Ansel Barrett didn’t have the best of news. Your forehead’s got that wrinkled look, like Lilian’s clothing on nights when she stays too late at the office.”

Which was most nights lately. “Harvester’s shot.”

“I see.”

He wasn’t sure she did. Not with that elated smile still in place, the glint of delight in her hazel eyes. He’d seen it before. Watched her whole being light up with whatever fruitless lead Wilder, or the man’s father before him, came up with . . .

Only to snuff out all over again when it led nowhere.

The sea’s briny scent wrapped around him as they slowed, sunlight cascading from a sky nearly as blue as the waves crashing against the rocks. Most days he could get happily lost in a view like this, could feel the damp air erode his worries and carry them out to the ocean. With Captain at his feet, he’d listen to the surf and drink in the sight of whitecaps and gulls—or if it were nighttime, tip his head to count the stars—and feel . . . no, know that this was exactly where he belonged.